We have never really done the Santa thing with our kids. I can get really religious and self righteous about the whole thing and say that it's because "Jesus is the Reason for the Season", or, I can be all psychologically pessimistic and practical and say "why would I tell my kids lying is wrong and perpetuate the Santa Clause myth? All that teaches them is that lying is OK for adults, not for kids." But I believe the real reason is rooted in my own bag of disappointment. I don't remember my parents really hitting the Santa thing that hard. Oh, I had "Breakfast with Santa" when I was three, but it's not like we wrote letters or got our picture taken with him every year. In fact, I don't remember my younger sister ever seeing Santa. But I could be wrong. I was a child for whom the line between reality and fantasy was a bit blurred. Correction: I was a child for whom the line between reality and fantasy was non-existent. I vividly remember during a large family meal at The Sizzler with all the relatives-you know, one side was a booth bench, the other side were chairs and all the little tables were connected together with those leaf things (why is called a "leaf" anyway?). I stood up in my seat, turned around and did the Nestea plunge directly backward into to table .The table connector leaf things broke apart and I was in the floor showered with Texas Toast, Iced Tea and Sweet&Low packets. I was completely bewildered by the outcome. In my mind, I guess I had gone to my "happy place"- where I spent much of my time while in the company of my mothers family, and just forgot where I was. Needless to say, I was a daydreamer. I wasn't really taught there was a Santa, I HOPED there was a Santa, I prayed there was a Santa. There had to be real magic somewhere in the world. There had to be more to life than what I was observing life to be. Maybe Santa wasn't real for anyone else in the world, but I pleaded with God to make him real for me. I was so angry the Christmas morning I woke up earlier than anyone in my family and looked at the tags on the presents marked "From Santa" and realized that it was my mothers handwriting. Something in me broke. And there was a bitterness and a resentment I had toward my mother that took root in that moment. Like I blamed HER that Santa was a scam, designed by parents to manipulate their children in to behaving a few weeks out of the year. There are heartbreaks in this life that you can't shield your children from. I guess I felt like this was one that I could. And, selfishly, I didn't want to be resented by my kids the same way I resented my mother. I asked my daughter if she felt cheated that we didn't play up the Santa thing. She said no, and she felt sorry for the kids in her class who still believe in Santa. Someone in the store had asked my son, who was then five, what Santa was bringing him for Christmas. He said very matter-of-factly "I don't like Santa Claus". He saw A Christmas Story and Santa has freaked him out ever since (Ho Ho HOOOOOOO). So, every December, I put on 10 lbs trying to fill the empty hole that "Christmas Magic" used to fill with fudge, peppermint hot chocolate, and an abundance of pork products. I now sit at my post-reflection crossroads- should I hit the elliptical, or eat some cookie dough?
“Fairy tales do not teach children the dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales teach children the dragons can be destroyed.” G. K. Chesterton
I have been thinking about the concept of Goal Setting lately. I guess it's just what happens when the end of your “early to mid” 30's are but a few short weeks away. I have NEVER been a real goal setter. I HATE lists. I'm great at making them, just not so good at following them (or actually making it from the house to the car and then the car to the store with them at all). I suppose I have been successful at setting and meeting short term goals: I plan to have had a shower in the next 30 minutes; Dinner will be cooked at some point this evening; I will verify the toilet rim is clean before my guests arrive. I tend to function more whimsically: I'm going to clean out ALL the closets Right Now!; What a nice paint color on that TV show. I'm going to to Home Depot so I can paint the kitchen today; Let's get ALL 500 pictures from the past two years developed so I can scrap book this afternoon. But the term “easy come, easy goes” definitely applies when you do things that way. Then it's three in the morning and I'm surrounded in a sea of pictures, paper, and glue sticks when I get bored or tired, so I shove all the stuff in a box for another six months to a year until I get that wild hair again. There's a lot of risk in sitting down and saying “THIS is my goal”; like, “I will have met my goal if I weigh 130lbs by such and such date(yeah, right)”, “ I will have met my goal if have such and such education by a certain age”; “ I will have met my goal if I have the perfect job in my preferred industry in five years”. But, because God loves the stupid and blesses the unworthy, I have been the recipient of a life full of all things good and beautiful without really setting or fulfilling any sort of long term goals. If I knew me, I'd sorta hate me. It may appear from the outside as though I haven't had to work toward anything- I fall ass-backward into blessings and I don't think you'd be wrong. I guess that I've been lucky by NOT setting goals so far. I figure, if it ain't broke, don't fix it.(Does that sound really braggy? Because I'm really trying to communicate grateful and undeserving, but it may sound braggy....I hope it doesn't.... Sorry). I am blessed -NO question. I am content......or am I really just complacent? As a child, I was QUITE the daydreamer. I romanticized EVERYHTING. I was the Micheal Scott of Eaton Elementary. We would have planned a trip to Disney or someplace and I had already imagined the entire experience in my head, and was disappointed when things didn't go according to fantasy. Not that the experience was BAD in any way- just not like I had imagined it. And what could ever live up to the unrealistic expectations of an 8 year old Dreamer? Just because I could control the Barbie World in my bedroom floor I thought I could control everything else. Then, I think there was a time in my youth when life was so unstable that “rolling with the punches” just became my natural response to anything. I began to get tired of the disappointment. And instead of being realistic, I went to the other extreme and thought “If I don't want or hope for anything, then I won't be disappointed”. So when “Oh my goodness- they gave me a part in the school play” or “wow, they gave me a spot in whatever singing group” happened, I was totally blown away and grateful. But, as a teenager, I had to look cool and act like it was “No biggie” because I was afraid that somehow if I put out there how happy I was, it would be taken away from me. When in reality, I was FLOORED at being given the opportunities. When it comes to the unpleasant things in life, I have abandoned the “it won't happen to me attitude”, and adopt the “yes, it very well MAY happen to me, and I'll walk that line between Faith and Denial if it does and get through it”. When it comes to the cool stuff....I can just say “WOW”.