Thirty-Nine Wild and Precious Years…

When I was a little girl, I lived in constant fear of never reaching adulthood.  I imagined every common cold to be cancer.  Every cut or bruise to be fatal.  I feared dying at every turn.  I would pray every night for God to ‘please, please’ see me through to the morning.   From the dark of night to the light of day.  I would pray earnestly.   So that it would hold me, so that I would wake to see another day.  I would chant over and over again certain prayers or recitations.  Because I feared the dark.  Feared being alone.

Feared the quiet of those still, silent hours between midnight and dawn.

And there were more nights than I can recount that I was paralyzed by fear.   Never thinking I’d manage to survive.    Never thinking I’d live to revel in the coming light of day.  And certainly never thought I’d live long enough to see the morn break, day in which my hair would have silver threads, fine lines spreading from the creases of my eyelids.

To see this.

This day that I turn 39.

It was a fearful childhood.  An anxiety-ridden childhood.  Those early days.

You can’t blame the Child, really.  My family was peppered with tragic stories of lives affected by car accidents of one variety or another.  Some leaving family members without the use of extremities.  Others left with traumatic brain injury.  Others, sorrowfully: dead.  Horrific.  It was.  And still other family members born with life-long mental and physical conditions, leaving them dependent on their family members for sustenance.  Or.  Caught in mid-life heartbreaking crises of one variety or another.   Such was the case of one gentle Aunt blinded as an adult, a special favorite of mine.

I grew to have a special affinity for those who were special.  Exceptional.  Those who were different and unique.   Different, just like me.  Just like my beloved extended family.  Just like all of us, really.  And I came to embrace empathy as a way of life.  An understanding.  A calling.

As a God-given gift.

And as my father was the minister in whichever community we happened to be living at the time, he and I would also make local visitations to the sick or shut-in within the extension of the local church.  Those who were needy for comfort or a tender smile.  Some mired in poverty.  Others caught up in alcoholism.  I saw a lot from my young vantage point.

It left me changed for the better.  More compassionate.   But also left me fearful and wary.  Scared.  Anxiety-driven.

My namesake was my Aunt Mary Anne, for whom the infamous youngest member of our family is also named.  Before I was born, Aunt Mary Anne plunged to her death in a car full of bright, vibrant teenagers on the night of their high school graduation.  Her story was told to me over and over again throughout my childhood, and she became to me almost a mythical figure.  A young, bright light snuffed out before her small world was ready to let her go.  But she was indeed ready.  And her life had already made its mark, as seen in the record numbers of youths in attendance at her funeral.  All witness to her abbreviated life, a testament to God’s grace and love.  She was His hands and feet.

When I was about nine years old, my aunt on my mother’s side was involved in a serious, life-altering car accident.  She was left severely brain-damaged and wheel-chair bound, as she continues to live to this very day.  Whenever I see her, I reminded of what remains.  And all that has been lost.  And it breaks my heart.

She was just about my age when her light was dimmed.  Just about thirty-nine years of age.

When I made the list Thirty-Nine Ways to Have a Beautiful Life, I was thinking of the gift it is to be alive.  To be flourishing as a young-ish mother, teacher, wife and friend.  What a gift it is: to be living.  To be healthy.  To have love.  To be loved.   And to have been given this gift each and every May 20^th for what is now thirty-nine years.

Thirty-nine years.  It has flown by in a flash.  And yet.  I have lived each and every moment, present and aware.  Of how much I have been given.  And aware of how very much I have to be grateful.  And thirty-nine reasons are not the magnitude of a beautiful life.  They are just the beginning.  For I have only just begun (this list of countless ways in which one can live a beautiful and worthwhile life).  And I could easily bring to mind thirty-nine more.  That is the gift.  To have lived to see and experience another day.

It is a GIFT.

I am so very grateful for the gift of today: these wild and precious thirty-nine years.

39 ways to have a Beautiful Life

39 ways to have a Beautiful Life…in celebration of my 39^th birthday.

1. Breathe.  Inhale fresh air from the great outdoors.  Stop to smell the tree blossoms, pick a daisy, watch a bird in flight.  Stay in the moment, slowing down enough to enjoy the simple things in life.

2. Jump.  Jump on a trampoline, a bed or a pile of laundry.  Jumping is what kids do to have fun.  Take the hint.

3. Smile.  Practice in the mirror, if need be.  Then try it out on at least two other people.  See if it really is contagious.

4. Rest. Sit back and relax in a chair that reclines.  Then close your eyes and wait for it: that sigh of contentment.

5. Read.  Preferably something that provokes you, lifts you, challenges you, entertains you, inspires you or encourages you.  But if you are not in the mood for any of that, read Facebook statuses.  They’ll do in a pinch.

6. Cook.  By yourself, with a friend, with your spouse, with your children, with your students.  Try it.  It will either make you hungrier or take away any and all impulses you might have had for binge eating.  Especially when you cook with a five-year old finger-licker/nose-picker.

7. Walk.  Go for long walks.  By yourself, this will be rejuvenating.  With a friend, it will be motivating.

8. Work.  Work hard at what you do.  Give it 100 % while you are at it.  Then, when you are done the task, leave it alone.  And go play.

9. Play.  Play harder than you work.  Life is about more than just going through the motions.  Enjoy the moments that matter most to you.

10. Choose joy.  It is part attitude, part emotion and part choice.  If you choose joy, you are two-thirds of the way there already.

11. Have faith.  It can move mountains.  It’s pretty good at molehills too.

12. Treat yourself.  Buy something just because.  Then use it.  A lot.

13. Love.  Love quietly, love loudly.  Love anyway.

14. Express yourself.  Through written word, verbal  exchange or digital text.  Tell someone who cares.  And tell them often.

