We had spent the day at the beach–a crazy day with waves so hard they could dislocate your shoulder if they threw you just right. We spent the day on an endless expanse of white flying kites and looking for wild horses. We wanted to go home but we were hungry and the boardwalk was close by. The sparkling arcade lights which started to twinkle as the long day gave in to night captivated this boy and made me hold on far longer than I ever expected to.
When I took these photos I was so fully aware that Max had turned a corner his life. I saw he was no longer the baby I wished him to be. The changes of the last year felt palpable and sudden. On the cusp of turning nine he was fully a big kid now, no longer the little babe I had once rocked. Be-freckled and strong in limb. A little unsure. A bit tentative and awkward. Starting to grapple with the what it means to make the world his own.
I have one of these cool journals. A ten year journal where you have just 4 lines to capture the essence of the day. It is laid out so that on one page one can see what happened on the same day over a period of ten years. February 19, 2009…February 19, 2010…February 19, 2011. After writing the days news yesterday, I looked back over the last three years and sighed. “Nothing’s changed,” I shrugged. Reports of ice time and Caps games and playdates. Same problems, same sadnesses, same simple pleasures that stitched together a day. I grumpily closed my journal and turned over to turn out the light, murmuring about the lack of movement in our simple little life.
But the simple fact is everything changes. All the time. The sameness is just an illusion, a cheap trick. But all it takes is a shimmering ray of sunlight to break the trance.
In the last 3 months, this boy has grown an inch. He’s made friends this year, who don’t live so close to home, on the other side of the county. The first night that he is over there, it is as though he is half a world away. These changes snuck up on me when I wasn’t looking, slowly bit by bit, the way the baby fat disappeared leaving a lean young man at the dinner table doing his homework. Subtle.
Someone I love who was very sick got well, and another person I love who was well got very sick. These things happen, like that, a bomb dropped, a miracle. Sudden.
Jobs change. Addresses change. Adventures arise when we least expect them. People leave. Others come. Some stick around for now. And every now and then we are struck with a remarkable moment of pure laughter and love.
Pay attention to this moment, girl, for all that it brought, tinged with joy or sorrow or maybe both, all it brought is about to slip away. You can try and hold onto it but it will only make you cry when it pulls away from your desperate grasp. Because it will. Are you going to waste this moment here trying to hold onto something that has gone? This is the way we miss our life. We can miss it without even noticing that we are missing it. We can miss it by grieving that we missed it.
A wise teacher once told me that letting go of every breath is the most basic act of faith. The exhalation does not come with a guarantee in writing that if we let go of this air there will be enough to breathe next time and yet we breathe. We are already so practiced in the act of faith. We have been faithful since birth, since the first time we breathed out without knowing if we would ever fill our lungs again.
This is a good thing, because I need that sort of faith to loosen my grasp on the moment and to let it go without knowing what comes next, without worry, without fear, without expectations. All those things get in the way of paying attention. Quick sink in and let it wash over you and bathe it with its warm warm light before it goes again with the exhalation, whoosh…
Max at the diner with his team
This Sunday, like every Sunday, Max will have a hockey game.
When he started with this team in October he knew not one kid. Most of the kids were at least one year older and two grades ahead in school. They came from all over our very large county–and the team ranged from kids who were farm kids to kids like Max who consider themselves city kids. Many of the kids knew each other from years of playing hockey together but this was Max’s first year on an official team.
He felt the outsider in every way, searching desperately for one kid–just one–he could eventually call friend. The first few practices he felt so lonely and out of place. Me too. While I am a pretty social gal, I carried a lot of angst around hanging out with the people who were not my people–you know, the artsy, lefty types from my neck of the woods, the ones I call my tribe. If I am honest, the other parts of the county make me a bit…well…nervous. What would we have in common, I thought?
Yet here we are in January and Max is in love with his team. Here we are in January and I am looking forward to the time I spend with those parents, the ones I thought were so different from me. Here we are in January and when we walk through the doors of the Iceplex, it feels a little like coming home.
