Bravery

I've been locked away for a bit.

And, it's been hard and new.

Particularly, for this girl who takes pride in being a loud mouth, social media posting, crazy, runner/coffee drinker/mama yeller/f-bomb dropper--being locked in an office reading everything I can get my hands on while crafting a course syllabus has been illuminatingly trying and terrifying.

And finally, this afternoon, I caught a glimpse of light.

At 1:30pm, with a balmy 18 degrees, I put on my colorful running kicks, strapped my new Garmin and begged for the wind to take me five miles.  Somewhere between the wind blowing in my face, snot trickling down my lip and a lady stopping me about a lost dog;  I started shaping the theme and hope for my new year...bravery.

Like most, I'm intentional about what I want a new year to look like.  I typically name it, praying that by calling out the mantra, setting pen to paper and committing to new behaviors, that life will shift...in a good way.

A week into the new year, I'm realizing that authentic bravery doesn't necessarily come in flashy, public choices.  It finds itself in the daily grind...in the ways we show up, when no one is looking or even when no one cares about what we're doing and we're the only advocate in the room.

It manifests itself in the places where you don't know what you're doing.  I mean where you haven't got a fucking clue and you're just praying that if you make a move that the universe will usher your next one.

It finds itself in the mud and the muck.  You know, the details.  In carving out the plan....painstaking piece by piece, when you'd rather zone out to Netflix, Amazon Prime or eat chocolate--like a LOT of caramel, chocolate followed up by salty, fabulous chips and salsa, yes, Mama Hoots salsa and tortilla chips and then, wait, what's happening on Facebook?  What about Instagram?  And the tree outside?  Where is my neighbor going--didn't she just come home?  And why in all of holy fuck are my kids fighting again over the piano? AND, to that end, another hour has gone by and well, you cannot legitimately check a single item off of your to-do list.

Details.  Sacrifice.  Belief in the journey without any guarantee of success on the other side.  Integrity in the work.

Over Christmas break, my dad came to visit.  We don't usually get to have much one-on-one time, but in a stroke of luck and because my children are desperate to marry their devices, he and I spent a morning talking about everything under the sun.

He recently retired, like two months ago.  He gifted me a desk that he made, hauled it all the way from Dallas, set it up in my office and told me the following...don't be afraid to work, Kel.  It's the only thing you can really call your own.  Roll up your sleeves.  Get messy.  Don't stand on the sidelines waiting for the perfect set of circumstances or the accolades.  That's a bunch of bull shit.  Do it because it's the right thing to do and because your hands touched it.  It's wonderful that God gifted you with a brain but don't be a dip shit.  Put some God damn elbow grease into it and get the job done.  The best people I know work and they don't pass their shit off to other people.  Whatever you do, show up every day.  Make your mark, moment by moment, day by day.

He left and that's what I've been trying to do.  Show up.  Do the work.  And see where it takes me.


I've had quite a few moments that I've felt like this...

Kind of like, fuck me...what am I doing?

But other times, I think about vulnerability, courage, sacrifice, my dad and my students.

I'm excited, terrified, hopeful and I guess...brave.

Ode to Claire on Your Sixth Birthday

My Dearest Claire,

I want to tell you a funny story...

Long before you were born, papa and I were watching a movie and the main character--a feisty, classic, beautiful, impetuous girl named Claire captured my attention.  I fell in love with her.  Later that evening, I had a dream that our family was not yet complete.  We were supposed to have an addition, a little girl named Claire.

Fast forward to a snowy, blustery cold afternoon on December 14, 2010--we were in the hospital delivering you...it was the second to last push and I started sobbing...I mean I literally could not stop crying....not because I was in pain, but because I was afraid.

My doctor came to one side of me and papa came to the other.  She leaned down and said, "Kelly, what's wrong?  You're a pro at this...she is your third child.  What's wrong?"  With tears streaming down my face, I said, "I don't know.  I just think that something really big and amazing is coming into the world."

When you emerged, the umbilical cord was wrapped around your neck four times.  Immediately and like a lasso, the doctor freed you and you belted the most piercing screech I'd ever heard.  It was a terrifying and exhilarating feeling.

And the truth is, you've been screaming ever since. 

Even though you are a petite, blonde haired, blue eyed little girl, you are bold and powerful and you rarely take no for an answer which is why your daddy and I find ourselves beating our heads against a wall.

When you decide that you want something--whether it is a piece of banana bread, a container of chocolate milk or world peace, you are singularly focused and a have a level of determination that is unparalleled and usually means that through the sheer force of your will, it will happen.