15. Exercise.   Set goals and achieve them.  Then set new goals.  Keep at it.  And make it doable.

16. Photograph much.  Use your camera to capture your life.  A picture is actually worth more than 1000 words.  If you look close enough.

17. Travel.  Go on that trip, vacation, voyage.  Visit those places that you’ve always dreamed about.

18. Kiss often.  Kiss a lover, a friend, a father, a mother, a child.   Kiss a stuffed animal, when all else fails.  And on St. Paddy’s Day, kiss someone who is Irish.

19.  Pursue your wildest dreams.  Chase them down like a relentless hound after a fox.  Don’t let them get away.  Spend your life following them.  And relish the feeling when you finally see them realized.

20. Pray.  God listens.  He hears.  I know.  I’ve heard his Voice in a thousand different situations.

21. Step outside your comfort zone.  Do something that challenges you.  Something that makes you uncomfortable even as it makes you grow as a person.  Use  this opportunity as a springboard to help another person do the same.

22. Talk to a child.  Children know stuff adults have long forgotten.  Kids can remind you what really matters.  When all is said and done.

23. Learn something new every day.  And ask yourself, “What did I learn today?”  Don’t take ‘nothing’ as an answer.  You know better than that.

24. Re-connect with a long-lost friend.  Write then a letter, an e-mail , a Facebook message.  Tell them how much their friendship has meant to you over the years.

25.  Mean what you say and say what you mean.  Don’t be obscure.  Or vague.  Unless you are at a formal dinner party with people you don’t know.  In which, ignore everything I just said.

26. Laugh.  Often.  Heartily.  Loud.  Enthusiatically.  So, so good for the body.  Instant muscle relaxer.

27.  Forgive.  Seventy-times seven.

28. Get a hobby.  You’ll need it for when you retire.  Might as well start trying out the more expensive options while you still have the money to finance it.

29. Let go of the past.  That was then.  This is now.  Live in the day you are given.  And let tomorrow take care of itself.  But that’s another point all together.

30. Embrace you imperfections.  You aren’t perfect.  Neither is anyone else.  You know that.  So do they.  Let’s get on with what really matters: making the most of what we’ve got to work with.  Short of Botox, what you see is what you get.  (Until tomorrow when you wake up with a huge zit.)

31. Appreciate the little things in life.  They are what matter sometimes most of all.  Appreciate the little things that other people do for you.  Sometimes they are the game changers.  The moments in life when the tide turns and the perspectives change.

32. Join a club.  A committee, a group, class.  Be part of something bigger.  Not because you are paid to do it.  But because you want to.

33.  Compliment others.  Make much of the people in your life.  Tell the people around you how awesome you think they are.  Because they are.  Awesome.

34. Seek. Search for something greater to fill the void than material possessions.  Than earthly gains.  That stuff will only last for so long.  And then the search will begin again.  Fill that void with what really matters.  With Whom really matters.  And find out how the search leads to a deeper understandings of what really satisfies.

35. Have birthday parties every year.  Celebrate life.  Each year you are alive is cause for fireworks.  You made it!  To another year!  You’re still here!  How great is that!

36. Make new friends, new connections and new networks.  While there is nothing quite like an old friend, you’ll never know what new friend is on their way to becoming that soon-to-be old friend unless you meet them today.  Get talking!

37. Enjoy as many moments of your life as is humanly possible.  If there are only two moments each day, milk those two moments for all they are worth.  They are precious moments.  Even if they are rare.  If you are fortunate to have more than two, than pass the love around.  Other people could benefit from your positive outlook on life.

38. Love your neighbor as yourself.  Be empathic.  Be compassionate.  Caring.  Kind.  Merciful.  Do unto others.  Even when they don’t return the favor.  But don’t be surprised when your life starts setting a new kind of standard for the rest of the world.

39. Love God with all your heart and soul and strength.  All else pales in comparison.

Let the Good Times Roll…

Thank Goodness, this week is coming to a close.

What.a.time.

Surviving the past seven days has put into perspective any and all consecutive bad days that I might have written about in the past weeks or months.  And I refer to any and all bad days leading up to, but not including, those which occurred this past week.  Because.  It was truly a hair-raising week of GOOD TIMES.  And I do mean it was an f.u.n. week.

Fun.

Just to put a spotlight on one ‘eency’ part of this fun week, let’s talk about being a mother and getting the stomach flu.  Let’s just savour how enjoyable THAT one is.  It is a joy, let me tell you.  A JOY.

The flu hit our home on Sunday evening, fast and furious.  And I don’t know about you, but in our house, as soon as someone starts throwing up, I begin monitoring what I am eating and what it might possibly look like regurgitated in another few hours.  Pause for reflection.  Anyhoo.  Child One was sick.  And sick she stayed through Sunday evening and all day Monday.  Going on false hope and a tad bit too much optimism, I got ready for work Tuesday only to hear the words, “Mom, so-and-so just threw up again,” moments before I walked out the door to work.  As I was dialing the principal with the phone in one hand, I was sopping up someone’s freshly eaten breakfast with the other.

Sub plan number two now needed.

Lovely.

Home we stayed Tuesday.  My little patient and I.  And I will admit.  I do love being home with a sick child.  Darling children.  They are so passive and agreeable and sweet.  Love their hearts.

By Wednesday morning, things were looking up.  I cautiously readied myself for work and ran out the door before anyone could recount any horror stories of vomiting on the living room floor.  And off we all went, kiddos and I, living in the dream world.  Fantasy land.  Carry the stomach flu virus happily around town, each and every place we went. (Sorry folks.)    But to be totally fair, we were truly ignorant to our status.  That status being that we were still contagious.  And that unfortunate fact being unbeknownst to us.  I, for one, thought we were all better.

