May 17, 2019
Dear Sam,
Today, you will walk out of a building that you have walked into every day for 9 years.
Along
with 63 of your classmates, you will say goodbye to the only grade
school you've ever known, and hello to what the future holds.
All
of the traditions will be in full force...8th grade mass,
brunch/slideshow, field day, clap-out, Confirmation, Liturgy, dance,
reception, parties...everyone will be celebrating the gift that is you.
And somewhere inside of both of us lies this deep desire to remember, but not to dwell.
To
reflect on what it was like to experience kindergarten round-up, Friday
folders, field trips, being the library/computer/lunch helper,
Harvest/Valentine parties, dialogue journals, music programs, Pioneer
Day, Halfway Hoedown, Mother/Son Bowling, field days, state reports,
advanced math, STAC, Speech, Scouts, Flag Football, altar serving, First
Holy Communion, safety patrol, Science/History Day, Lincoln bus trip,
Crew Team, youth group, hot lunch, 8th grade play, card marks,
detention, Saturday school, 4th grade buddies, Kindness retreats, Narnia
Tea, 6th grade Poetry Reading, braces, piano lessons, Hummel, Kitaki,
Terra Nova testing, the bridge project, book reports, power point
presentations...the list goes on and on.
And yet, I
know that you're ready. Eager for independence, freedom, autonomy, new
experiences, different teachers, opportunities that only high school can
provide.
It's time--to go on to the next adventure.
Where you can grow and try. Reach and soar. Fail and learn...and become the person that God created you to be.
So, before you do all the things this summer and beyond, here's what I would be remiss if I didn't share:
Know thyself.
You
will undoubtedly, spend an inordinate amount of time in the following
formative years trying on identities. You’ll stumble examining what he
wears, how she speaks, what books they read, which jobs they’ve landed,
what streets are best, whether or not God is real, what to do with a
broken heart, and how to live out your purpose. The truth is that most
of it is window dressing. It just doesn’t matter.
If you want
to know who you really are, decide how you will treat the forgotten
classmate, the irritating co-worker, the strange neighbor—the
outcast—the one who rarely gets invited, whom others discard as less
than or incomplete. Eat with them. Listen to them. Encourage them.
Believe viscerally that everyone has value. You can not know how much
you’ll grow until you trust that every being has something to teach
you. And while you’ll be shunned for associating with the one on the
fringes, you’ll learn about compassion, generosity, fortitude, and that
most of the time, the Jones’s are just not that fun to keep up with.
Nothing is wasted.
You
are going to hurt. Life is filled with extraordinary amounts of pain.
There will be something or someone that you’re going to want, and you
won’t get it—not now, or maybe ever. The trick is in accepting what is,
and choosing to stand back up with hope for what could be. One of
life’s greatest corner stones is knowing that some things were not meant
for you, because others are better.
Once you’ve honored what is,
you begin to realize that nothing is wasted. It’s not so much that
every person teaches you something new…it’s that when you’re paying
attention to the relationship, you realize something more profound about
yourself. When you look back, you’ll realize that you had to meet that
person, or do that thing, that led you to that job, which brought you
to this opportunity, and now, you are where you are, because everything
was used for the good of you.
Stand in Gratitude
You
will find that most people are desperate for happiness. They will
indulge in magic shakes, pills, bottles of spirits, fancy cars, sparkly
dresses, spas in all the right places, marriages of convenience—all for
the hope of becoming comfortable in their own skin. And as they
consume, the hole of desperation becomes so cavernous that not even the
wealthiest can find their way out. The antidote to this cyclical game
of pain is gratitude.
Intentionally choosing to stand in your
light recounting that you are enough, and that you are blessed beyond
measure is a recipe for peace. Trusting that all is well while honoring
the people and experiences that bring joy—particularly in the ordinary
moments—will bring endless contentment and love. Because the truth is
that you are blessed. There are more people than I can count who live
and breathe for your stories, your presence, your engagement in their
lives. And when you reflect, you’ll discover that to love and to be
loved is the only reason that we are here on this imperfect planet.
Give It Away
Throughout
your education and life experience, you’ll be tempted to hold on to
that which you’ve been given. You’ll feel afraid that there’s only so
much to go around, and that the smart people are the ones who cling
tightly to what is theres. I have learned that this place we inhabit is
a world of abundance, not of scarcity. And when I choose to be
generous with my time, my gifts, my knowledge, my listening ear, my
hope—everything is returned. Not necessarily by the same people or in
the same ways that I might have expected—but when I’m in need, the world
rises to meet me—and suddenly the pie grows bigger, not smaller.