- and I no longer feel the need to feign the “no biggie” attitude. I am okay with being all nerdy and excited about things now. No one can take away my happiness. I can only give it away. Which is really neat, but I think there may be also something cool to say, THIS is what I want to accomplish, be focused on it and reap, not only the blessing of what you have worked for, but also the satisfaction of taking on a challenge and succeeding. (I know all of you are going “Yeah. So?” but this is a new concept for me so cut me some slack). The real reason I don't set goals is I assume failure. Assuming Failure is easy. It requires no risk, emotional or otherwise. Setting and working toward a goal requires action and often sacrifice without the guarantee of success- no matter how hard you work or how “good” you think may be at something. Often in order to achieve something you have to deal with people or obstacles you have no control over. (Hello, Excuses! Come sit by me!) Or just maybe I have this goal setting thing all wrong. Perhaps it's not the “goal” I'm afraid of, but what the goal says to me about feeling validation. “I will be VALID when I weigh 130 lbs”; “I will be VALID when I have such and such education by a certain age”; “I will be VALID if I have the perfect job in my preferred industry in five years”. If actually set the goal, when I fail, I have to recognize that I am not valid. I'm happy now. Why rock the boat? My favorite movie of ALL time is Sleeping Beauty. As a kid, I wanted to be Briar Rose- beautiful and more than she believed herself to be, and waiting for Once Upon a Dream. As I got older, I wanted to be Maleficent- in control, powerful and Dangerous (I do so LOVE Maleficent). I think now, I need to work on my inner Prince Phillip- work toward “the goal” (did I actually commit that to writing) of slaying the dragons of insecurity, fear, and excuses. Recognizing at the same time I'm going to need a little help from some fairies and a magic sword along the way.
Thanks to Jhon- my Dancing Nietzsche- for the Chesterton quote
Today is one of those milestone type days, and one which I would only typically celebrate in my heart. However, in the interest of being real with myself and working on that part of me which struggles with finding courage, I write and I post. (sighs) Eighteen years ago today, when I was seventeen years old, I found myself in the surreal position of being a hospital, in pain, giving birth. It is a chapter in my life that has influenced who I am today, in every aspect. A pivotal circumstance with many choices, and the acute awareness, even at that young age, that decisions I had to make would rule the fate of many (oooh, how Lord of the Ringsy of me). It did not begin in that hospital, or even nine months before, but was the fallout of years of confusion, insecurity and bad choices mixed with a bit of hope, and an even smaller bit of common sense. I knew pretty much early on that I was pregnant. I knew, but I denied. I tried to push the possibility to the waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay farthest corner or my contentiousness. But when your monthly bill does not arrive and you're consistently late to your first class because your puking your guts out every day, you have to face some realities in your life. My family, as I had known it, had completely fallen apart months before. It would have been kinder if it had truly “disintegrated”, because then all the pieces would have just vanished rather than writhe around on the floor in pain. My father was holding it together and making the hard choice to simply breathe in and out each day for the sake of his children, and I had to rip out another piece of his broken heart and confess how I had further disappointed him. I wasn't “out loud and proud” with all the gusto of Juno. I continued the last half senior year, and all the activities that went with it without a word about it, even to my closest friends, save to one or two people. I was quieter, and truthfully, less obnoxious than I previously had been, but it was easier to let people think I was just a bitch than admit the truth. Many knew how my family situation had been, so they just dismissed the fact that I wasn't much fun as having to do with that. My weight had always been up and down, so the fact that I was putting on a few pounds was unremarkable. And if the odd person DID have the balls to ask, I would lie, of coarse. I was surrounded by a sea of 4000 high school students and felt completely alone. My dad was always there, but I felt I had let him down so terribly that emotionally, I pushed him away. I completely retreated into myself. Just me, the baby inside and God. I never doubted God was there. And though I knew I had blown it Big Time, I also knew that He loved me and would never leave. I knew I was TOTALLY out of my league and had to let Him take the drivers seat, at least in this situation, because I obviously was completely incapable of handling things myself. God provided not only comfort, but people to guide me during those nine months. And he led me and those who would be this child's parents to each other. I looked at a binder full of letters and pictures from prospective adoptive parents. I came to a couple who had adopted a little girl three years previously. I loved reading their cheesy love story of how they met in a Roller Disco. They were people of faith, and wanted to live in the country to raise pygmy goats. I had an affection for pygmy goats. Whether or not they every DID move to the country to raise goats does not really matter-it was the “sign” I was looking for. I knew right then and there. I still keep their letter to this day. So, on October 6th, 1992, I gave birth to an 8lb 11oz baby boy. I held him in my room that night, watching TV bits on the upcoming presidential election and David Letterman. Feeding him and smelling him. Keeping the reality that tomorrow he would go home with someone else out of my mind for the time. Being absolutely 100% present for the first time in my life, for those precious moments. The next day, his parents came. They were fun people. I had felt very at ease with them. We laughed a lot and I asked if they would like to hold him. And in that moment, something close to magical happened when I handed my son to his mother- the only time in his life the two of us would each have a hand on him- when he physically left my world and entered hers. A forever joining of hearts wrapped up in this tiny creature. Later, when she left room, she looked at me tearfully and said “Thank You”. You see, I wouldn't understand until years later and I had my own children what those tears were about. I never considered that I was giving them anything, but that they were taking him for me. I was only truly grateful that they allowed God to bring them my way so that they would accept and care for my child truly as their own. And I have continued to be grateful all these years. So, Happy Birthday, wherever you are. I am confident you are well loved and successful and have a wonderful family who have raised you well, physically and spiritually. Because of you I am a better mother to my children and do not take the honor of Motherhood for granted. You will always have a piece of my heart.