Dim woman.

Well, if you recall.  On Wednesday evening , ‘Someone’ in our family ran into the camper with the four-wheeler.  Then, the as the evening wore on, an athletic racoon showed up in our shop, eating the cat food.  It was an eventful night.  And I don’t know if all this excitement made my stomach get a bit twirly.   Or what.   Whatever it was, it was just enough for me to wonder whether or not it was ‘me nerves’ or something more viral going through the system.  Of course.   Again.  I should have known.

About 8:30 that evening, I was putting M.A. to bed when I realized, ‘this is not the after-effects of damaging our camper’.  Nor was it the effects of putting the kiddos to bed solo.  I was indeed coming down with it.  The flu.

And rather than recount the times and places and scenes and extreme grossness of it all.  Let me leave you with this thought.  Picture a writhing animal pinned under the back tire of a truck.  That’s just about the way I remember Wednesday night.

So, needless to say, what was getting me through the horror of it all- indeed what I was clinging to like a drowning woman holding onto drift-board for dear life- was the thought: “My children will all be at school tomorrow and I will lie comatose in bed all day whilst they whittle the hours away under the watchful eyes of their teachers/substitutes.”  It was a hopeful, motivating thought that kept me from screaming out to Hubby to take me by ambulance to the nearest Emergency Room for narcotics.  Believe me…I was THIS close to that possibility.

Mixed in with those crazed thoughts and animal-like desires for something STRONGER,  was another significant moment of this most unfortunate event in my horrific week.  The tub baths.  Long ago, when I was pregnant and nauseous with any of our four children, the only thing that brought me temporary relief was soaking in the hospital Jacuzzi tub.  So, Wednesday evening (and all night long, really), in between  stuffing my head inside a garbage can and dragging myself to the bathroom, I somehow found the energy to run a hot bath and throw myself headlong into the water.   Where I lay like an albino alligator waiting for the next best thing.   These hot baths.  They worked like a charm. And I drifted in and out of consciousness until there was more water on the floor than in the tub.  Highly recommend it to anyone who happens to get sick with this measly bug next.

As I lay soaking in the tub, for the second time through that unfortunate night, the thought occurred to me, “I must get out of this tub before the children awake to find their naked mother asleep in the bathtub.”  And as I was just barely wrapping the towel around my shaking white legs- instantly freezing in the night air, I heard the pitter-patter of little feet outside the door.

M.A: “Mommy?”

Me: (Kill.me.now.)…and then…

“Just a minute, just a minute…what is it, M.A.?”

M.A.: “I just threw up.”

 

Epilogue:

7:30 a.m., as I am writing up my substitute plan in a haze of muddled thoughts and achy limbs, Hubbie says to me, “And…another one just threw up.”

Sleep, rest, recovery.  So much for that.

And that, folks, is just a eency, tiny portion of my lovely, F.U.N. week.  Let the good times keep rollin’.

Love on anyway…

Love.  It is the one thing life must be characterized by.  But at times, the hardest thing to give.  The most difficult offering to bring forward when we’ve been wronged.  When we are wounded and hurting and desperate for justice.   We say we love.  But do we truly love…everyone?  I know I have a long way to go.

Because love is hard.  It asks much.  It takes us places we sometimes don’t wish to go.

And the road to knowing love and being loving and understanding true LOVE.  That road is narrow.   By times, it might be the road less traveled.  And true.  I might have avoided that road on a few of my journeys.  But it is never too late to begin anew.

What is love?

Love is patient.  (It puts up with a lot.  And often a great lot, at that.)

Love is kind. (It gives without asking in return)

Love does not envy. (It knows what it has is enough)

Love does not boast. (…and it knows not to ‘make much’ over things and possessions)

Love is not proud. (It is humble)

It isn’t rude. (It is winsome)

It is not self-seeking. (It is outward-looking in its view)

It is not easily angered. (It is tolerant)

It keeps no record of wrongs.  (It is forgiving)

Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. (It is honest.)

It always protects.  (It is courageous.)

It always trusts.  (It is loyal)

It always hopes.  (It has faith that can move mountains)

It always perseveres.  (It is persistent and dogged in its focus)

Love never fails.  (It is everlasting)

And when the only remaining, sure things in life are what I have faith in, what I have hope for and whom I love.  I know the greatest of all.  Is true, perfect unbroken  LOVE.

LOVE.  The love of father.  The love of a child.  The love of a mother.  The love of a friend.  The love of God.

When you don’t feel like turning the other cheek.  When you don’t feel like second chances should be had.  When you’ve been hurt and wounded and torn apart.

Love anyway.

When you’ve been wronged.

Love.

Because you know that grace-filled love is the answer.  Because you know that sometimes life’s not perfect.  Because you know that everybody needs compassion.  Forgiveness.  Kindness.  Mercy.

So love on anyway.  Even when you don’t feel like loving.  Love.  It is all that matters in this life.  And only when we open our minds to understanding love will we then begin to know love in its purest form.

AGAPE.

When the chaos surrounds like a cloak, lean in and draw close.  Breathe in the fragrance of life.  Life is messy but it is sweet.   Try to find the joy inside it.

And above all, love.

To Thine Own Self Be True…

Post-Mother’s Day 2013 (survived!).    And so here I am reflecting now, on a few of my favorite things.  Mothers and holidays and good old-fashioned truth-telling.   Blog style.   And I got to thinking about motherhood.    About the mothers I know and love, and about how each special mother, from those who are steady and patient to those who are more boisterous and bold: each Mama I know is to her own self, true.

True.

True to her calling.  True to herself.  True to the mama she is and was meant to be.

