I am a planner. Not in the traditional sense of the word, where I make lists, check them three times over, ensuring every detail is in place. No, my planning happens in my head, where I develop an ultimate vision for the upcoming event or action. I can concoct a vision that is so perfectly constructed, that it probably could never occur in real life. But I expect it to. And I expect it to happen despite me not attending to details and ignoring the mishaps of life. If the dream in my head does not become the reality I expect, I am flooded with a devastating disappointment.
My mother claims I have always been like this. My husband deals everyday with my lofty and ambitious visions that are almost impossible to make happen. When I think of my dream house, I imagine a white farmhouse, sun creating a halo around it, with a huge oak tree in the front yard, a stream meandering in the distance, and not a neighbor in sight. The sun is always, always shining in my dream. Or, if you ask me what my dream occupation is, I would conjure up for you a picture of a college office overrun with woodwork and books, and I am behind a dishevelled desk, busy composing my next masterpiece. The sun is also always shining on me in this vision, with tiny particles of dust dancing in the the rays.
So, you can see where my life has taken a different turn. I do not yet live in the sprawling countryside. I live in a modest neighborhood where I could almost reach out and touch the house next to me. I am not a genius Pulitzer prize winning novelist slash college professor. I am a speech pathologist, and I work with the elderly. I don't write much, except for here. It has not at all turned out the way I had originally thought.
My husband and I celebrated our tenth wedding anniversary this year. I had intended for us to renew our wedding vows on the beach at Maui. I could see it all -- me in a white sundress and all my children in little Hawaiian shirts, and my husband in bare feet. Disappointment number one: that was way too pricey of a trip for a family of five. So, I settled for a weekend in Asheville in a charming Bed and Breakfast. My husband helped me pick out the room, and I made the reservations. I was quickly developing a vision of candlelit dinners and romantic tours of the Biltmore. Without children, mind you. My parents and in-laws had agreed to watch the children for our getaway.
Another disappointment. No one would watch our dogs. The place where we usually kennel them was in the process of changing facilities, and my dogs (not any dogs, they are special needs bassett hounds) had no place to go. So I reluctantly rescheduled the trip to the fall. The leaves in North Carolina would be beautiful then, wouldn't they? And just imagine the fire in our room at the B&B....
So, morning of the big trip, I rolled out of bed to wake my daughter Emma up for school. I could feel her fever as soon as I put my hand on her. The disappointment began to descend, but I pushed it back. She just needs a little medicine for that cough, I thought. So my husband took her to the doctor. When he called me from the doctor's office, and I heard Emma crying in the background, in the dramatic way that only she has, I knew it was over.
It's the flu, Jennifer, Chris said.
That heavy curtain of disappointment fell over me. No intimate dinners. No Biltmore winery. No shopping in little artsy stores. Mommy, Emma said over the phone, I just want you.
What was I to do but postpone the trip again. Chris brought Emma home, face splotched from crying, and I smoothed the hair away from her face, and put her in my bed. I gave her a Popsicle and turned on her favorite cartoons. She fell asleep for a while. During that time, I called the B&B, and rescheduled our weekend for December. I called work and told them I would probably be working this weekend, as usual. I undid all the preparations I had made.
When Emma woke up from her nap, she was cool as she could be. She proclaimed a miraculous recovery. She played the rest of the day. And it was a beautiful day. The sky was blue, like a crayon, and she sat on the ground and watched Chris rake red autumn leaves. She laid her head back and looked up into the impossible blue and traced wispy clouds with her finger.
It was clear to me by one in the afternoon that Chris and I could have probably gone on our trip. I tried to be disappointed the rest of the day.I tried to have a bad attitude, and generally pout because the day had not turned out as I had intended. And for all this pouting and grumpiness, what I managed to miss was Emma's amazement and wonder at being at home on school day, sun all over her face, playing with her dad. And I missed out on Ethan's first attempt at using a rake. I heard it was adorable. I don't know; I was sulking somewhere, not paying attention.