If
you only knew how much the world wants your dreams to manifest or how
it seeks to conspire with you—you’d never be afraid to lend a helping
hand or an encouraging word to another. You’d recognize that we’re all
here in the pursuit of something greater than our present circumstance,
and that every life and interaction is intentional. So give it away.
You’ll be amazed at what comes back to you.
Your Words Matter
As
you know, I am in the business of stories. I listen to people share
their truths, and help them to build a new story that hopefully makes
the future look better than the past. The reality is that we all live
our lives through the lens of story telling. And as such, your words
matter. Take the time to think before you speak. Better yet, seek to
understand, before you jump forward to be understood. If you want
someone to pay attention to your opinion, you must be willing to listen
and to bear witness to theirs first. Beyond listening, honor that their
truth has just as much relevance as your own. And when you hear
something that you vehemently oppose, get curious. Stand in the space
of curiosity over certainty. Decide that there must be more to the
story, before you deem the story teller absurd. Great battles, family
divisions, and community upheavals have ensued because people made bold
and unchecked assumptions about the other. It is worth taking your time
to listen to the story of the other, and to carefully share not only
the ‘what’ of your own, but also the ‘why.’
Action in the Face of Fear
If
you’re really living and not complacently going through the motions,
you will be afraid to do something, to leave someone, or to give skin to
the dream that lies deep within your heart. Fear is good. It signals
that we care about what is before us, and what comes next. What we do
with this emotion determines our outcome. As someone who has battled
with fear and anxiety more than most, I can definitively tell you to
choose motion over paralysis. Everything you want lies in the unknown.
And the odds are that the steps to get there are not as insurmountable
as you perceive.
You watched as I crossed the finish line at a
marathon. Your father witnessed me submit a graduate school thesis.
Friends helped to launch my business into the market place. And in
every one of these experiences, I was deeply afraid of failing. And the
truth is, throughout the process, I failed multiple times. I passed
out on the trail from lack of hydration and proper nutrition during
marathon training. I had to throw away more than half of my thesis when
my advisor explained that the argumentation was not sound. I was
terrified to get my business off the ground. And yet, in the failure
came the learning and bizarrely, the dissipation of fear. Putting one
foot in front of the other, controlling what I could in the moment,
instead of becoming overwhelmed by the totality of the endeavor saved
me. And it will save you. Don’t shrink. Lace up your shoes. Fear can
be used to propel, instead of to immobilize you.
Choose Love
Our
deepest desire is to be loved. We yearn to belong. This never goes
away. So, as you navigate all kinds of relationships, recognize that
you cannot control another’s response—you can only control your own.
And so, when faced with the choice to gossip, to render petty
commentary, to inhabit negative head space—choose love. At every
opportunity, take the high road. Believe in the goodness of others, and
pray for the ability to understand. Forgiveness, compassion, grace,
hope and kindness live deep within you, and while you’ll give them to
others, you’ll find that you’ll really be giving them to yourself.
I
am certain that I have many more snippets of advice, but for today,
this will serve as enough. We are SO proud of you, and all that you've
accomplished. You are a good person. Here's to goodbye and hello.
We're thankful to be on the journey with you.
All my love,
Mama
A blog about a woman in her forties with three children searching for the beauty in the chaos.
Friday, May 17, 2019
Monday, May 6, 2019
Ode to 44
Today, I turn 44.
Holy buckets or bananas or bazolies or shit...
I'm not sure how to frame this birthday, except to say that all of the things are happening at once, and I'm a crazy ass bag of emotions.
Yesterday, we celebrated our youngest daughter's First Holy Communion--Claire represents the last First Communion for our family. It was such a sacred, beautiful experience.
In two weeks, our oldest graduates from nine years of school at Saint Margaret Mary's, and celebrates his Confirmation. And then heads off to DC, sleep away summer camps, detasseling corn, mowing lawns, and high school. Again, I don't have words.
Meanwhile, our middle one finishes 6th grade in three weeks, is also off to sleep away summer camp, designs her own clothes and has decided that friends, books, and ballet are where it's at.
People told me this would happen--you know that they'd grow up and forge their own paths--but I thought it was so far down the pike that even conceiving of it seemed silly. Now, I tend to cry at the drop of a hat wondering where the time's gone...and why it's not possible for us to go to the pool, eat a million popsicles, read stories, and play board games. I seem to vaguely remember the sleepless nights, constant diaper changes, inability to go anywhere without taking half your house, and the incessant, "Mooooommmm."