A few months ago, you began all-day kindergarten...you are learning to write, to read, to do more complex math problems, to negotiate with your classmates and to follow the direction of someone other than me.  And you are in your element.  A social butterfly, you flit from one friend to the next, confident and capable in your ability to lead the way on the monkey bars and to fairly trade a Gogurt for a bag of Goldfish at lunch time.

To be honest with you, we are not terribly alike.

You are hard headed, fearless, persistent, formidable and stand unfazed if someone does not like your opinion or your persona--I am far more worried about what others think of me.  And for this aspect of your character, I stand in awe.  I yearn to have the chutzpa that you do and to so freely and largely inhabit the space that you do. 

You are beautiful and brilliant and a little mean all wrapped in one tightly powerful bundle.  As you grow, which I know that much to my chagrin, you will just continue to do, may you never stray from who you are.  Be belligerent.  Stay feisty.  Keep them guessing.  Give a little grief.  But remember that in the end, love always wins and that it is more important to be kind than to be right.

Your daddy and I love you beyond words.  We couldn't imagine our family or our home without you.  The Happiest of Sixth Birthdays, Claire!  Thank you for choosing to come barreling into our lives and for the cacophony of love you bring.

To the moon and back,

love, mama

Clenching Mercy

Pivoting in short, choppy--often, incomplete motions.

Back and forth.

Left and right.

Can't forget this and that.

All of it matters.

Whatever you do, don't stop.

These snap shots have been my life for the better part of several weeks.

Some of it is has been expected and is a remembered part of this season, but a good chunk of it is new.

Managing deadlines both at home and work.  Looking down to see that both my belly and my ass have grown a little too comfortable making my jeans a little uncomfortable.  Realizing that my kid has a project due that isn't just his but involves three others and supplies and it's Sunday night.  Watching my five-year old daughter count down the days until Christmas, swearing that I'll order that thing this afternoon or carve out time to really decide what in the hell Santa is going to put under the tree.  Wondering why I took on that volunteer "opportunity" and how it is that I will have all three children in different spots at the same time? Trying to plan a meaningful graduate course terrified that the students will call me out as a fraud.

While I was doing the dishes and editing the grocery list and grabbing the towels...I heard the extraordinary writer, Mark Nepo define poetry as the unexpected utterance of the soul and the frailty of the human condition as:

And I was reminded, yet again that this deal we do is hard.  Let's not mince words.  From time to time, it fucking sucks.  A good chunk of it is spent enduring instead of standing open to the possibility of what the day brings.

So in that moment, I just stood

still.

And breathed, a sigh of relief.

A really, really big breath.

And I closed my eyes and un-closed my fists and tried to receive whatever it is that the world had for me.

And while in the moment, I had to grin thinking that I extrapolate ad nauseam about the power of possibility and standing open to the availability of the extraordinary in the daily mundane....until it comes to me....and my life slowly turns into..."well, everything will be better once I make it to Thursday night or Sunday morning."  Meanwhile, a million moments go by and my teeth are clenched, my stomach is in knots, my mental to-do lists are cycled through repetitively and I'm just making it.  Most of the time, it's not a bad making it...it's just a dulled engagement of what could be.

Mercy is trusting that you don't have to know.

It's the indomitable fact that you can't possibly be in control all of the time and that surrendering to what could be is the greatest form of inhabiting the moment as imperfectly and beautifully as one can.

And so this morning on my run, I released. little by little...unsure but hopeful...which I think is my mantra for the new year.

I'm done with knowing.

I'm in need of mercy and grace and the divine and the blessed possibility that comes with the great unknown.

The Shared Story

I am certain that like everyone else, I should probably be sharing the ins and outs of my opinion regarding the results of the presidential election...but after five days of trying to collect them...I just can't seem to.

I remember the morning after--I'd barely gotten 3 or 4 hours of sleep and woke up to piece together peanut butter sandwiches for the kids' lunch containers, dark roast for the coffee maker, a quick shower for a work event and a blessing for my family as they headed out the door...and in those moments, there was a haze of disillusionment wondering, "how can I do this...the regular stuff...and just pretend that this big thing didn't happen?"

For some reason, as I was schlepping to and fro in the house, tired and bewildered, I remembered my grandmother.  She was extraordinary.  She was stunning on the outside and the inside.  And when I was at a loss to understand why someone had wronged me or made me feel less than or tossed me out to dry, she would reply with..."find yourselves in the same story."  It was such a painful process...but what she meant was that both the person and I were here on earth together.  We encountered each other.  We traversed the others' path.  We connected.  There was a reason.  What did I learn?  How much would I value their place in my story?  Because that was the work.  Finding common ground.