Max and I we spend countless hours at the rink. Each week it seems that practice stretched longer and longer as the boys grab a snack at the grill and head to the arcade, drinking in each other’s company in the easy way that boys can.
And we parents too, are silently coming together, drawn together like ships in a tiny harbor. His coach recently pointed out that we log 4 hours a week together in a very small space between practices, games, and dressing and undressing the boys. We pick up each other’s hats and move each others things, manipulating our way around small spaces. Many of those hours are in the wee morning and many more in that frantic post-work time slot when we (or at least I am) at our most vulnerable parenting place when misplaced sticks or left behind equipment can send even the most patient of parents into a fit. And then there are the hours we spend lingering, in the grill, in the arcade, observing the growing bond between the boys, each of us feeling our hearts swell a bit as we see them make something out of nothing. To be honest, many days we may speak very little to one another. But that seems to matter not a bit. I sink into their presence like a warm bath. Without knowing anything they have become familiar to me, the smell of an old church, holy and ancient.
Max was smashed in the face at this last game. An opposing player hit him in the face with his stick and knocked him to the ice. As he lay on the ground, sobbing and indignant, 12 players dropped to a knee and waited as though they were one, connected by an unspoken code of team. And in the stands, 12 hearts stopped beating until he rose up and skated to the bench with his coach, connected we were by our common experience of loving these boys and worrying about the crash of body against boards, every time any of one of them goes tumbling. As I wandered to the bench to check, 12 hands reached out to touch my shoulder. “I know” each hand seemed to whisper.
This is how tribe is built. Not through grand visions and plans and mission statements but through the simple act of going about life together, side by side. Breathing in each others presence, as simple as that. Doing the chores, no matter our moods or state of wakefulness. Tying skates and distributing juice boxes, with kindness and an awareness that every boy, every parent, is needed to make this thing go, each one of us, no matter who we are outside the rink, there matters. Organizing equipment and running clocks with the simple kindness that comes from simply accepting, “Oh–there you are.” No story, just you. And that awareness, that acceptance–that my friends is love.
I have felt so lucky to have found my chosen family here in my neighborhood, the ones I call my tribe. The families we camp with and dine with, the ones who I love so deeply and profoundly, who know me so well, with whom my heart cracks open. The ones who share my political views and parenting values and don’t mind my beat up broken down car, who look past my mess and old furniture and clutter to see my spacious heart. The ones whose homes I retire to when all feels lost, or maybe just the electricity is off. Each one of them feels handpicked and special and deliberately inserted into my life. To have found them feels like a miracle, an impossible surprise of utter goodness.
And yet, I am beginning to see that this gift is not a requirement for tribe to really bloom. Our connectedness is a given. Its our separation that is the illusion. Home is any place where we are side by side pulling our weight. We only need to look up and see the person next to us, doing what we are doing to realize our shared humanity, to feel in the company of strangers, completely at home.
Max is a very picky eater. He and I have this drama that unfolds this way almost every few days. He opens the fridge hunkering for a snack. He sees carrots and cheese and milk and leftover Thai food. He sees peanut butter and apples and some fish. He does not see leftover pizza –the only food that he thinks will “scratch his itch”. And so he closes the fridge. And whines. And he declares himself starving.
He doesn’t just think he is starving. He IS hungry because he has refused to eat. Dug in his heels. His stomach rumbles because he did not take in what was offered. He didn’t see the mountains of food in the fridge as nurturing healthy goodness, but rather he saw it as “not quite right”. He has rejected it. In those moments, with an empty belly and a mind set on pizza, he really is starving even as he stands before a refrigerator that is full.
****
“You have everything you need.”
When teachers, doctors and friends whisper those words to me I both am deeply comforted and deeply cynical.
I love the idea that I have everything I need. And yet, it is one thing to intellectually understand that “I have everything I need” and quite another to feel the full weight of that. Really feel it and trust it. I have struggled with the whole abundance notion.
Truth is, I can be more like my picky eater son than I care to admit–at least at a metaphorical level. I sometimes find myself standing at a the Universe’s fridge, staring at the makings of a feast, and not finding the thing I think will scratch my itch, I close the door without taking anything and declare myself starved.