No, This is not a pro or anti Halloween Celebration Rant. Nor is it a sad statement regarding the STL Cardinals and their non-playoff standings (because I don't care, being neither sports fan or gambler). I recently found myself as one in a company of women in a religious setting, who were all there for the purpose of spiritual wholeness and healing. While sitting in this group of strange women, and I found myself noticing their shoes. The woman next to me was wearing the cutest pair of brown leather heels with a peek -a -boo toe. Women wearing lovely accessories (I am distracted by shiny and sparkley things) and flawless make up coverage. Suburbanites donning apparel that minimizes our flabby tummies, camouflages our wide hips and maximizes our bust lines (well, not me so much on that one. If I maximized my bust line, I'd hurt someone). Even those of us who were hiding in extra large hoodies (you know I'm a hoodie girl) wore a pound of mascara and lip varnish. We came on time with our neat notebooks and writing implements, like the first day of Junior High, ready to share our prepared answers and insights. Introducing ourselves in AA fashion- “Hello, my name is Kimberly, and I'm Fearful and Bitter” (“Hello, Kimberly”), sharing our goals and expectations. You know how we gals dress to impress one another. Wanting to put our best foot forward and give people the well put together impression of who we want them to think we are. Um......Hello? This is the MESSED UP PEOPLES GROUP. We are fighting an uphill battle if we truly are there because we want “spiritual wholeness”. Doesn't that require vulnerability, honesty, and (dare I use the popular buzzword) authenticity? I'm not suggesting roll out of bed and show up. I am definitely PRO HYGINE. But, It will take the ten weeks to crack through the Cover Girl Foundation, let alone get to the Spiritual Foundation. The world's perception of Christians is that we're fake. Guess what? THEY'RE RIGHT! Once upon a time I used to sing in a church setting. I don't today because babies and excess poundage have played havoc on my diaphragm muscle and it would take committed retraining not to suck now, and I don't identify with the skinny girls spotlighted on the platform in their Aeropostle and American Eagle T shirts. I do not fit the image the suburban American church is now marketing in the name of being “spiritual-seeker sensitive”. I am really not hating on the skinny girls (Hello, my name is Kimberly and I'm bitter) You can tell who is there to assist in facilitating corporate worship of God and who is there to bring attention to themselves. I am also not suggesting that Self Promotion is absent by any stretch of the imagination in the more traditional religious setting. I've been a Priam Donna in a choir robe, the robe just gave us one less thing to worry about, our appearance, and gave us one more thing to hide behind. I think the in most spiritual, honest worship setting, we'd all be naked. And when we are all spiritual beings, I believe we will be, but as physical beings we can't just turn off the Carnal, so clothing, for now, is necessary. So, What the heck is the point? Do I EVER have a point? Not really. And NO I am not starting a Clothing Optional Home Worship Experience. I simply ramble on. I am very much into looking pretty and being girly. And though my Beloved loves me plain jane and naked, he also appreciates when I put effort into my appearance. It helps me look and feel confident, and I'm sure it makes him feel worth the effort. After all, HE'S the one who has to look at me all day. Dressing up is fun and can help you express yourself. And Micky Mouse Dooney and Burke Handbags are cool. Makeup can make you feel like a masterpiece and being the center of attention at times is awesome. However, a setting where you are really trying to gain truth and perspective, may not be the place for all that. So, for the month of October, I will be sans makeup in any setting where by being truly vulnerable with myself and others I can work toward spiritual wholeness and healing. SCARY, I know, but for me, necessary. You have all been warned.
It may seem pretty messed up of me, but I get bothered by the word “Autism”. I get a pang in my gut every time I read or hear it. It bothers me because it reminds me that my son is required to function in a world which he can't understand and that doesn't understand him. The endless debates on vaccines and and applied behavior therapy and chemicals in food and the environment have no clear cut answer or compromise. They are divisive, play havoc with your emotions and are simply exhausting. The existence of autism seems so unjust for any child to deal with that we need something to blame. Blaming helps us feel like we didn't do anything wrong to cause our child to have to suffer with this disorder. There's part of us that wants to know why. And if there is a why, there must be a solution. I do not subscribe to popular causes of autism theories. If it were to be vaccines, better autism than death caused by measles induced encephalitis. My odd theory is that God has called us to become more like Him. He calls us who are chosen to be parents to be refined through our children. As life saving vaccines have spared us the horrors of many life threatening and physically debilitating diseases, we needed something else to force us to look outside of ourselves and look to Him to provide strength and comfort. If that is the "why", then the solution is to press on. To depend on God for what only He can do. For His example of perfect selfless Love, and His provision of peace, understanding and relationships. But as much as I am uncomfortable with the word, I am also grateful to it. At two years old, my child could speak but but only in repeated phrases. He had the receptive language of a seven month old infant. He wouldn't eat anything unless we took a bite of it first because he was unable to categorize what was food and what wasn't. He had all his upper and lowercase letters memorized and one to one correspondence of numbers to 14, but was unable to comprehend that navy and robins egg were both called “blue” because they were clearly two different colors. He would scream if we attempted to put jeans on him but demanded that his bathwater be scalding hot or ice cold. The label “autism” was a gift that gave us a direction. As much as it frightened me, as much as I didn't want it to be true, it helped him on a path of coping with the foreign world he was born into. When I look at my son, I don't see “Autism”, I just see my kid- my wonderful, funny, loving, genius, super kid. And this is a list of some of the people the label autism gave to us who didn't just see “autism”, but an amazing, terrific, albeit quirky, little boy-and whom we could never possibly thank adequately for all they have invested in him and us: Kristina Bratlund, Don Hakenberg, Sharon Balduf, Denise Haffner, Brenda Aflito, Michele Wheeler, Craig Vroom, Laurie Olsen, Ed Hightower, Tanya Patton, Missy Potvin, Karen Bertles, Kelly Hess, Capri Strieter, Laura McNicholas, Roxanne Howald, Chris Treres, Paul Santoro, Jo Marie Yancik, Linda Plant, Jocelyn Garner, Carol Kohlfeld, Amanda Rustio-Murphey, Lea Shabangi, Kelly Baird, Tara Fox, Jennifer Mulvihill, Heather Chapman, Barb Kinsella, a probably a bunch of others. You can never know how much you mean to us.