Although I have clothed myself in disappointment many times, and I am sure I will many times in the future, I am trying to look through the disappointment for a silver lining. I used to think life was just punctuated by disappointment; it was the disappointment that made you stop, like a period at the end of a sentence. I am trying to just take a pause instead of stopping completely; it is in the stopping that you miss tiny opportunities that God gives you: the curiosity of a child, the breathtaking colors of the fall sky, the love of your family.
Disappointment perhaps is God's redirection.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Peace
Peace
Rushes to the edges
Of the outline of
Life but
Does not stay
In the middle
I am there
Looking at it
Admiring it
Like a child’s
Drawn sunrise
The rays are fat
And yellow
Crooked but
Beautiful
I reach out to
Pull it back
So I can know it
In the middle
Where I am
Where my life
Is
But the butter
Mirage of
Crayon lines
Remains on
The edge
Rushes to the edges
Of the outline of
Life but
Does not stay
In the middle
I am there
Looking at it
Admiring it
Like a child’s
Drawn sunrise
The rays are fat
And yellow
Crooked but
Beautiful
I reach out to
Pull it back
So I can know it
In the middle
Where I am
Where my life
Is
But the butter
Mirage of
Crayon lines
Remains on
The edge
Friday, October 23, 2009
The Art of Disinfecting
When two of my children came down with the flu, I did what any good mother would do. I began the process of killing off the pesky virus. While Ethan looked up at me with his red, weepy eyes, his cheeks still flushed with fever, I began stripping all the sheets off the beds. Using the "Sanitize" setting on the washer, reserved especially for a crisis like this, I steamed the life out of the invisible germs. I also boiled any medication dispensing devices, little cups and droppers ans spoons, and I sanitized the parts to the nebulizier. Finally, as Amelia attempted to sleep off her illness, I retrieved from under the kitchen sink every cleaner I had with germ killing power: sprays with bleach, antibacterial wipes, and most importantly Lysol. I would spray and wipe, spray and wipe, any hard surface I could find. Nothing was immune to my Lysol; door knobs, countertops, light switches, and sinks were drenched in the virus murdering mist. And when I had gotten all these surfaces, I started again. Spray and wipe, spray and wipe. I was determined no one else in my household would get sick.
But, much to my dismay, my husband began to cough, and lay in bed with fatigue, dragging himself to his feet long enough to go to the doctor. Then I began to feel the ache in my back and moving up my neck, and although I didn't feel horrible, I did not feel good enough to take care of three sick people. But I did my best. I divvied up and distributed medicine. And then I would spray and wipe. Spray and wipe. By the time my husband and children were on the mend, I was feeling a little worse, and then I lost my voice. It seemed my attempt at disinfecting had not been good enough.
Life is often like a dirty countertop. It's always a little messy. Even if you look at it from way back, and it looks fairly pristine, when you get right up on it, there's always something unsightly: a grease smear, a splatter of soda, some crumbs from morning toast. Or even some invisible germs. We can try our best to spray and wipe away all the imperfections, only to find new ones cropping up. Life is not meant to be perfect. Or to be wiped perfectly clean. We are made strong through frailty, and made more wise through imperfection. To think that we can create a void to these things is to create in ourselves even greater weakness and disappointment.
Now, that is easier said. As I still set forlornly staring at my half empty can of Lysol, I wish it had taken all the germs away. I wish my throat didn't feel like it was swollen to double its size in the morning when I wake up. I wish my son and daughter didn't have to miss several days of their lives and activities during their bout with the flu. But I will be fine, as my whole family will be. And our immunity will be even stronger.
But, much to my dismay, my husband began to cough, and lay in bed with fatigue, dragging himself to his feet long enough to go to the doctor. Then I began to feel the ache in my back and moving up my neck, and although I didn't feel horrible, I did not feel good enough to take care of three sick people. But I did my best. I divvied up and distributed medicine. And then I would spray and wipe. Spray and wipe. By the time my husband and children were on the mend, I was feeling a little worse, and then I lost my voice. It seemed my attempt at disinfecting had not been good enough.