*****
Its not hard to see how this happens, how we can miss the abundance laid out for us in all of its juicy goodness. Afterall, we are trained to think in terms of scarcity. Not enough energy, not enough time, not enough money. That is a story our society trains us to tell ourselves over and over again. Its the excuse we make for why we don’t write more, or call more, or practice more. We say not enough so much that we start to believe it and it becomes like a mist that starts to cloud up our lives.
In some cases, I walked right by gifts offered up lovingly by the universe, certain that they were not meant for me. Sometimes I have rushed right by, telling myself I didn’t have time to open the door and peak in, believing I didn’t even have the time to stop and explore and that chances are there would be nothing there anyway.
In other cases, perhaps, I have not even seen the abundance offered because I was so attached to it showing up differently I just couldn’t see it. Truth is, it is easy to open a fridge full of delicious food and declare yourself starving when you can’t find the one thing that you thought you wanted, the deliciousness you had been dreaming about all day.
*****
And yet I have come to believe that this small shift in perspective is the difference between a life full to bursting with joy and love and one in which I feel like I am depleted. Its not simply a matter of gratitude. Its hard to be grateful for something that for one reason or another you simply don’t see. How often have I for one reason or another missed a chance to be nurtured, nourished and held by the universe because I closed the door not recognizing the gift that showed up. How often have I wandered through a banquet feeling starved because I can’t get my mind off pizza.
I am trying to make a practice of seeing the gifts life offers me. Here are just three things I am doing to remind my hungry self that there always is enough:
1. Make a practice of saying yes whenever something lovely is offered. If it turns out I really don’t need it I can pass it along and share the joy. But by saying yes I allow myself to consider and hold what is offered as a gift. By making space for it in my life I can see it.
2. When I find spare change, I tell myself that it is a reminder that there always is enough, even if it shows up in small bits. I immediately put it in a special jar on my altar to remind myself that what we need always shows up.
3. Make what I need from what I have. Make the cookies or the salad from whatever is on hand, even if it is no trouble to run out to get the one thing that feels missing. Redecorate the room from whatever is found in the attic and the basement. Dig through the bottom of the craft bin to make art. See that it all comes together perfectly without any extra steps or trips or additions.
I am curious about how you are cultivating the sense of abundance in your life. How do you celebrate it? How do you teach your eyes to see it? I am opening the comments up and hoping you will play along so I can learn from you.
Max’s self portrait
Last night I put you to bed and you were 8. You were 8 as I wrapped my arms around you and told you (again) about the day you were born. I told you even though you knew the story, knew it by heart. You know it so well that now you request that I add some dramatic flourishes to it to make it more interesting. You suggested that I add something like “When you were just a day old a band of ninja warriors attacked the hospital but you saved me and defeated every last one and everyone said, “Wow–that baby is strong.”
You are growing up–a fact that pains me and delights me. It is a pleasure to watch you grow into a person I never could have imagined when I held your tiny newborn self to my breast. You are a speed demon on ice skates and you have been able to skate rings around me for years now but you amazed us all this year in the pool when you took off and became a top swimmer in your age group. I can barely swim but you, you are mastering it. It wasn’t that long ago that you were afraid of the deep end. You are conquering this world in ways I never could have dreamed for you. Your dreams are your own.
You are witty and gregarious, polite and generous. And you are so grown up now. You do your chores now (almost) without complaint. You offer to buy Thai food takeout on days when I am exhausted, an offer I have yet to accept but touches my heart every time. You make jokes constantly, especially when the room is thick with tension or drenched in sadness. You have compassion for the most unlikely people, and no tolerance for bullies. While you like many people, and get along with lots, you pick your friends carefully. I like that about you. You are encouraging to your friends, your teachers and me. On difficult hikes you hold my hand and tell me I can do it, tell me where to put my feet so I don’t fall. You talk to me about your heart and things that make you sad.