Why is it that just when you are confident that you have shut the door on the past, it has come around with it's crowbar to break a window? I mean, seriously? You've done everything you possibly can to deal with it. You've gotten to the point with therapy, prayer and medication that you can finally come into the room where the door is without worrying about it, and there it is! And you're, like, “what the Hell are you doing here?”, and there's broken glass everywhere and now you have yet another mess to clean up and you're left standing there with all the anxiety and insecurity that of being 15 years old. It'd be nice to just leave and go see a movie, eat and drink yourself in to the sweet cradle of numbness for a few months, but then you come back and it's still there and now your another 15lbs overweight and nothing has been resolved. How does someone successfully infuse the horrors of the past with the wonderful of the present? I've given up hope on any fantasies of entitlement to there being a Happy Ending, but can't there be a “happy-ISH” ending? One where I can have backbone and boundaries without being a complete bitch? To get the door closed in the first place took a long time. My first step was facing the fact that I will never be the Hero. I can't fix people. I can't change things that have already happened. “Couldda Wouldda Shouldda...” doesn't help anyone. And any delusions to the contrary are setting a person up for the absolute failure. Not that I am against failure. There's security in futility.. Sometimes, the thought of actually succeeding is much more frightening. Success would mean having to live differently. But it's much more palatable to fail because you were lazy, did nothing and ignored the situation than if you really tried and just didn't measure up to your own unrealistic expectations. And THAT was the second step- IGNORE IT. In the name of “moving on”, just go on and pretend like that ugly part of you never existed. It's like carrying luggage and trunks around with you everywhere you go, and when someone asks if they can help you, you're quick to say “what baggage?”. And you try to open doors and go up and down stairs with it, and it's obscuring your vision and you try to get other things accomplished while you're carrying it. Then when you can't possibly deny that you're carrying it, you're pride says to people, “oh this? It's nothing. I got it. No, these bags aren't the reason I'm having trouble. I'm just an idiot.” because, of coarse any normal person would be perfectly able to navigate life carrying 400lbs worth of luggage. Shit happens to everyone. Just get over it. Then, eventually, you're just tired. You can't possibly carry these bags another moment. And you begin step three- being RESENTFUL. You hate these bags. You hate the people who gave them to you. You hate yourself for lugging them around all this time and you are very unappreciative of the people who knew you were carrying all this stuff and did NOTHING! (Except ask you if you needed help about a million times, but thats completely beside the point). Now I have declared myself entitled to -step four-BITTERNESS. I can sit here and stew and do nothing but be immobile because I've carried bags around for years. I hereby absolve myself of any responsibility. I can sit on top of these trunks which are an epitaph to my suffering and self medicate because the world owes it to me. I don't have to unpack them or deal with whats in them or move forward in any way because “do you really want to add to my pain?”. While you were sitting there, bitterness built up walls so you could now -step five- ISOLATE. The easiest way to not be disappointed or be a disappointment is to distance yourself from others. It's how you survive. It's how you can wear your hurts as a badge of honor while avoiding being hurt any further. And theres a large part of you that truly believes that you really are helping the people you love by keeping them away, but in truth, you're giving them their own bags to carry around. Bags with your name on them. I woke up one day and realized you can't “get over” things, I had to do the work to “get through” them. So, with the most supportive loving husband and the two most amazing children ever to walk the Earth as motivation and encouragement, I began the journey of unpacking and identifying things and patterns for what they were. I could look at them and see how A plus B equaled D. I began to tear down the old steps, build new ones that actually worked and repair the foundation of my life. Relationships would be different because I was different. And the good things about myself that were always there could finally be seen and appreciated. I could admit things that were and how they affected things that are and relearn how things can be. And I began to know Joy that I was completely clueless was even real. And I got through, and got on. But, what to do now with a broken window and remembered feelings and severed ties that want reattached? I don't know. I guess I just start by sweeping up old glass, repairing the window, and not live in fear of opening the door.