Life is often like a dirty countertop. It's always a little messy. Even if you look at it from way back, and it looks fairly pristine, when you get right up on it, there's always something unsightly: a grease smear, a splatter of soda, some crumbs from morning toast. Or even some invisible germs. We can try our best to spray and wipe away all the imperfections, only to find new ones cropping up. Life is not meant to be perfect. Or to be wiped perfectly clean. We are made strong through frailty, and made more wise through imperfection. To think that we can create a void to these things is to create in ourselves even greater weakness and disappointment.
Now, that is easier said. As I still set forlornly staring at my half empty can of Lysol, I wish it had taken all the germs away. I wish my throat didn't feel like it was swollen to double its size in the morning when I wake up. I wish my son and daughter didn't have to miss several days of their lives and activities during their bout with the flu. But I will be fine, as my whole family will be. And our immunity will be even stronger.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Opening Up the World
I walk. I walk because I begrudgingly know it's good for me. I walk because I know that my heart will beat hard against my chest and my lungs will expand to fill my cells with oxygen. I know that even on the smallest level, it is important.
But, my selfish motive is that I get to be alone. I walk most often at night and always by myself. My son has been put to bed, and I leave my daughters watching TV, tucked in their beds, and I make my break. I like to walk outside, cloaked in the darkness, and I like to watch the night sky. I have seen the sky in all sorts of ways. I have seen it impeccably black and splayed with stars. I have seen it with no stars at all, because they are hidden behind the clouds that I know are there but that I cannot see. I have seen a mixture of both these skies; the stars disappear and reappear behind disconnected bodies of clouds crawling by imperceptibly.
I have also noticed all sorts of moons. I have seen full moons, sometimes far away and sometimes orange and filling the sky. I have seen the moon sliced in half, and sometimes just a sliver of the moon, with sharp hooked edges. I have seen the absence of the moon, which makes the night even more deliciously black and concealing. So, I walk underneath all these skies and all these moons and I wrap myself up in its solitude.
One evening, when I was basking in all of this, a fleeting voice in my head told me, "You have to open up the world." My mind does this to me sometimes, throws darts through my thoughts and brings me to attention. My feet moved under me, but my mind had stopped, considering the idea of opening up the world. I imagined the equator the dividing line, hinged at the back of the earth, and my hand descending from somewhere in the universe and, like a toy box, flipping up the northern hemisphere to reveal all the earth's layers, arranged in increasingly malleable and molten strips.
What I knew I was telling myself, though, was I need to open myself up life around me. I so often surround myself in a comfortable cushion of darkness, alone, and I turn away from people and experiences in favor of the safety I find within my walls, away from the possibility of disappointment or hurt. I have often wondered why God would want to put us in situations that cause pain, or to let us suffer loss that seems unbearable. To watch us throw up our hands in disbelief to our situations. It is in times like these that I retreat into the darkness, with a moonless sky above me.
What I realized that evening, when a voice whispered in my ear open up the world , I need to not fear the possibility of suffering or pain. I need to place myself in daylight, to put on display my frailty, for all to see. God did not intend for us to have it easy all the time, but to face the world, with all its wonderful people and places, and its cruelty as well, and to learn from each experience, be it good or bad. I think God wanted us to grow through our life, and to hide away from it only stunts that growth, like a seedling planted in the dark.
I still walk at night. I still enjoy the changing scenery of the night sky, and the different faces of the moon, with its sometimes round, and sometimes piercing shape. But I am trying everyday to open up the world a little more, to leave the protection I find in myself and venture into the light of day.