And truth matters.  Because it is reveals who we really are.  I was confused today by a writer claiming to be  truth-teller.  A beautiful mama whose blog writing I follow.  And what confused me was this.  She has always been characterized by certain behaviors and traits- which she has carefully revealed to her reading audience through selective choice.  She staged it to be this way.   And then, out from nowhere, came something  completely opposite of what she had built herself to be.  Nothing bad, nothing harmful.    Just confusing.  And in and of itself, what was presented was perfectly acceptable behaviour for another woman’s style of mothering.   But because it was HER writing, it was confusing.  Because I always thought she wanted me, the reader, to see her in a certain light.  And now she was completely changing the rules.

And this is what I was really thinking.  If she is who she always said she was, I wish for her to stand by that philosophy.  If not, then she should be whomever she says she is now.  It is confusing for those who have come to know and love you for who you are only for you to then change your authentic self to something else so as to please another group of people.  To gain popularity or favor.    I just wish I could say to her, “To thine own true self remain true.  Whomever that self might be.”

And so, upon reflection, I have decided to highlight the many faces of authentic  mothering that I have known.  And admire each for remaining true to whomever they believe they should be.  As a mother.

There are some mothers in my friendship circle who have always known they wanted to be a mother.  From their earliest memories of being themselves a child, they knew in their heart they would one day love a child of their very own.  These mothers are natural nurturers.  From a little girl, they could find in a crowd that one person who needed a little extra love and attention.  And they could make that person feel accepted and included.  They were natural empathizers, knowing just what to say and what to do to make those around them feel loved and cherished.  These mamas are often put on a pedestal.  But really, they are just doing what comes naturally and easy to them.  They appear effortless in their mothering.  And it looks easy because it is: when you love something, it isn’t work.  It’s a joy.

There are other mothers whom I have known, who have grown into mothering.  It was a learning process.  They always wanted children but just weren’t quite sure what to do with the lil’ creatures when they arrived.  “You have to do WHAT with these baby wipes, and WHEN…?”  I can hear them incredulously muttering to their Hubbies.  And that, having been said during pre-natal classes only after having been stunned into reality from the grueling labour and delivery video.  These moms, love their hearts!, did their best to muddle their way through in the dark.  Finding their niche with every passing year.    Getting their groove back with every passing milestone.  And doing a bang-up job at this gig we call mothering in spite of their lack of experience.

There are some moms who were surprised with becoming a mother.  Perhaps it was the timing that threw them off-guard.  Perhaps the circumstances.  Perhaps it was a combination of the two.  And some of these moms, if they were to be brutally honest, would say they don’t love the act of mothering.   And that becoming a mother isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.  But these moms, they love their children.  And they are committed to seeing their children through childhood into their adult years.  Committed to giving their offspring what they have- out of a heart of sacrifice and a heart of devotion.  They are warrior mamas.  They are soldiers.  And these Mamas are giving out of a heart of love as much as are those whom we might hold to a idealized stereotype.  It just feels a little different.  And that’s okay.

There are some Moms in this circle of friendship who are screamers.  Hollerers.  They love to yell.   They love to raise their voices in exclamation.  They might have once been a drill sergeant.   And they epitomize the mother attributed to in the infamous  Mom Song.  They might even have mailed in contributing lines for that piece which was sung by an amazing soprano singer (who might herself be a hollerer-mom.  I can just tell.)  These moms operate on one decibel, and it may or may not break the sound barrier.  But they fiercely love their children.  And they just might be the first of all moms to have the quick-wittedness inside them to impulsively jump in front of a bus so as to save someone or something.  Even if that might merely be their child’s cherished teddy-bear (incidentally, which is worth more than its weight in gold to their precious, screaming toddler.)

Some Moms are reckless.  They love to live life on the edge.  They live life large and loud and free.  Others are quiet and introverted.  Blink, and you might miss them in a crowd.  Some mothers love to do crafts.  They are the reason we have Pinterest.  Others hate the darn things (their motto: crafts=pinsanity).  Some moms are amazing cooks.  Some can’t even boil water.  Some mothers love to be alone, away from the prying hands of little children.  Other mothers long for hands held close and warm embraces.  Moms come in every shape and size, in every color and variety.

And you couldn’t find the same prototype twice.  They come custom-designed.

Some mothers, to the naked eye, just seem perfect.  And when you size yourself up next to them, you feel you can never add up to as much.   They just know how to ‘mother’ with such ease and grace.  They are models of what the stereotypical mother might be, were she truly a reality. And they give other mothers a source of inspiration and motivation of purpose.  Other moms seem to care less about perfection.  They would rather you and the rest of the world, know as much.   Because they love being the black sheep of the mothering crowd.   They thrive on being ‘good-enough’.  Anything more would be a little too much cotton candy for their liking, thank you very much.  But these moms- they still show up for their kids, in spite of the image they often portray.  And they are much better than their “good enough’ projection seems to indicate.

Excluding my own mother, and trying my best to be impartial!  I have to say.  Amongst the circle of mother-friends and acquaintances whom I know and love, there is not one mother I can say is the perfect prototype.  Not one I would hold up to the light and declare, “This one!  She is the true ideal!”  And neither would I want to.  Because every mother is best in her own right.  Every mother is perfectly suited to the mothering she was designed to do.  Because mothering is an art.  It is not an ideal.  It is a calling, not a job.  It is a life-long pursuit, not a milestone marker.  And it is mostly an act of the heart and the soul, not so much an act of physical reflex.

And all of us who call ourselves mothers need not compare ourselves to one another.  Because it is the variety that provides beauty and color.   And if not for the wide array of mothering prototypes, our children would not have the custom-designed Mama that was specifically chosen for them.  The travesty lies in trying to be someone we are not.  In believing we are not good enough.  In thinking we need to be more like one type of mama and less like another.  It is in our diversity that we find excellence in design.  In our weaknesses, we find we are made whole.  And each Mama must be the mother she was called to be.  For that is being a mother at one’s very best. That is being authentic.  That is being true.