The phenomena of Reality TV has been of interest to me since I was a teenager and the first episode of The Real World, New York aired. It was GREAT! It was a crudely edited experiment of putting 7 very different twenty somethings together in a house and tear each other up. People and behavior tends to crack me up, in general. So I found it hysterical watching these people put their best feet forward and attempt to show the world the people they would really like everyone to think they are. I know some people who are really good at faking their way through life, but not one of them could keep it up 24/7 in a house full of crazies for very long, even with cameras in their faces. It wasn't long before the residents “stopped being nice, and started getting REAL”. And what American teenager in the early 90's didn't find entertainment in the misery of others? Thus, MTV made a new brand of Superstar out of average nobodies. Over the years, casts have become more controversial and the personalities more psychotic, and the shows too numerous to count. And why do we like it? The same reason we like Harry Potter or Cinderella or Charlie Bucket. At our core, we harbor a deep longing to be discovered as something special, unique and worthy, weather it be by way of a fairy godmother, a golden ticket or reality TV show. But, reality TV has changed over the years, and though we're still bombarded by the raunchy petty angst shows (why do we give a crap about the Kardashians? Will Buffy get voted off Top Chef?) television has given us a glimpse into lives that are very different than ours. Not just the young and glamorous, but people just making a living, doing what they were doing long before a TV show came along. I have never made a secret of the fact that I'm a Discovery Channel junkie. “I love the mountains...I love the stars at night.....boom de ada, boom de ada) A big part of the reason I became such is a program called “Deadliest Catch”. I remember watching the pilot episode while living in Corona, Ca, thinking, 'these guys are nuts! They risk their lives for CRAB?”. Then I saw their pay day, and it made sense. In Deadliest Catch, Discovery was not just making voyeuristic shock TV, they were documenting an industry that a very few number of people will ever be a part of, with people very few of us could ever know (probably because they're on a boat in the middle of the Bering Sea nine months out of the year). I have been a fan since that that first season, checking Discovery.com each year to see when the new season is airing and stalking the websites of Fishing Vessel's Time Bandit, Northwestern, and The Cornelia Marie. This, the shows sixth season, came back into the general spotlight due to the death of one of it's Captains, Phil Harris, on February 9th. His passing was not due to an accident at sea, but caused by a lifetime of drinking, smoking, stressing and general “hard living.” No Captain of any crab boat is likely to have a healthy lifestyle, but evidence of Captain Phil's health problems came two seasons ago, when a pulmonary embolism went through his heart while setting and hauling crab pots. And next to him filming during all of this was cameraman/producer, Todd Stanley. His job, to capture the story of the lives of men who fish the Bering Sea. As a cinematic storyteller, he was commissioned to capture a beginning, middle and end to each of the small stories he encountered while living and breathing with the crew of the Cornelia Marie. He had been the camera operator in the wheelhouse at the Captain Phil's side for three years. The initially reluctant captain began to take Todd into his confidence and, eventually, the two became close friends. Phil's kids say that Todd knew Phil better than anyone in the world, sitting beside him through profit and loss, health and illness, triumphs and tirades. When Phil was found face down in his stateroom, victim of a stroke, Todd put down his camera to rush to his friend's side. There he would remain until Phil's final breath. I thought it was odd that they allowed the cameras in the hospital, but there we were, watching the struggle, the family turmoil, then seeming miraculously quick progress, followed by the telephone call from one son to the other that their father had a second episode and passed. And there was Todd- friend, comforter, and storyteller. I wonder at what point Todd understood, if at all, that he was no longer chronicling the story of a Crab Boat Captain making a “beat the odds” recovery, but the story of a man's death. Last night, a “behind the scenes” episode aired in which the plight of the unseen camera man is highlighted. They started doing this a few years ago, and it usually starts with a “pewk montage”, because all these guys are sick as dogs at first. This year, it began with a shot of Todd Stanley at the bedside of his friend, Phil Harris, offering tearful encouragement that he was “gonna' be alright”. Phil tries to speak, but is unable. Todd asks for something which Phil can write on and gives him a pen. He holds the tablet, Phil writes to his friend, “got to get the ending to the story”. Now, before the season began, It was well known that Phil Harris had passed away February 9th. And, as an avid watcher of this show I can tell you that Discovery spent A WHOLE LOT more money on production, editing and marketing this season than previous seasons. A reported 8.5 million viewers tuned in to watch “Captain Phil's final episode”. No ifs, ands, or buts- we all tuned in to watch a man die. How do I feel about that? Well, if it had put to me in those terms before I saw it, I would have probably had all this righteous anger and said it was in poor taste. But I'm glad I watched it. It was probably the Loveliest thing I have ever seen on television. These aren't characters or petty scripted Jersey Shore Crap. This is humanity, and humanity can be brutal and cruel and unfair, but it is also beautiful. And to see someone who pretty much knows he is about to leave that humanity behind and face whatever waits for him on the other side and be at peace with it is lovely and humbling and inspiring. (And none of us know the condition of Phil's soul but his creator. It is my hope he knew (knows!) Jesus). I have cried during a Biggest Loser finale, bawled with a family after hearing the words “Move That Bus”, but I have never been so moved as I have with this season of Deadliest Catch. Thank You Harris Boys for sharing life and death with us. The world seems smaller, and the understanding that we don't need to totally understand one another to love each other is a bit closer. It's what happens when we stopped being entertained, and start getting real.
I will never claim to be wise, and don't think I am of the opinion anything I may have to comment about anything implies wisdom. All I have are my experiences and my perspective on them at the time, so PLEASE don't take what you may read here as TRUTH. There is nothing black or white or factual about it, and none of it can be proven. My aim is to vent and hope some of you can identify and gain perspective on your own experience. And perhaps, through that perspective, we may have compassion for ourselves and each other and form a sibling hood from our level of understanding. That being said, I'm going to be all ignorant and judgmental for a moment. It cracks me up as I parooze the library, bookstores and Blog-o-sphere to find parents of five-year-olds writing authoritative information on parenting. People who have been married ten to fifteen minutes spewing marital advice. High profile wives whose husbands had an exposed affair and addiction giving an account how they've “delt with it” six months later. Arguably, someone must care, because, there they are, in Borders with their face on the back cover of “Busy Mom's guide to Successfully Having it All” by Bunny Lewis, age 26. I am in NO WAY trying to say that twenty-something mom's have nothing to contribute, but don't suggest you know how to raise healthy kids if you haven't, at least, sent any of yours to college. Now, if your title is “The Second Anniversary; A Young Couples Opinion of What We Think Might Be Working up to This Point”, well, to me, it seems a bit more honest. Once Upon a time, there was a handsome prince who wore flannel shirts and drove a Honda. I was the lucky Cinderella who married that prince, and though the term “happily ever So Far” definitely applies, it is a general statement indeed. We continue to be madly in Love and “Happy” simply because we CHOOSE to be, and our experience is that will continue as long as we keep choosing. Our Princess is a Perfect thirteen-year-old who is beautiful, brilliant, wise, creative, gifted and kind. If you ask me how anyone who has had to live their first 13 years of life in a house with me and is still all of the above, then my answer is simply Grace. I have NO CLUE. And I would whole heartedly still describe her as such even if I had just bailed her out of jail and staged an intervention to send her back to rehab for the third time (I may back off on “wise”, though) . Her choices in life would not change who she is, but simply expose her challenges working through the stuff of life to reach her God given potential. The young Prince in our house is an eight year old like NO OTHER, and I say that with complete confidence. He is intelligent, loving, clever, self-assured, focused and funny. He has an autism diagnosis which makes each day a new adventure. He continues to work hard at dealing with people and navigating his way through a world full of relational inferences and gray area exceptions. And all I can do is bungle my way through equipping him to succeed the best I know how. But other than that, his progress is ultimately up to him ('cause God knows, you can't “Make Him” do it). Both of our children seem to have a profound effect on people. They give people joy and inspire them. But, again, that all seems to be in spite of their circumstances of who their parents are and their current place in the world. The Bible tells us God won't give us anything we can't handle. Perhaps He knew I didn't have the coping skills to manage a husband or children who where any less than amazing. So, this is my hypocritical contribution to a world already littered with Know-it-All's. The Secret of my Eventual Success: Here's Hope- God Loves the Stupid and Blesses the Unworthy.
