Reach Just a Little...Higher

"The greatest danger for

most of us is not that our

aim is too high and we

miss it, but that it is too

low and we reach it."

--Michelangelo Buonarroti

My children are far brighter than I am.  It's not an exaggeration.  

They are engaging far more challenging math equations than I ever did as a 7th grader...

reading interesting material more voraciously than I do today...

re-purposing all kinds of shit into doll clothes, textured prints, canvas paintings, and Harry Potter cloakes with infinite detail and consideration...

and they bake, yummy scones, homemade cinnamon rolls, chocolate cake and apple pie.

And to their credit, I expect a lot, particularly spiritually and academically.

I demand a heart of service and a mind that is expanded to its full potential.  Because really, at the end of the day, those are their only two jobs.  Be kind to those you encounter.  Give back.  And, stay infinitely curious, while you apply yourself rigorously.

Like me, my oldest is a little lazy.

He likes to take the slow road to the races.

Procrastination is far more fun than adhering to a plan.  He's used to pulling it out in the 11th hour and getting the gold star.

And also like me, he tends to be a perfectionist.  He won't go for it, unless he's going to nail it.  And many times, I have to encourage him (and vicariously myself) to set the bar higher, because he struggles to believe in his potential.

But the problem is that when we set the bar to where we know we can go, we never see where we might soar to, even when, especially when, we fail.

And so, it was with the gnashing of the teeth that I told my son to go back to the drawing board with his homework writing.  "With all of the love in my heart, I'm telling you that you can do better.  Spend more time.  Give thought to what you're trying to convey.  Provide the reader with examples they can see or feel.  Don't be afraid to put your voice on the paper."

We want so much for our children.  Often, more than we want for ourselves.  But this encounter reminded me that we can all stand to reach just a little higher, for the good of our own being and the world at large. 

I Don't Know

In a fit of hysteria, my youngest came bounding up the stairs and demanded, "Where is my sketch pad?"

Exasperatedly, I replied, "I don't know."

That's when she said, "Yes, you do.  You just had it."

And I realized that I harbor so much shit in my brain, it's astounding, really. 

Groceries in the fridge, groceries needed.  Field trip forms.  Homework assignments.  Projects on the horizon.  Class syllabi.  Students who are managing and those who are not.  Birthdays.  Thank yous.  Electric bills.  Oil change appointments.  Speech team practices and competitions.  When to pick up my parents from the airport.  Haircuts.  Lunch account balances.  Clothes in the washer.  Socks that need to be put away.  Ballet winter break dates.  Piano lessons. 

Sometimes, being the keeper of all of that craziness makes me feel important, in high demand, wanted, needed, purposeful.

And then other times, mostly at the same times, it makes me really, really tired.

And that's when I want to say and think we all should say, "I don't know."

Or, better yet, "Go figure it out yourself."  Not exclusively to our family members, but also to our colleagues, our neighbors, and the ones we volunteer with.

How wonderful would it be to just be bored.  To not be filled with a bunch of who, what, where, when and why's, but rather space, to just dream and wonder and not know a whole lot of anything.  It sounds like peace.

Being "in the know" is mighty nice, but it's also excrutiatingly exhausting and does not make one a martyr.  It just makes you mostly scatter brained.

Derailed, Temporarily

I woke up to the stomach flu.

And to the visceral reality that I was down for the day.

In case you haven't succumbed to the shit-tay bug in sometime, let me remind you that it wreaks a suckage you conveniently forgot about since the last time you fell victim.

You lay in your bed, dehydrated, looking at the wall, lamenting the million things you could be doing, bemoaning why even reading or watching movies hurts.  Realizing this isn't a freebie.  Today, you're paying a price.

Cold.

And then, hot.

You close your eyes and remind yourself that this is the last day of Christmas break and that your kids have THINGS that need to get done before tomorrow morning at 7am.

You stand in gratitude for a husband who takes the day off of work to keep the home fires burning and the buttered toast at bay.

And then it hits you, ah yes, it's officially January 2nd and there is no way that you will be running anywhere on the second day of the new year, except to the toilet.

Is this a sign?  Are you fucked?  Time to throw in the towel?

One big God fucking damn it will have to suffice and then, you roll over to weather the storm.

And, in some respects, I'm glad this came now.  It reminds me that life is real.  Much of it is out of our control.  But gentle or sometimes explosive, violent intestinal episodes remind us that in order to carry out our promises, we have to be willing to adapt, to stand firm, and to trust that this is a temporary derailment, at best.

And so, to the negative temperatures I say, pack up, we're done with you.  To the yuck gut bomb that lives inside me, I cry out, "vacate."  And to my heart and mind that are resolute to take good care of me this new year, I say, "fear not."  This too shall pass.