To each one, be true.

To each mother: be true.  True to yourself.  To your family.  True to your world.  True to your Maker.  And true to the mother you were designed to be.  It is only in embracing who we truly are that we can then accept others for who they were designed to be as well.   And a mother does it right, most of the time, when she is authentically herself (allowing for a few mishaps here and there!).  She does it right when she is true.  That is, when she is truly the kind of mother she was meant to be.

Mother’s Day Eve…(a.k.a. Just another Mother’s Day)

Tomorrow is Mother’s Day.  Let me hear a whoop-whoop from the peanut gallery.

Ah, Mother’s Day!   A day of great expectations and high aspirations.  Look it.  Here’s my unbiased advice for surviving the day.  Let’s just all take a b-iiii-gggg breath.  And then, let us exhale in unison.  Now.    Let us release all those fuzzy, pink thoughts about obedient, compliant children and doting, adoring husbands and allow them to go flying out of our heads.    Off to Never-Neverland where they belong.

Because let’s face it: Mother’s Day is every day of the year.  And tomorrow is not really unlike the rest.  However, if you should be so inclined to celebrate, I believe mothers should truly cut themselves some slack- and lower the bar.  Lower the bar, baby!  That way, if your children remember it is Mother’s Day and they make you a card, it will truly be a surprise.  And if your Hubbie gets you a breakfast sandwich from Tim’s, it will come as a complete shock.  And if you get  a dandylion, chapstick, flowers, chocolates, a sweater or a new Corvette: you will truly be blown away from the shock and wonder of it all.  Train yourself to expect little, and when great things happen (i.e. the children get along for the half-hour it takes to eat lunch), you will be pleasantly surprised.  It will come as an utter delight to your weary soul!!

Anyway.  I believe Mother’s Day should come as a complete surprise to us mothers.  We should never, ever know when it is coming.  Mothers always like to know things ahead.  And sadly, that gives us more time to ponder, ruminate, reflect and worry.  Wonder.  Speculate.  Plan and organize.  No mother should EVER have to plan and organize her own day.  So…Mother’s Day should  come on a day when we least expect it…like April Fool’s Day.  Or the middle of January, when we are all depressed about our friends and colleagues heading south.   While we remain behind, vegetating in our freezing cold houses.

Mother’s Day is nice, don’t get me wrong.  I just don’t want it to be the ‘be-all and end-all’ of my year as a mom.  When I say every day is Mother’s Day, what I really mean is this: if your kid gives you an unexpected hug mid-March, save that one as a Mother’s Day memory.  If your Hubby takes you and the kids out for supper in late-June, after arriving home from work to find you asleep on the kitchen floor mid-supper preparations, tuck that memory away for Mother’s Day.  If ANY of your children buy you a Christmas gift with their own money: Mother’s Day.  Cha-ching!

Voila!  Every day is then Mother’s Day! And when you are feeling down and depressed about your miserable existence and lack of attention from the adoring fans we call our children, you can turn your attention to the time, three months ago, when they got it right!  And Mother’s Day can be a carry over from day-to-day, to infinity and beyond!

And if you do not agree, that’s okay too.  I hope you still have another wonderful day as a mother tomorrow anyway.  I, meanwhile, am enjoying a few moments to myself here on Mother’s Day # 365, May 11, 2013..

Spent and Used Up…

It’s been a long day. Preceded by an even longer night. In which I woke, startled by my dream. A telling dream- of projected fears and failures and worries about things to come. And now, here I am again. Ready to head into another night. And then, another day. And on and on.

Sadly, there is nothing new under the sun.

Some days feel like a long string of poorly made sitcoms played back-to-back. Others, an intense drama- leaving me gripping at my seat. Still others have their laudable comic relief, whereby I can find the laughter amidst the everyday scenarios. But some days are like a horror show. And they leave me wondering at the truth that lies within. About what is real and what is not.

Motherhood is like this sometimes. And in spite of our best intentions, these kinds of days are just a poor excuse for cheap entertainment. And that is putting it nicely.
At their worst, days like these make us dearly wish we could switch the channel. And of course, this is not an option. We mothers are in this for the long-haul. And it is tiresome, tedious work. Weeding through to that which is the best and the most sacred in our days. As small a part as that might be. And in doing this: focusing up, rather than down. Choosing to focus our attention- which is pulled this way and that, on those things which are the most worthy. Those things which are precious and beautiful and rare. On those things which might otherwise elude us.

We seek out priceless moments of peace. We focus on the moments that we deem special and significant. We focus on beauty and growth and change and movement. We contemplate. On whatever those moments might be specifically for us. And when we cannot muse- when our tired and aching bodies and minds are completely unable: we let things go. And we forgive ourselves. Realizing there is always tomorrow. Always another day, another opportunity.

To live the life we were given- with confidence and authority. With beauty and grace. With conviction and strength. And all while abiding in the mundane rhythm and flow of our constant days, as under the ever-constant glow of radiant star-shine that is our age-old sun. This is truly being. And it is truly what a mother does best.