Okay, it's no secret. I'm a Discovery Channel junkie. I watch Mythbusters, American Chopper though now, it's dying and moved to TLC), Everest, Deadliest Catch. I love that crap. I guess it gives me some sort of insight into areas I know Nothing about. I have no desire to fish, fabricate motorcycles or determine the terminal velocity of a penny as it is dropped from an 18 story port a potty. Perhaps I'm looking to live vicariously through strangers who seem to live exciting lives, or face death on a daily basis, or maybe I just find it entertaining. A year or so ago, I got hooked on storm chasers. I have been teased, “Maybe they'll catch something (a storm on camera or data or crab), maybe they won't?” Indicating that these shows have pretty much the same plot episode after episode, why bother? With the crab fishing, It's absolutely crazy, but I get why people do it. It's totally dangerous, it's miserable, backbreaking work, but the pay day is pretty sweet. For generational fishermen, growing up, it is the only career they know. The storm chasers are different. I have never understood the appeal. A lot of these guys have Ph D's in Meteorology, and can get comfy jobs in TV or radio or university settings, but they choose to bust their butts to try to get grants and raise money just to spend it on electronic data collection gizmo's. I suppose there is the possibility of a huge pay off, however that does not seem to be the driving force behind it. And there are tons of “non research” people who chase storms for the heck of it. Is this the only way in Oklahoma and Nebraska to get any sort of adrenaline rush? While that's probably true, I don't think that's it. The other morning, I sat outside under the overcast sky. The clouds were moving, but on the ground, no sort of breeze. While it wasn't necessarily “hot”, it was not very comfortable. Just good ol' heavy Midwest humidity. Then, from a distant place in the heavens, came the gentle rumble of thunder, and with it the promise of relief from the stagnant warm air. Clouds began gaining momentum as they quickly traveled through the sky. The gentle rumbles became pops and cracks. The sound of wind through the trees began as a soft fluttering, then abruptly rose in tempo to mimic applause and crescendoed to the sound of fierce rolling waves. The cool breeze hit my face, lifting away, not only the heavy heat, but anything that felt heavy inside and out. I took a long, deep breath and could taste the coming rain. I looked up, and the silver blanket of clouds was pulling behind it a large charcoal gray wall. It was as thick and as deep and as wide and as long as I could see. The mid-day that had appeared as twilight, quickly turned to dusk. Though I was surrounded by movement an sound, I felt as still as rock, yet as light as the dry leaves floating in the wind. I was very conscious of something Great. I then began to catch a glimpse of understanding. Perhaps people don't just pull over and get out of their cars on country plains roads for a cheap thrill or cool weather show. Just maybe, it is one of the rare opportunities we take to truly “BE” in the Presence of Greatness. We are easily distracted by the possible looming tornado inside from recognizing Greatness for Who it is. But Greatness is not restricted to extreme weather events. We may have had our breath taken way by an ocean view, a snow covered mountain or new baby, only to be quickly distracted by getting “a good spot” on the beach, how cold it is, or the weight of new responsibilities. We spend a brief moment in the divine, then get weighted back down by our humanity. Greatness is evident in each blade of grass, drop of dew or colony of ants, we just don't really care. So, I will probably continue to watch the Danger hunters on TV, and settle for a facsimile of that which is Supernatural and Divine. But if you and I are having a conversation in the driveway one day and I zone out on an ant carrying a potato chip, please don't take it personally. I'm simply Experiencing Greatness.