And yet there is still a little boy there–a boy who sleeps with his stuffed otter and who comes into my bed for a cuddle. A boy
who needs to be held when he gets hurt. A boy who runs around in his pajamas all day if I would let him. A boy who still prefers to be read to, all cuddled up in my lap.
I feel the years slipping away and it dawns on me that your childhood is almost half way over. It makes me cherish every exhausting moment and take pause before I complain. No one teaches me the joy of living moment to moment the way you do.
When I think of you at 8, I will remember you running through the woods with Emma, making spears out of sticks, stones and duct tape and shields from discarded hubcaps. I will remember you making jokes to get out of being in trouble. I will remember you laying down with animals (dogs, cats and even horses) and staring up at the sky, or laying down with your feet in my lap asking for a foot rub. I will remember you using packing tape to attach pillows to your legs so you could play goalie in a good game of street hockey. I will remember you organizing endless games of sharks and minnows at the pool. I will remember you rolling your eyes at the preschool girls who annoy you even though they love you. I will remember you doing the unthinkable and cheering for the Flyers (just for the experience), listening to books on tape while you picked up the living room, and catching bugs in the woods. I will remember laughing with you so hard that tears poured out of our eyes–all because of a fart. I will remember a fearless negotiator who tried to bargain over everything from allowance to the number of vegetables he needed to eat. I will remember you getting your own key to the house, and getting your own kitten and getting a hockey stick with a real curve. I will remember you curled up with a blanket on the floor of the animal hospital emergency room because you had to be there when the cat was sick.
Last night I put you to bed and you were 8. This morning you woke up and you were 9. Time keeps marching on.
I love you my flubba wubba Maxidoodle boy. Happy Birthday.
I like to think of myself as a glass half full, optimistic kind of girl. And in many ways that’s right.
But every now and again, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and realize how I easily I can get stuck in the “no” position. Perhaps it is because life can sometimes get complicated and whatever is in front of me starts to feel impossible and undoable. It’s easy to get tired in that place and start to think that we are in a survival mode. Suddenly I start to look at everything through that lens. Like a deer caught in the headlights or a warrior fending off an attack, I start to put up a shield, trying to limit, control, keep the chaos to a minimum.
When I am in that space, the answer to most questions suddenly becomes no.
Are you coming north for a visit? (no–can’t afford it)
Are you coming over tonight? (no–I am too tired)
Can we go to the pool? (no–I have chores to do)
Can I have an Italian ice? (no–because I said so)
There are lots of good reasons to say no. Personal safety. Health. Exhaustion. A need for some quiet time. A need to set boundaries. No is a perfectly good answer to lots of questions, especially when it is well thought through. The problem is that I can sometimes, without thinking, start to wield “no” like a shield–an attempt to block out life until I can get a grip. No becomes the default position out of fear. No can be an excuse not to move forward, to embark on adventure or connect in a new way.
And then I wonder why I can sometimes find myself feeling stuck.
Over and over I have learned that the way I create magic in my life is when I thoughtfully and deliberately, open up and say yes. Say yes to impossible things. Say yes to thinks that make no sense but just seem right. Open our heart, open the door, open the house and say welcome–come in, yes, please, do. The best decisions in my life miraculous did not start with an anguished debate but rather unfolded from a simple yes. Without fail, over and over again I learn that simply switching from a no to a yes frame of mind is a key that unlocks a world of magic. Sometimes the best way to shift your entire outlook, your entire heart, your entire mood is to simply say yes.
Especially when the question is something like this:
“Mama…I love her so much. Can we please take her home?”
Saying yes changes everything.
It gives someone hope. It creates the space for love. It opens the doors to miracles.
Welcome Tabitha Tessa Casey-Bolanos. Many adventures await you and your boy.
Inspired by Jen and her supersisters over at PBS:
25 Things I Know Now As a Parent
1. That I really don’t know much.
2. But actually, if I listen to my heart, I can always find the way.
3. That waking up a 4:30 am to catch a morning flight to the meeting so I can stay at home for the swim meet is always worth it.