I read recently a story that has been told by Max Lucado, best-selling Christian author, writer and preacher, about a lighthouse keeper. The Keeper of the Light was given oil but once a month- precious fuel to keep the lighthouse lamp burning bright. A lamp to light the way for sea-faring vessels and ships looking for safe haven or a reliable means with which to chart their course. But as with those of tender-heart, he received many heartfelt requests from the villagers. Could he spare some oil for a poor peasant woman to warm the family hearth? Could he allow a little oil for another to light his lamp? Still another, could he give a little oil for to lubricate a farmer’s wagon wheel? And to each, the Keeper said a resounding ‘yes’. “Of course he could spare a little here and there.” It was not much to ask, each small request. But in time, the oil supply threatened to run dry. And indeed it did so on the last few days of the month. The lighthouse went dark. And because there was no light to guide and lead the way, the inevitable occurred to the sea-faring vessels which depended on the Keeper to preserve his oils for such a time as this. They crashed upon the rocks and many perished. Shipwreck after shipwreck, and all because of the Keeper’s good intentioned gestures toward those whom asked and to whom he could not answer, “No, not now.” “Sorry, not today.” “I need to preserve this oil for whom it was intended.” The Lighthouse Keeper was rebuked for his unwise choice to lavish the oil. For what it was meant- it’s main purpose and intention was to be conserved. Stored up in preparation. That oil was meant to be saved- indeed preserved for those of whom their very lives depended on it. And now it was gone.

How very much like motherhood, sometimes.

We mothers waste sacred oil- precious energy, on time and tasks and moments that are relatively unworthy of our attention. And rather than focusing attention on those things which are the most meaningful: that is, on ourselves, our families and our friends. We instead waste precious oil on things which fall much lower on our true priority list of life concerns. And in so doing, we run out, waste and exhaust our limited supply of patience, time, focus, attention, energy and stamina. Much like the foolish Lighthouse Keeper, who ran into short supply during times when his resources were really needed.

Oil is precious and must be saved for such a time as when one might need it most. We can never know ahead of time what a day might bring. And by preserving oil, by preserving our precious resources: we preserve ourselves and those we love. We protect ourselves, we mothers. So that we in turn can protect others. And we prevent waste, that is the wasting away of ourselves. From being used up and spent on that which is of lesser importance. On things which are really not all that important.

In the preservation of ourselves, we find meaning and hope. What more worthwhile reason for conservation is there than this?

The Pursuit of Joy

Hey!  Welcome all!!!  Glad you are here…at this time and at this place.   With me.  Sharing my writing and this space called Pursuit of a Joyful Life!  I am humbled by your presence.

A few words about my writing, my blog and the name of this group.  I named my blog  “Pursuit of a Joyful Life” because joy is what I chase each and every day that I have breath.  Each and every day that I have energy and life within my soul.  Within my heart.  And it’s called a ‘pursuit’… because I am still working at it.  Joy does not come easy.

And I think sometimes we confuse joy with happiness.  We think joy is when life is pleasant.  That joy is peace and easy-going and bliss.  But joy is hard, my friends.  It is hard.  And it is a trail I follow like a dog tracking game.  Like a child chases after rainbows for that prized pot of gold.  And so do I, chase after joy each and every day hoping to find it in unexpected places.  And when it eludes me, I vow to never rest until I find it again.  And I always do.

I want to share a story.  A very recent, humiliating, humbling story.  But first, permit me to give you a little background information.

A few years ago, I was doing a short-term contract with a local school.  It was a music contract, teaching Grade 1-6.  I loved my task and its musical focus, particularly because I had been given freedom to do a variety of music appreciation activities with the older students during class and recess times.  The students were engaged, and so was I.  This was teaching at its easiest and at its best, as far as I was concerned.

For the Grade 6 closing that year, we had planned a sort of Flash Mob dance which would take place during the ceremony.  It was a lot of work pulling everything together, and I had no previous understanding on which to build.  Everything was a learning experience.  But that dance was my primary focus.  It was my baby!  And I was pumped to deliver to the awaiting crowd of family and friends the resulting product coming from the students hard work and effort.

Finally the big night came.  And I thought everything was set and ready to go.  We had checked the sound system, and it worked (actually, it later crashed and totally failed us, but that’s another story all together…).  The students were dressed to the Nine’s.  And I was on my game.

The time came for the proceedings to get underway, and I took my seat in the front row.  I waited expectantly for the Principal or some other dignitary to get up and introduce the program.  A few seconds ticked by.  I waited some more.  Finally, I looked up, only to hear the undertone of the Principal’s voice- who was leaning across the stomachs of the dignitaries in the front row.

“Aren’t you going to lead ‘O Canada’?” she whispered loudly.

“O Canada…,” I curiously thought to myself.    And then, as I realized this part of the program had been overlooked by Your’s Truly- the acting music instructor and concert co-ordinator, I then quietly hissed under my breath, “Oh! CANADA.”

I turned and looked.  There were five hundred people behind me.  I looked below my feet…no hole in which to descend.   It was sink or swim.  So, I started up towards the stage, and the awaiting mic.  Hoping not to trip on the seemingly mile-long walk towards the steps leading up.   After I had started out,  my Principal- sensing my lethargy, wisely decided to follow me up.  Whether or not she knew I was in fight or flight mode, I do not know.   I will admit the thought of running did occur to me momentarily.  But nevertheless, we both arrived.  Together.  And one of us was a little jittery.  I won’t say whom.

Needless to say, we both looked at each other.  And we both knew: there was to be no music with which to cue our start.  No piano player had been selected.  There was not even a canned music tract to be found in the place.  I looked at the Principal.  She looked at me.  A showdown of sorts.  Neither one of us in any hurry to initiate vocal take-off.

And finally.  As there were five hundred sets of eyes boring down on me, and about twenty Grade 6 student’s standing behind the stage- raring to get on with the show.  I let ‘er rip.

“O Canada…our home and native land.”

Well.  About part way in, I started to get a little more nervy than I already was, the adrenaline wearing off and all.  And my mind took a blank spell.  I started to panic.  I started to sweat.  I looked over at the Principal, and she seemed to be doing a fine job.  So, I stepped back from the mic, and took a breather.  Not a long break…just a pause, so as to catch my breath and consider, “What in the heck is the next line again?”  And as those five hundred voices sang out, I remembered.  And just in time.  As the song was nearing a close.