I stumbled upon this quote by the incomparable Maya Angelou moments before I found the words to say to my children as I sent them back into the world for the day

Like usual, they lined up and I put my hand on their head and said, "May God bless your mind so that it can be open and you will learn.  May God bless your ears to be a good listener, even when it is hard and all you want to do is to talk.  May God bless your mouth to speak kind words and to give thanks.  And may God bless your heart to feel love and to know that you are never alone.  I love you...."

And I reminded them that the expectation was that they would be kind to those they met, that they would do the right thing, even if others were not, and that they would do their best to make the world a better place.

And later, I'm going to teach them about finding each other in the same story...a hard lesson of recognition that we are all connected...sometimes, whether we want to be or not.  We share much common ground, if we could simply hear and be open to the other.

Until then, my wish for them and most pressingly for myself is to continue...to continue to be who I am and to revolutionize the world with acts of love, hope, and peace....one small act at a time.

the becoming

Crack.

The white iPad falls to the floor and the screen shatters.

***

Bang.  The bedroom door slams. Hard.

Kate yells, "Just LEAVE me alone and get out of my room!!"

***

The refrigerator door suffers an undeserved beating as Claire hangs on it yelling,

"MOOOOOMMMM....you said you were gonna buy yogurt?  WHERE is it?  And, why isn't my ballet leotard in the closet?"

***

And then the high-pitched knife murdering yelp by Sam who cries out,

"WHAT happened to MY iPad?  Kate, did you do this????"

***

I'm upstairs waiting for Sam to kill Kate, trying to decide if I can physically get up from my bed to actually give her a fighting chance.  It's 5pm after a day of working with 31 seven and eight year olds, ushering after school car pools, brainstorming dinner options and my feet really hurt, but not as bad as my head.

This is the reel going through my mind..."I hate them.  I love them.  I want to kill them too.  I would do anything for them.  I don't want to be a mom tonight.  I'm so blessed to be their mother.  I think if I close my eyes really, really tightly, I'll fall asleep and they will figure it out.  Rise up and make it happen."  God, it's all so exhausting.

Not long after that night, I had coffee with a friend.  I asked her if we made a mistake.  Remember when we didn't know if we'd get married or have kids or create the family we sort of desperately wanted?  What would have happened if we hadn't?  Would we be enjoying endless spa weekends, luxurious sugar scrubs, fabulous shoes, brilliant downtown condos, cashmere, sleep-in Saturdays, extraordinary careers?  I don't know, she said.  Who can know what could have been had we veered away from this path and chosen another?  It's really neither here nor there.  This is the path.

And then, I found this.

And I remembered-- because it's so easy to forget.

There are no real answers, just lots of little twists, turns and deviations along the path.

What works for one woman, one mother, one family is infinitely different from what makes sense to another.  And if we were smart, as women, we would videotape or journal or find some tangible way to chronicle where we were and where we are.  A picture or song or poem to capture the woman in our 20's, so certain and yet so yearning.  The woman in our 30's, softer, rounder, a little more tired, a little less certain of how it will all shake out.  The woman in our 40's, slowly, but surely releasing the expectations of the world and maybe even her own, ready to watch the magic of what emerges when you stop trying to force it.  Who knows what the remainder of the decades have to offer...

But what I do know is that it's hard.  It's tiring.  Sometimes, it's all consuming and drowning.  And sometimes, it's thrilling and glorious and you can't believe that you've been given all of it.  Every ounce of it.

I suppose, this is the beauty and anguish of the becoming.




 

Cracking the Heart Wide Open

I don't know how or why or really when it began...

But for as long as I can remember talking with my children, I have consistently started our days by asking all three of them the same question,

"How are you feeling in your heart?"

Sometimes, I'm greeted with a "meh--" or "not too shabby" or "pretty good" or "uh-may-zing!" And from time-to-time, a tear stained, "really, really baaaad, mama."

As much as I've tried to modify the inquiry, no other question I've stumbled upon, seems to as accurately and quickly convey exactly what's at the core of their beings.  And so even though it sounds strange to ask, I've stuck with it.

There is such a difference between asking someone how they're doing and asking them how their heart is feeling.  It's really the comparison of the cerebral and the visceral.  Or the contrast between what we think we should say and what we can't deny.  In that moment, you're either okay or really, you're not.

Lately, I've felt overwhelmed with bursts of emotion.  Blame it on my period, hectic family schedules, the introduction of two new jobs, the election cycle, friends I've been concerned about or a pesky head cold...but whatever the source, the wobbly feeling is the same.