4. That every thing changes and nothing stays the same and the harder we hold on, the faster it slips away.
5. Breakfast for dinner is always acceptable.
6. Kindness is learned just like language–by imitating your parents.
7. Laser tag is actually a fun thing to do on a rainy winter night.
8. Physical affection is like water–kids can die without it. Unlike water there is always an infinite amount flowing as long as we pay attention.
9. Board games are a great invention.
10. Making an itunes playlist of favorite songs and saying “we need to work until the music is done” is a great way to make chores fun.
11 Especially if the chores are the kind you can do while dancing.
12 When doing chores, it is really critical to make space for dancing.
13 Fear is kind of like a fog that dissipates as soon as you acknowledge it and give it its due.
14 Italian ice is generally not an acceptable dinner but sometimes when it is too hot, its ok to say “just this once”.
15 Noone is ever too old to be read out loud to.
16. Chores are great for self esteem.
17. Creating a regular practice of being quiet for a time is helpful for everyone in the family.
18. There are days, weekends and even whole weeks at a time when chores need to go out the window.
19. Bubbles are fabulous to store in the car and pull out when you are stuck in crazy bumper to bumper traffic.
20. Sometimes, your role is to be the center of your kids universe. Sometimes it is to be the captain of a team of other people who will show them the way.
21. There is something magical about trading cards. Especially hockey cards.
22. Sleep is really important. It can change everything.
23. No one knows my kid the way I do. Noone who knows how to respond like I do. But still, its useful sometimes to see him through the lens of the other people who love him.
24. It is really important to model trying new things and being ridiculously unpracticed at them.
25. Teaching my son to to learn from his failures is more important than teaching him to succeed.
Play along with Jen by making your own list on your blog or facebook and link to it in the comments in Jen’s post over at PBS!
Standing on the edge of the pool I am blown away by these kids, the ones who swim like lightning, the ones who make it all seem so effortless, and the ones that struggle through and push hard. The ones whose googles fall off and keep going anyway, the ones who shave seconds off their time. I never could do anything like that when I was a child and so their movement, their ease, their courage, their dedication, their endurance seems magical to me and at the end of every event, I want to celebrate them, jump up and down, kiss them on the head and bless them–exclaim to the world that they are a miracle.
Instead, I tell them their time as they climb out of the pool and whisper something like “great swim”, “that rocked”, “great focus”. The quiet encouragement is what they need right then, as they make off to celebrate or lick their wounds or jump up and down and scream their heads off for their teammates. So I tell them their time and sneak in a silent blessing, a quiet alleluia for their growing up, their personal victory.
This swim is something that is theirs alone.
No parent, or teacher, coach or teammate pulled them along or won for them. But man, how they all did yell.
It is gorgeous to watch them, the kids lined up along the deck, screaming and cheering for each other. They hover behind me, their teammates, and they say things like, “wow–best time ever” to the kid who came in last, the one who is improving steadily steadily week after week. Every kid is made to feel a rock star, a prize fighter, a hero in the moment of their struggle. It makes my heart swell to think of all they are learning. To think of how kindness and encouragement flow like water here. To think that this is the real strength training, here at the poolside.
Every personal battle is just one swimmer in a pool–moving as gracefully as she can. Hoping to keep it together, do a little bit better than last time. He is racing against himself. No one can do it for her. No one else will make or break this for him. And yet he knows that the cheers, the yells, the high fives and the hand to pull her out of the pool are what keep her going hard. The team and their love–it is what allows each swimmer to pull the strength out of his belly and do one more stroke.
From my perch on the sidelines, I am amazed how everyday you are different. The little boy who once was afraid of the deep end is now leaping in a rainbow arch playing sharks and minnows with the middle schoolers. The bow backed stand, arms crossed, goggles atop your head. I am a perpetual witness to this miracle, your life so full and so not defined by me.
Your freckles are mine, your fine Irish skin, but your life amazes me, shocks me, is so different from mine. And I know that with each day that passes, your life will be more and more a mystery. The code you speak, the language of boys, your posture, your stance. The way you move through the water, across the ice, on a field–such a mystery to me who trips over her own shadow and runs from a ball. Once upon a time, I knew every boo-boo, every scrape, every hurt feeling and could understand the storms of your moods. Once upon a time you came to me for answers and accepted what I said, but now you are certain I have no idea how things are–and to some extent you are right. I know nothing of sports and boys who play them. I can’t tell you how to shoot a puck better or how to slice a second of your backstroke. I am flummoxed about what to say to the team ball-hog, to the playground bully you stand up to.