To Commit

On New Year's Eve, my twelve-year old son, Sam and I had a dialogue about resolutions.

He pondered,

"Why do people drive themselves crazy resolving to do something that they're not really going to carry out?"

"This is indeed the question," I replied.  "I guess, they view the start of the year as a new opportunity.  A time to try again or to begin something that they want to change in their lives."

"Yeah, but, if they really meant it, they wouldn't need to wait until tomorrow.  They'd just do it," he retorted.

And then, we talked about the difference between committing to something and just doing it when you feel like it.  I told him that when you make a real commitment, you've put your word, your integrity, your pledge behind it.  And your word needs to stand for something.  This is why we make a commitment to a marriage or a job or being a parent or doing a science paper or participating on a speech team.  Committing to another person or activity means that you'll show up, even when, sometimes, especially when, you don't want to or you don't feel like it.

He explained that many of his commitments are involuntary.  He never asked to memorize 26 countries of the Middle East by Friday.  He preferred to label that an obligation with an expectation of doing well versus a commitment.  I told him that as a member of the family, he had an internal commitment to be a strong student and to try his best.  And that ultimately, studying for his Geography test over break, even though it was involuntarily forced upon him, would create a habit of discipline and follow-through that would serve him well.

He said, "Do you always want to run?"

"Hell no...especially when it's cold or I'm tired or my legs hurt or I'm mad or I'm sick of my play list or I just don't have it in me or I have 5 million other things that would be way more fun or...you get it," I said.

Commitment is about doing it regardless of feeling.

Which in and of itself is a bitch.  But we also recognize over the long haul that most of our commitments have served us well.  They've honed, refined, sharpened us in ways we didn't appreciate in the moment, but are grateful for now.

Here's to the commitments we're making in 2018, may we reflect on the back breaking frustration, knowing that the work, day over day, made us better.

The Dash

Over Christmas break,

in between hosting family gatherings, catering to the uninvited stomach flu, making pots of chicken noodle soup, pans of banana bread and steaming cups of coffee, I couldn't get a movie line out of my head.

"There are two dates on your tombstone that friends and family will notice, but it's the dash between that counts."

***

For some, New Year's Eve is a time to get wildly inebriated.  They celebrate the year that was and raise a glass or several to what will be in the upcoming year, filled with so much hope and possibility.

For others, it's a time to be nestled at home, standing in gratitude for what was and wonderment at what the new year will bring.

For many, the resolution is to to lose weight...at least 10 pounds.  They buy work out wear, new running shoes, a smart watch, and tell their friends that they will meet them at the gym, come hell or high water.

Some say that they'll call their mom more and vow to spend less time at the office and more quality moments with their kids.  They won't miss another game.  They'll really listen, even when there's so much to do.

It's also a time to purge...to get rid of shit in your closet or desk drawers...to fill Goodwill bags with jeans that aren't ever going to make it over your hips and sweaters that you can't bring yourself to wear.

I've been all of these resolvers at one time and many times, all at once.  So, while I was listening to the kettle boil in my kitchen, I thought about how I wanted to feel at the end of 2018, instead of exclusively what I wanted to do.

And the truth is, I want my dash to be filled with peace and purpose.

***

2017 brought dash marks that came too early for people that I really, really loved.  It brought me sadness and frustration and fear and uncertainty.  It made me mindful that mortality is real and that life is not a dress rehearsal.  It taught me to say "I love you" and to forgive because tomorrow is not a guarantee.  And still, I wrestle with whether there are real lessons learned or if it's just part of the "suckage" of life.

And I guess, some years are like that.  Times that you are just ready to leave behind.

But while there is no number, as of yet, on the right side of my dash, I wonder, what 2018 will bring?  When it delivers joy, will I celebrate?  When it hands me heartache, will I trust that God is still present?  And when it hints at possibility, will I be open?

It is this last question that I am most intrigued by.  How will I be available to what the future holds?   Will I strong arm the unknown and say, "No, that doesn't feel comfortable or knowable or imaginable or doable?"  Or, will I let it take up residence for a bit and give it a chance?  Will I automatically reject what it has to offer or how much work it will take to get there?  And when the idea or the feeling comes, will I believe that I am worthy of embarking upon it?

Everyone has a birth date.  And a death date.

And a dash.

It's the dash that counts.  No matter how short or long between.

How do you want this part of the dash to look...to feel...to mean?  And at this time next year, will you look in the mirror and say, I let myself go for it.  I won some.  I lost others.  But I believed that it was worth it.