When I'm being honest with myself, I recognize that at the age of 44, my children don't need me to mother in the same ways I've grown accustomed to. They need me in different ways. Mostly to carpool. Sometimes, when I'm lucky (especially with my teenager), to listen. Other times to help study. But largely, they have their own friends, pass times, desires, and seem to be really good with where they're at. As such, I know that I need to find me differently.
My deepest desire as I embark upon this squarely middle-aged age is to dive unabashedly into all of the parts of me that I've chosen to back-burner while mothering young children.
Last summer, I formally started a private conflict resolution practice--mediating, facilitating, training, and teaching. It was a big step...but it was just a step. I'm ready for more...and really, to go all-in. I'm yearning to see who I would be if ran toward the song in my heart and away from the fear in my head.
Likewise, in the past six months, I've come to know of three extraordinary people in their 40's who died unexpectedly. They were healthy people with families and reasons to be here. Like a punch to the gut, they serve as a profound reminder that tomorrow is guaranteed to no one, and today needs to be lived--not in the way others think best, but attuned to the cry of my own heart.
And to that end, 44 feels exciting. For the first time, in a long time, I feel space. Room to breathe. Opportunities to grow. Time to be on my yoga mat, and with my running shoes. Earned knowing that my children are (for the most part) okay, and it's okay to leave them alone, so that I can be nurtured and intentionally attended to.
As I look forward, I'm praying for another 44 years, but if I only get this day, or next year, I say thank you for the gift of rediscovering me--all of me--the woman who loves to write, read, curse, listen to podcasts, mediate conflict, instruct college students, carpool to school, read the New York Times, drink vats of coffee, buy buckets of tulips at Trader Joe's, laugh with my husband, squeeze my children, and give thanks for the infinite chances to construct this one precious life given to me.
Here's to 44...emotions and all.
Holy buckets or bananas or bazolies or shit...
I'm not sure how to frame this birthday, except to say that all of the things are happening at once, and I'm a crazy ass bag of emotions.
Yesterday, we celebrated our youngest daughter's First Holy Communion--Claire represents the last First Communion for our family. It was such a sacred, beautiful experience.
In two weeks, our oldest graduates from nine years of school at Saint Margaret Mary's, and celebrates his Confirmation. And then heads off to DC, sleep away summer camps, detasseling corn, mowing lawns, and high school. Again, I don't have words.
Meanwhile, our middle one finishes 6th grade in three weeks, is also off to sleep away summer camp, designs her own clothes and has decided that friends, books, and ballet are where it's at.
People told me this would happen--you know that they'd grow up and forge their own paths--but I thought it was so far down the pike that even conceiving of it seemed silly. Now, I tend to cry at the drop of a hat wondering where the time's gone...and why it's not possible for us to go to the pool, eat a million popsicles, read stories, and play board games. I seem to vaguely remember the sleepless nights, constant diaper changes, inability to go anywhere without taking half your house, and the incessant, "Mooooommmm."
When I'm being honest with myself, I recognize that at the age of 44, my children don't need me to mother in the same ways I've grown accustomed to. They need me in different ways. Mostly to carpool. Sometimes, when I'm lucky (especially with my teenager), to listen. Other times to help study. But largely, they have their own friends, pass times, desires, and seem to be really good with where they're at. As such, I know that I need to find me differently.
My deepest desire as I embark upon this squarely middle-aged age is to dive unabashedly into all of the parts of me that I've chosen to back-burner while mothering young children.
Last summer, I formally started a private conflict resolution practice--mediating, facilitating, training, and teaching. It was a big step...but it was just a step. I'm ready for more...and really, to go all-in. I'm yearning to see who I would be if ran toward the song in my heart and away from the fear in my head.
Likewise, in the past six months, I've come to know of three extraordinary people in their 40's who died unexpectedly. They were healthy people with families and reasons to be here. Like a punch to the gut, they serve as a profound reminder that tomorrow is guaranteed to no one, and today needs to be lived--not in the way others think best, but attuned to the cry of my own heart.
And to that end, 44 feels exciting. For the first time, in a long time, I feel space. Room to breathe. Opportunities to grow. Time to be on my yoga mat, and with my running shoes. Earned knowing that my children are (for the most part) okay, and it's okay to leave them alone, so that I can be nurtured and intentionally attended to.
As I look forward, I'm praying for another 44 years, but if I only get this day, or next year, I say thank you for the gift of rediscovering me--all of me--the woman who loves to write, read, curse, listen to podcasts, mediate conflict, instruct college students, carpool to school, read the New York Times, drink vats of coffee, buy buckets of tulips at Trader Joe's, laugh with my husband, squeeze my children, and give thanks for the infinite chances to construct this one precious life given to me.
Here's to 44...emotions and all.
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