PHEW.  Not my most stellar performance moment of all time.  But time has healed my wounded pride.

Fast-forward.  To present day…actually, yesterday to be precise.

So, I have again been invited to sing ‘O Canada’ with a choir of five-hundred.  Only this time, they aren’t strangers.  They are my peers- teachers and colleagues with whom I teach and converse.  You can imagine my anxiety.  I have of course sung this patriotic piece in public numerous times before- indeed, I sing it every day with my Kindergarten students.  But, to sing it in front of an audience of one’s peers.  Now that is intimidating.

But I love a challenge, and I have decided to face my fear- that is, the fear of forgetting the words to my national anthem while singing on stage- and I take on the assignment.

I had one week to prepare.  In which, I was also to present at two literacy work-shops and sing at three other benefits or assemblies.  To say that I put ‘O Canada’ on the back burner is a bit of an understatement.

But.  I did remember the angst of that long-ago Grade 6 closing.  So with that propelling me, I decided to look up the words on Google.  And I don’t know what happened.  Maybe I got distracted.  Maybe the kiddos called for me.  Maybe my mind was on other more pressing concerns.  But I never did write down the words to the song on paper.  And when morning broke on the day of the meeting at which I was to sing, I decided to go with my memory.  My poor, poor memory.

Well, I must have practiced the song close to ten times.  And then later, as we were about to walk on stage, I decided in a last-ditch effort, to finally get smart and write down the words.  FROM MEMORY.  And feeling confident, I walked out on stage.  And sang my heart out.  With gusto.

And it was only much later, after I had replaced the mic on its stand, walked back to my seat and sat my relieved butt down in a folding chair- breathing a huge sigh of relief, that my Hubbie leaned over and told me…I had sung the wrong words.  Again.  To my absolute and utter horror.

And I tell you all this to say the following: joy is a decision.  A decision reached at not because the circumstances are right and the feelings are perfect.  But because.  Sometimes it is the only way to view life that keeps us from giving up.  And throwing in the towel.  Joy is taking difficulty, frustration, sorrow, sadness, humiliation, anxiety, pain and trouble and using them as a springboard to find the best there is in life.

Pursue joy.  It is the path that leads both forward and back.   Leading toward reflection on both life’s greatest and worst moments.  Moments we would forget or bury if not for joy reminding us to go back. And yet.  Leading us forward to moments of absolute wonder and awe at what it means to be truly human.  And truly alive.

It’s Okay…

It’s okay to rue the day you’ve just lived.  And thank your lucky stars that it is over.  We know you are still the greatest, Mom.  And it is also okay if there is not one moment of that day in which you lived completely and joyfully in the moment.  Or one moment wherein you can point to yourself as being a super mom on top of her game.  Even heroes get a day off.  So should you, Mom.  It’s okay.

It’s okay if your children think you are the meanest mother ever for hiding their i-pods in their father’s underwear drawer.   Everyone is entitled to his/her uninformed opinion.  It’s also okay that your opinion trumps all others.  Really, it’s okay.  It’s also okay that your children are subjected to such tortures as setting the table, helping younger siblings with piano practice or wiping the dishes.  As long as you realize that asking them to make their beds can place you in the Meanest Mother Ever category on certain days.  You might want to avoid that one.  But if not, that’s okay.  Because you can reverse the ‘meanest ever’cycle when the time comes and to your advantage.  Believe me.  I know whereof I speak.  And so do you.  Kids are mean too.  And it’s okay to freely admit it is so (by telling them once in a while).

Seriously.  It’s okay, Mom, to serve your children micro-waved K.D. that has been cooked into oblivion.  And it is your right as a mother to insist that everyone outwardly appreciate and verbally declare their appreciation for such.  It is okay to also send your children merrily on their way to evening activities with a tub of yogurt, a banana, crackers and cheese.  Do not let your child tell you this does not constitute supper.  Because we all know that it darn well does!

It’s okay to be the laughing stock of your child’s music class because you forgot to do the music review with her.  You will remember to do the review with her after the class is over, while you are driving home.  Better late than never!

And it’s also okay to forget to pick your child up at the evening birthday party to which she has been invited, even if that means she is the last one to go home.  And even if you asked the hostess before-hand what time the party is over.  DO NOT APOLOGIZE FOR THIS!   These things happen.  Pretend you planned it this way and that you were having a nap.  Even if you were really killing yourself driving from one community to the next at lightening spend.  Because you really forgot!  And it’s also okay to forget sometimes.  Your daughter knows you love her.  One tardy slip is not going to convince her otherwise.

It’s okay to sometimes end the day wondering why you and your Hubby ever thought making a family the size of a baseball team was a good idea.  Everyone questions their life motives once in a while.  And if you cannot think of one good reason why there are four little monsters roaming your house, eating your food and monopolizing your household technology, just remember.  If we all waited for one good reason to do the best things in life, some of us would wait forever.

So then.  It’s okay to write today off, to throw in the towel and cross your fingers for a better tomorrow.  Tomorrow is another day.  Full of promise, full of hope.  And the best we can wish for is that it will be okay.   Because if we aim small and think glass half-empty, usually things end up being better than we think.

And of course.  We all know that’s okay too.

Mountains and Molehills

We six walk through the mist, feel wetness on our faces.  I shiver in the night air, anticipating the heat of our van.  The time and temperature has shifted from sun-kissed evening warmth to damp and foggy dusk .   Nearing the last lap, we come into a clearing.   And it is then I hear her call out.