Ode to Claire on Your 7th Birthday

Dear Claire,

I walked into your bedroom at 7am singing, "Happy Birthday to you...Happy Birthday to you!"

Nestled under your covers, you murmured, "Did you see Holly?  Do you think she remembered that it's my birthday?"

Sure enough, Holly was situated on the piano, holding a number seven birthday candle and instantly, all was right with the world.

This is what happens when you have a birthday butted up to Christmas, you ask about your elf on the shelf.

***

Feisty, precocious, tenacious, determined, exhausting, irritable, creative...lover of all things big and loud, hot and cold...you are my hard to handle child.  You know what you want, when you want it and sometimes, all I want is for you to be quiet and just to do as I say.  But that doesn't sit right with you.  You won't be shushed or silenced.  Your voice matters and you're not afraid to make your intentions known.

Singing, as your piano teacher says, perfectly on pitch--you are a force in motion...always singing, dancing, swaying, skipping, strumming, striking, drawing, painting, and dreaming.  The world is your oyster and you see it as a space to bend, to mold, to maneuver into what you see as fit.

Lover of unicorns, horses, hedgehogs, dragons and Mo Willems books, you live your life in a wonderland of imagination.  You make up stories of characters who go on adventures with elves, fairies, mermaids and wizards.  You write poetry and paint images with detail and abandon.  And, I stand in awe.

Now, entering your fourth month of first grade, you are resolute that you will be a reader.  You try your best to sound out words phonetically, but in the end, your lack of patience gets the best of you.  And you just scream out, when it doesn't come easily....or, you make up your own words, because according to you, you could of written the book better.

Twirling in ballet, banging notes on the piano, riding your bike without training wheels, painting your toenails bright yellow and purple, your life is full and alive.

And even though, many times, we wish you would slow down or give us a little less attitude, we realize that at the core, you are unstoppable and we garner passion and energy from yours.  You teach us to let loose, to be free, and to grab what life has to offer--and when it's not enough--to make your own.

Everyday, we are grateful for your spirit, your smile and the way you make our hearts sing.

Here's to the seventh year...may it bring you more opportunities to chase the sun and to know just how deeply you are loved.

Love always,

Mama

Will You Write Me?

She came toward me.

Smallish, silver-haired, bundled in a sweater, pushing a walker.

I was standing in front of my baubles, preparing my table for a holiday boutique, and she said,

"Hello, you must be Kathy's daughter.  I could see you from a mile away.  You're pretty and sweet, just like your mother."

I blushed and couldn't help myself and gave her a hug.

She was a resident at the beautiful assisted living facility that my mom works at and the host of the holiday fair.

She picked up a few of my vintage pieces and said, "This reminds me of something I would wear when Roger and I went dancing at the halls."  And then proceeded to share a story of 52-years of marriage, 8 children (one in Heaven), multiple grand and great grandchildren, a career at Central High School and a life on a block near Duchesne Academy that included parties, neighborhood walks and more friends (most of which are gone) than she could count.

After making a discerned purchase, she said, "Tell me about you."

And so, I did.  I told her about my husband, my children, my studies, my life as a mediator and now as an educator and a small business owner, my dreams.  And then she asked, "How old are you?"

I said, 42.  To which she replied, "I'm almost 50 years older than you and I can tell you, now is your time.  Don't squander it.  And when in doubt, trust in God."

Right then, other customers made their way to my table and she quietly left. 

Hours passed and I couldn't stop thinking about how honest and direct and well, how much ground we covered in a short conversation.  I just wanted to scoop her up and find a little coffee shop to talk more.  And then, I felt sad, remembering my own grandparents and I'd wished that I'd probed them more about their lives and lessons learned. 

And then, not long after, she reappeared.

"I was wondering," she asked shyly, "If you would write me?  I feel like you're more of a writer than a jewelry seller and well, maybe, we could be pen pals?  I have the time.  I'm sure you don't.  But I could teach you what I know."

I stood still and said, "Yes. I'll send a letter this week.  Here's my business card, so you can write, when you like."

As I was loading up my car, I began composing my letter,

Dear Esther,

Thank you for taking the time to share your life with me.  I could tell that it hasn't been easy living away from your husband and children and that you miss them.  I was grateful to hear about your legacy and the extraordinary life that you've lived in almost 90 years.  You have so much to be proud of and thankful for. 

I'd love to hear more about the dances in the halls and what it felt like to raise seven children and how you managed when you felt overwhelmed or unsure.

Mostly, I'd just like to be another person to share your life.

Love to you,

Kelly

In a time when I do a lot to mitigate my aging, I am reminded that being connected to those who have come before me...particularly, strong, courageous women...is a gift, an honor, and an opportunity, not to be squandered.