So, Ok, The night the last Harry Potter book came out, I stood in line with the other Nerds to get my pre ordered book at midnight. I went home and read until 5:20am. Slept off and on till 8, went with the kids to Lebanon, Ohio where we rode the “Hogwarts Express”, went home and made dinner, read until I finished the book at 4:30am, slept a couple of hours, managed to not fall asleep during church, ate lunch, took my kids ice skating, then hit the wall about 6o’clock Sunday night. Why would I, a 32-year-old person with two kids do this to myself? Why is the fate of “the boy who lived” so important to me? Truthfully, it is only to save my family from ridicule and embarrassment that I refrain from donning official licensed Gryffindor attire or have a Firebolt replica on the wall. God help me if I were single and wealthy. There would be a room for every Disney, Tolkien, Rowling or Neverland fantastical environment. As a little girl, I remember clicking my heals together 3 times hoping I would be transported to my “real” home, because, surely, THIS couldn’t be it. But even now, I admit, I have to resist the temptation to feel the back of the coat closet and secretly hope it’s not there, or tap the five bricks in the right sequence with my pink umbrella in anticipation of them opening to reveal Diagon Alley, or press on the bathroom mirror to gain access to a nonsensical world. Many would think I’m a dreamer, seeking an escape from my mundane suburban life, but you would be incorrect. I’m the most blessed person I know. My husband’s a stud, my kids are amazing and each day brings a new adventure. Yet, a place inside of me still wonders if I ran through the train station barrier, would there be the teeniest chance I would end up at Platform 9 3/4 instead of the ER. And I know I’m not alone. I wasn’t the only childless mom in line that night to get a book; and sold-out midnight showings of Star Wars and Lord Of The Rings are attended by thousands who dropped the kids at Grandma’s for the night and have to get up and go to work in the morning. Why the fascination? M.Hale’s book, Beautiful Girlhood, a literary staple to many young girls in the early 20th century, discourages the reading of fantastic fiction and fairy stories for fear the head will dwell on unrealistic ideas instead of being a diligent and serious woman with aspirations of being a good wife and mother. Many cultures have tried to keep young people from dreaming or imagining, encouraging practicality, but the “imaginary world” spirit universally endures. It seems to be instinctive, just part of who we are. Could it be that our “Inner Dufus” is divinely inspired? I believe there’s a part of us, as spiritual beings that know we don’t belong here. We feel like a square pegs in round holes because we are. Our spirit longs for the place which defies physical laws and where we are constantly in the presence of greatness and perfection. The universal struggle of good/evil, Jedi/Sith, White Witch/Aslan, is happening now all around us and we’re part of it in our “ordinary” lives, and we’re drawn to it, though we don’t see it. Perhaps the dorky dreamers are not trying to escape reality, but truly sense the bigger picture. Or, maybe we’re just dorks.
I have a (well, really several) junk drawers at my house. None of them started as junk drawers, but through neglect and laziness, “junk drawers” they became. The drawer that you keep miscellaneous pens, pencils, erasers, batteries, sticky notes, etc., is the one acceptable junk drawer every house can have. No, you usually can't find what you need in it because it's so disorganized, and for some, even painful to open, but, it is still the socially accepted “messy drawer”. In our home we love to have a comfortable place for guests to visit. We love to have people over. When people are coming over, I like for things to appear clean and neat-I try to check the toilet bowl rim; make sure the sink/counters/table is clear of stuff; check if anything that may be lurking under the furniture can be seen if someone sits on the floor. I do, however, struggle with organization. Over the course of the week, “little piles” of papers and junk invade our home. They are made of the things that you don't have (or take) the time right way to deal with, so they end up in “little piles”. Some turn into “big piles”. What do you do when you have people coming over, and you need to quickly abolish the 'little piles”? Well, that's where “junk drawers” (plural) are useful. If the piles don't fit in the drawers, there's the “junk cabinet”. When the cabinet is filled, there's a closet. And when the hoarding and laziness have gotten out of hand, there's the “junk room”. I love to have people over, and I want them to feel like they are in a comfortable, relaxed environment. Please come to my house, I want you to feel like you can just open up and let go of the cares of the world. However, you are only allowed into specifically sanctioned areas. FOR GOODNESS SAKE DON”T OPEN ANY DRAWERS, OR CABINETS, OR CLOSETS, OR GO UPSTAIRS. If you saw that, what would you say? “How can she stand it?”, “Do you like everything being a cluttered mess?” Please limit your wanderings to the yard, living room, guest bath and kitchen. Part of the reason I enjoy having guests, is I LOVE to talk. Chit chit chat, yak yak yak, blah blah blah. I can talk for HOURS on end. I really enjoy hearing about people- their thoughts, joys, struggles, ideas. I love to make people feel like I can “relate” to them. I will never be shy about sharing a story or scenario that relates to you or your situation. Someone who has spent time chatting with me might tell you that I am an “open book” because I'll talk to you about anything you will talk about. But, the truth is, I am NOT an “open book”. I am more like a library with certain books and sections of books that are accessible, but much of the library is off limits. I love reading your book and will reference things in mine or even other people's books, but to just allow you to grab a book of any old shelf? Not so much. I can talk forever about nothing, but it's very difficult for me to really talk about things that matter, things that are important, things that invoke emotion. I become overwhelmed. When I meet with my kid's teachers, I can discuss methods and strategies and performance, but when I truly attempt to express my gratitude to these wonderful people who invest in my children, I get choked up. I recently resigned from my position in the toddler room where I work. We had Parent/Teacher conferences my last week. I had no issues going over the developmental continuum, talk about progress, or steps moving forward, but when I opened my mouth to tell a parent how dearly I have enjoyed having their child in my care, nothing came out. I just started to cry. I will miss this student very much, but I just couldn't say it. I am also pretty useless evangelically. When I attempt to tell someone about my Jesus, how loves me and died for me and even though I suck, He wants to have a relationship with me, my throat tightens up and my eyes fill with tears. (Okay, I am totally tearing up writing about this stuff. What a loser!). When faced with any situation when I know my words are emotionally significant, I freeze up. I am afraid. I can't say anything. And if it does come out, what if it comes out all wrong? I read a term a few months ago called “low intimacy tolerance”. I liked this term. If there's a term for it, it must be OKAY! I can tolerate other's intimacy, but can't seem to reciprocate. This term gives me the liberty to avoid being vulnerable. I can keep the window to my soul one of those one way mirror things used in interrogation rooms on cop shows. I really don't know I'm doing it, it has just become how I do things. I know the defense mechanism better than I know myself. I don't have to be afraid if I risk nothing. “Relating” is much easier than actually “knowing”. If you knew me, What would you say? “How can she stand it?”, “Do you like being a cluttered mess?”. There are times when the rooms, the closets and drawers get organized and pretty. THEN, you can feel free to look around. A friend of mine once said, “If you want to see my house, call first. If you want to see ME, just stop by.” It can't be much fun to just keep visiting someone's house, but stay confined to the kitchen-never seeing the person who lives there. So, if I allow you to come over and my house is a wreck, please know that I'm making progress. This is who I really am-A WRECK.