“Oh! Ouch…,” she moans.   I look back, and find her lying sprawled on the ground, hands muddied.  Tears come quickly.  “I tripped over that tree stump,” she cries.  And I look back at it.  That unfortunate bit of mangled tree left behind to rot.   It, a flat disc about a foot in diameter.  How could something so unobtrusive be so dangerous?  I brush her off with my gloves, offering them to her as a protective cover for our final bit of the trail.  And I marvel how we have tonight walked up and down many paths riddled with branches and inclines, only to now be taken completely by surprise with the sudden appearance of a commonplace tree stump.

But isn’t life like that?  Riddled with many obvious pitfalls and a few hidden dangers.  Making our journey difficult.  Arduous.  Hard.  Life is many things, but one of the surest is that it is hard.  And sometimes the hardest things in life are not the mountains, but rather they are the molehills.

And yet.  If we were asked, “What is hard?”, we could all come up with a competent list of what the hardest things in life might be.   What they might look like to us personally.  And how it might be to live out those same hard things.  To ‘live with’ x,y,or z.  To ‘feel’ this or that way.  To lose something or someone so very precious.  An unbearably, unfathomably hard thing to go through.  And we could come up with ideas about what it might look like to have ‘this or that’ hard thing.  What unimaginable things ‘it’ might impose upon us.  We often prepare for these worst of times in our heads, even if only doing so when we are faced with them straight on.

I consider some of the hardest things in life to be those times when life and death sit face to face.  Those times when life altering choices must be made.  Or times when I am thrown recklessly into adversity, into calamity, misfortune.  When life gets dirty.  And we are left to face the cold, hard facts.

These times I try never to imagine.  But the mind is a mysterious place.  A curious organism which no one can tame.  It goes where it wants to go.  To places beyond our finite understanding.   To ‘what ifs…’ and ‘if evers…’   To the unimaginables.  That dreaded phone call delivering bad news.  That voice of sorrow.  Those silent sobs and noiseless cries.  Those dreaded times.  God forbid they ever come again.

And to be sure, each one of us can envisage times like this.  Times of absolute terror.   And if we have lived long enough, we can remember when.  That terrible ‘when’.   We go there sometimes in our minds, and we see the visuals.  We remember.  And it’s all too real.  The mental pictures.   Leaving us cold and listless from conjuring up image after image.  So that even these pictures, a silent screen of stills- even these become hard things.

Pain and suffering are always hard things.  It goes without saying.

And yet.  When I am faced with hard things on this macro level, hard things with grave and far-reaching consequences, I also recall the micro.  The smaller scale of problems in life, that is- the mini disasters.  The little moments of life when things fall apart at the seams.  Because it is the business of living in the here and now with which I are consumed most of the time.  My major preoccupation is with existing in the real world, in the tangible NOW.  And when I reflect on my day-to-day life, carrying out what is normally expected of me in that world outside my head, I realize that normal, everyday life is sometimes hardest.

Painfully hard at times.

And to be sure, I do my own hard things each and every day.  And all this without the world caving in around me.   Even though it feels that way in the moment.  Take today.   I did some hard things.  I multi-tasked as I got ready for work in the morning.  I taught lessons in empathy to my students and reinforced those lessons within minutes of the introduction.  I had a challenging conversation with my daughter about reaping what you sow.  I had a few confrontations.  And I dealt with suppertime mayhem.  That last one has got to be the pinnacle in a mother’s day.  That dreaded witching hour.

And as little and in-consequential  as the above might seem to anyone else, some things in my life are hard for me.  And I think the hardest thing of all is really ‘the act of keeping sane and calm in the midst of everyday living’.  That is, living out my imperfect, flawed life on a daily basis and doing so to the best of my ability.  Without losing my mind or my patience.  For instance.  Getting to work on time.  Not yelling at the kiddos.  Not resenting the housework.  Not feeling the pressures of balancing work and home.  Not feeling too pulled in any one direction.  Not fighting (read: getting along with people.)  Finding common ground.   Being able to compromise so as to keep the peace.  Saying ‘no’ even when I feel pressured to say ‘yes’.  Not worrying.  Not placing too much stake in my own expectations.   Being kind.  Being compassionate.  Showing grace.  Finding joy.   And on and on we go.

These are hard things.  Incredibly hard by times.

And we all do these hard things each and every day.  They might be done in varying degrees and at varying levels, but we do them in our own unique ways.  And these hard things might seem little in comparison to actual calamity, but they are nevertheless hard and difficult to do in their own respect.  And yet.  We do these things for the duration of our lives, following a cyclical path of journey.  Little hard things leading to big hard things leading back to little hard things.   Big is always followed by little.  And it is the little things that get us down.  They are the straws that break the camel’s back.   But then again, they are also the most likely, those little moments, to be that which make us truly compassionate human beings.   And it is the little hard things of life which shape us and prepare us for the big hard things.   For the tests and trials.

If we can do little hard things, you can bet your bottom dollar when the time comes, we’ll be able to do the biggest of them.  The big hard things.  It helps to remind ourselves that we can do ‘little’ hard things.  And because this is so, these little moments of pain and suffering on a small scale will hopefully prepare us for the work necessary to get us through the big losses.  The big hard things.  And because we can do big hard things (and I speak of a strength that enables that is not my own- HE is able and thus, so am I), then it also follows that when life returns to normal again, we can continue to do the smaller hard things too.

Because all of life is a journey.  And the journey is not only about the destination.  It’s about the ride.  A ride that includes mountains and valleys, twists and turns.  And to be sure, the mountains are tricky to manoeuvre.  But then again, so are the molehills- the tree stumps, the twisted roots.  And sometimes what might look like the hardest, that is ‘the mountains’, might not be so hard to move about- to walk around and do so without tripping, as are the everyday molehills.