And when my heart feels flummoxed, I find myself turning more consistently to prayer.

My friend made me prayer bracelets to help focus my fears, hopes and cries toward a saint and to help cultivate a more tangible connection to God when the insanity of the day takes over.  When I'm feeling agitated or unsure, I roll them on my wrist and start to ground myself in what matters. And I am quickly reminded of what the great Gandhi taught

"Prayer is not asking.  It is a longing of the soul.  It is daily admission of one's weakness.  It is better in prayer to have a heart without words than words without a heart."

And so it is this concept that I try to communicate to my children when they have no words for why their hearts are heavy and their burdens seem unfair or all-consuming.  When we don't know which way to go, which path to take or why we have landed in the spot we find ourselves, it is best to receive with an open heart than to try to think your way out of what may have no answers inside of your finite being.

Essentially, the journey is to crack the heart wide open so that through vulnerability, you are in the best place to receive whatever is available to make your heart whole again. And this is hard.

But the work of the heart is where the magic lies.

Not long ago, a friend came to me with the tragic news that her family member was really sick.  I didn't have the words to comfort her or the ability to problem solve her situation or the guarantee that she would be okay today, tomorrow or many moons from now.  Losing someone you desperately love changes you forever.

But I did have the ability to pray.

And that is what I have done every day, multiple times a day.

Not knowing.  Trusting.  Believing.  Hoping.

The truth is that we are all broken.  We are all in need.

Intellectually, most of the time, we don't have the answers.

But everyone has a beating heart and knows instinctively when it is filled with joy and promise or dread and disbelief.

The journey is to stay so deeply rooted in the heart, so viscerally aligned that you draw from that source instead of any other when it comes to what is important.

After all, the cry of the heart is the only true barometer of the soul.

It Starts with Me

This week was a bit of a doozy.

Between a change in work schedule, a sick kindergartner, a visit to the ENT with my sixth-grader (who shoved a paper wad into his ear and then added insult to injury by impacting it with a Q-tip), an anticipated visit from my out of state parents, working on my grad school course syllabus, and a few crucial missed items on a to-do list...I found myself saying "fuck" both with my inside and my outside voice...a lot.

And it felt good.  Really good.

Until, it didn't.

Somewhere in the debacle of wearing a headlamp and squeezing tweezers into my son's ear to capture the paper wad offender, I was agitated listening to the final presidential debate, playing in the background.

I paused.

Jesus Christ.

How did we get here?

When did it become acceptable for all of us to behave so poorly and to just expect the world to be forgiving?

When did a civil dialogue about the future leader of the free world become a free-for-all?

How did we allow this to happen?

I think that's when I realized, this isn't about them. It's about me.

It starts with the way that I cope with adversity and the choices I make to take the high road or to whine on the sidelines and cry foul play or "no fair."

It begins with my decision to accept responsibility for my actions when I've harmed another, both willingly and involuntarily.

It extends to the apology, even when it hurts to fess up and say, "I'm sorry that I've wounded and made you feel less than."

And it concludes with demonstrating concretely in my actions that my intentions are honorable and that I am willing to follow-through.

I've been so worried that my children are witnesses to the deterioration of one of the most important rights we have in our country...that I've forgotten that my husband and I are really, at the end of the day, their most important teachers. 

I'm not naive to think that the future of the country isn't in a precarious position depending upon who takes ownership of the Oval office, the House and the Senate in January....but I do believe that all too often, we abdicate responsibility and personal ownership for what we can do on our postage stamp of the world.

It's a lot.

Our voices mean a lot...not only in the voting booth.

It means a great deal in the workplace in how we treat our colleagues and how we collaborate or decimate the opinions of others.

It matters in our friendships...in how we show up, even when we're tired or feeling less than.

It makes a tremendous difference in the lives of our children and how they learn to cope with what is unfair, unjust, or just plain hard in the world.

It matters, here...in this little slice of life.

And so, I turned off the television.  That's just jibberish.  It's not worth the anxiety it produces.  I'll spend my time hugging my sixth-grader, even though, he pulled a dip shit move by shoving paper in his ear.  I'll tell my husband that I'm sorry for being ridiculous over the gutters.  I'll call my mom back even though I know what she's going to say.  I'll help Kate make her lunch even though slabbing peanut butter on another slice of bread feels like moving through quick sand.  And I'll stroke my kindergartner's hair and give her ibuprofen as she nurses a chest cold.

Because, it starts with me.