Christian culture speaks a lot about the discipline of having a daily “quiet time”. It is an act of worship to our God, giving him the firstfriuts of our day, and telling Him our time with Him is valuable enough to schedule it. Quiet meditation is a time of focusing mind, body and spirit. We have studies, lectures and sing about being able to hear God speak to us in that “Quiet Place”. I'm going to be honest, I'm not of the opinion that it's all that big of an awesome accomplishment to hear God in the “quiet and stillness”. Don't misunderstand me-I'm not knocking it, or the importance of getting away and having undistracted time with God. Amazing insights, growth and confidence come from of those times. What I want to know is, how do I hear God in the noise? I always thought of a “quiet Time” as something that helped you connect with God in the morning, and hopefully it was of good enough quality to sustain you through the day. If it wasn't enough, just get up an hour earlier and devote that much more time in the morning (yeah right, I'm a total slacker and would be all grouchy and complaining and totally nodding off by 9:30) AND THEN, it would be enough to get you through the day. It probably is great discipline and people who do that are AWESOME, and I Epically Suck, but for me to do it would sound a lot like a “formula for faith”. If I spend “A” much time doing “B” good thing, then I'm “C” all good with God and can go about my business. Yay Me! I have what has been clinically diagnosed as an Attention Deficit Hyperkinestetic Disorder, which is “fancy talk” for ADD. Environmentally quiet times are some of my most difficult times to try to focus. My mind is racing. I think the reason I talk so much is an effort of trying to keep up with a racing, random train station of thought. Trying to go to sleep used to be the absolute worst, until I had the aid of medication and ritual. Being still in the quiet place, in my experience, is more of a challenge communicating with God than being at a Phish Festival. A few years ago, I was driving my daughter home from a birthday party at night. I was in our neighborhood when I saw a couple walking with two dogs walking ahead of them. I didn't pay too much attention. Two people walking their dogs, presumably on leashes. Well, one of the dogs (a cute little dirty white westie mix) ran into the street and darted in front of my car (“darted in front of my car”-that's a stupid expression. Where the heck did that even come from?). One of the people who were walking called out to the dog. It didn't respond, and I hit the dog. I was horrified. My daughter was traumatized. The people walking were freaked out. I got out of the car and started immediately apologizing all over myself for running over these people's dog (from here on known as Fifi). As it turns out, neither of the dogs were on leashes because, they weren't their dogs. Ni either dog had a collar. I wasn't driving fast enough to kill Fifi, so he had scooted its little (probably crushed) behind to the side of the road with it's little front legs and lay it's head on the curb, panting, with a look of excruciating pain on it's little doggie Fifi face. I didn't know what to do. The people went home, and I'm standing in the middle of the road with this fatally injured dog. I don't have a dog. I don't know what I'm supposed to do with it. Luckily, a family stopped and asked me what was wrong. When I told them what had happened, they got out, wrapped Fifi in a jacket and took him to an animal clinic. Now, these people are CLEARLY way better than me, and I could go on rambling of their greatness and nobility, but this isn't their blog, it's mine. And you're thinking, “Heck yeah, she's ADD. Fifi? WTF?” But what struck me is how even though someone called out to the dog in an effort to save it, the dog didn't respond. This voice was not the voice of it's master. Perhaps there is where the discipline comes into play. Not a formula for checking a box and being 'all good', but daily, hourly, minutely communicating, in some way, with God so that, through the noise, you recognize His voice. "Be Sill and know He is God" means that when things are crazy, loud and overwhelming, I can Know he is God, so my heart can be still. I don't believe God speaks in the quiet. I believe He always speaks, Even in a disorganized, noisy mind, I'm just not disciplined enough to always hear Him.
So, I don't know how you people ever got through the last eighteen months without my valuable insights. Good Grief. It's funny how time (and inspiration) run away from us while we're busy cluttering our heads with other stuff. I've been so busy worrying about "Nothing", that I haven't really been focusing on "Something". I gave up the blog and got caught in the Facebook Vortex. It's like a casino- you can never leave! There are so many links for an ADD person such as myself to click. And you can be all voyeuristic know all about a person and NEVER have to talk to them. Who wouldn't want THAT? As long as you have a friend of a friend of someone, you can see all of their photos. You really can find out if that High School Cheerleader you hated is all fat and has ugly kids, and no one has to know. The opposite is also true, but that's why all my FB pics that are tagged have a maximum wight limit. Any photo that depicts me with more than one chin (which means pretty much anything taken since Grunge was still cool) will be untagged immediately! All kidding aside, I LOVE Facebook. It does really help people with very different lives stay connected. You really never have to say "goodbye" to anyone ever again. Unless, of course they De-Friend you; the ultimate slap in the face. It says either "I hate you so much, that I no longer wish to see your name on a news feed or gift you puppy kibble for your farm ever again" or "I only really friend ed you so I had an impressive number of people on my Friend List and now I have more that enough, so bu-bye". If you think about it, for a society that is all "identity theft" and "stalker" conscious, we put an awful lot of personal information out there. Is it really any one's business that GoodBurger is on my Movie Favorites? Imagine what someone could do with that information! But I'll risk it if it means I can spout my thoughts and opinions to the world in an effort to feel self-important. We'll see how often and how long I'll keep this up. I am pretty lazy.