And yet there are still, those holiest of moments, often in the evenings, or during a thunderstorm, when your wrap your arms around me, and ask me if I can keep a secret, and the sweet sorrow in your tender heart comes pouring out and I know you are still my baby boy, and that I am still the one who knows the landscape of your heart. While the details are fuzzy, I know the contours, the hills and valleys and know where the land is scarred and where it is more forgiving. And in those moments you and I remember that what I know is about being broken and being human, and falling apart and trying again and being human and loving and kind. And that really it is al that matters. I pray each day that you will continue to trust my broken mama self and know that this is a safe space to just be. I trust I will always be a keeper of your heart or the safe place where you come to be.
But for for now your being is in the water, at the pools edge, or in the snack shack and begging me not to take photos. For now your being is wrapped in a green towel looking for a ping pong partner, carrying a tupperware container of coins you saved up to buy junk food, loaning a dime to the big kids, wondering if it will buy you something more. For now your being is wrapped up in the learning that you can no longer learn from me, except when in broken failure (or something that feels like that) you sneak into my lap when no one is looking and whisper my name and time, the time that is flying by, stops still for you and me.
Things have been silent over here while I shift into a new space, a new yin and quiet place. It is a good thing to learn to be receptive. So many ideas run through my brain these days on wonderful things to write about. Fear not, when the time is ripe I will write again. I am not blocked. Just in a silent place.
But one of the joys of being in that yin receptive space is being able to notice, see and express gratitude for all the small and simple things in life. Like a great teacher. So when I saw this post over at PBS Supersisters on their Day of Gratitude I couldn’t resist breaking the silence and posting.
I want to take a few minutes to talk about a teacher who made a huge difference in my son’s life. A tiny Chinese woman who taught Max last year in first grade. Ms Cai. She had a reputation as a strict teacher. To be honest, Max quaked in fear the day he learned he had her for first grade. He had heard she would push him and that scared him. But after the first day of class everything changed. First grade would be a magical year.
Not too long into the school year, Max told me, “Mom, I feel like Ms Cai has been my teacher for a thousand years.” He said it with such earnestness that I knew it to be true. Max’s reading soared in first grade. For one reason and one reason only. Ms Cai believed in him. She told him every day. She told him how smart he was. She told him he could catch up to the kids in the top reading group. She never said things like, “if you try harder” or “if you do more”. Sure she encouraged him to work but she never ever gave him the impression he was lacking anything. She just said he would learn and grow simply by being himself. His wonderful self. And he did. He rose to her every expectation.
Ms Cai taught Max and his classmates how to give oral presentations, how to stand up with confidence and speak like a pro and give a book report. She taught him how to connect with his audience, how to fake it even if he was scared. She taught him to believe that everything he had to say was fascinating and interesting and something that every child in the room needed to know.
Ms Cai made a big deal out of it when Max defended the new girl on the playground. Even though there was a price to pay, in terms of teasing from the mean kids when he stood up for her, Ms Cai taught him that what he did was not simply “kind” but “heroic” and he never forgot how she made him feel extraordinary for being so brave.
Ms Cai reflected back at Max all the good things he is. She was a mirror for him. He was appreciative, kind, smart, creative, loving and he knew it every day because this powerful tiny loving woman made sure he knew.
This year Max has a wonderful teacher who has opened up a whole new world of literature to him. He is in a reading group of one and there they talk about great books, as well as what he is doing in the school mandated primer. But he still talks about Ms Cai and misses her terribly. He visits when he can. He prays that she will decide to teach 3rd grade next year and that he would be lucky enough to get her. When I ask her what he loves most about Ms Cai he tells me, “She believes in me”. But I think its something even more powerful. She teaches him to believe in himself.