But, my selfish motive is that I get to be alone. I walk most often at night and always by myself. My son has been put to bed, and I leave my daughters watching TV, tucked in their beds, and I make my break. I like to walk outside, cloaked in the darkness, and I like to watch the night sky. I have seen the sky in all sorts of ways. I have seen it impeccably black and splayed with stars. I have seen it with no stars at all, because they are hidden behind the clouds that I know are there but that I cannot see. I have seen a mixture of both these skies; the stars disappear and reappear behind disconnected bodies of clouds crawling by imperceptibly.
I have also noticed all sorts of moons. I have seen full moons, sometimes far away and sometimes orange and filling the sky. I have seen the moon sliced in half, and sometimes just a sliver of the moon, with sharp hooked edges. I have seen the absence of the moon, which makes the night even more deliciously black and concealing. So, I walk underneath all these skies and all these moons and I wrap myself up in its solitude.
One evening, when I was basking in all of this, a fleeting voice in my head told me, "You have to open up the world." My mind does this to me sometimes, throws darts through my thoughts and brings me to attention. My feet moved under me, but my mind had stopped, considering the idea of opening up the world. I imagined the equator the dividing line, hinged at the back of the earth, and my hand descending from somewhere in the universe and, like a toy box, flipping up the northern hemisphere to reveal all the earth's layers, arranged in increasingly malleable and molten strips.
What I knew I was telling myself, though, was I need to open myself up life around me. I so often surround myself in a comfortable cushion of darkness, alone, and I turn away from people and experiences in favor of the safety I find within my walls, away from the possibility of disappointment or hurt. I have often wondered why God would want to put us in situations that cause pain, or to let us suffer loss that seems unbearable. To watch us throw up our hands in disbelief to our situations. It is in times like these that I retreat into the darkness, with a moonless sky above me.
What I realized that evening, when a voice whispered in my ear open up the world , I need to not fear the possibility of suffering or pain. I need to place myself in daylight, to put on display my frailty, for all to see. God did not intend for us to have it easy all the time, but to face the world, with all its wonderful people and places, and its cruelty as well, and to learn from each experience, be it good or bad. I think God wanted us to grow through our life, and to hide away from it only stunts that growth, like a seedling planted in the dark.
I still walk at night. I still enjoy the changing scenery of the night sky, and the different faces of the moon, with its sometimes round, and sometimes piercing shape. But I am trying everyday to open up the world a little more, to leave the protection I find in myself and venture into the light of day.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Rogue Planet
It is about 10 at night. Sitting in my bed, cross-legged (which makes an excellent table for my laptop), I am surrounded by the trappings of my very ordinary life: my daughter's homework papers, miscellaneous crayons (most broken and all blunted at the end by much use), my husband's dress shirt thrown across the end of the bed. All objects I see everyday. All objects that comfort me in their very connection to the lives of my family. All objects that make concrete for me the direction my life has taken.
At that epiphany, I draw in my breath, which I am sure is inaudible, because I am a bit ashamed of the feeling that sweeps over me. The direction my life has taken. It is at times like this that I feel foreign to myself, as if I float above the woman sitting on the bed, and I whisper, Who is that person? Is that me? Really?
Your 30s. I have found for me it is has been a period of analysis, inner change, and realization. At times I have reached my hands deep into dark places and have drawn up to the surface aspects about myself that had never seen the light before. At other times, I have wept for the things about myself that I felt growing smaller and smaller, like imploding stars. And I think now, it is these imploding stars, these hot, volatile cores of concentrated need, that have lead me here, to sitting down and writing this.
To be perfectly clear, I have a beautiful family: 2 beautiful daughters, a handsome son, and devoted husband. I have a nice home and a good job. I have an honorable profession that allows me to help other people. I have a love of God, and I thank Him everyday for His gifts. I have more than most, and probably do not deserve all that I have.
But, I have developed as of late, in my 30s, a need for something more. I feel something in me (and it is sometimes a physical feeling), that has been caged for too long. An avenue for creative release. And so, this blog came about at my husband's prompting. Thank goodness for me, he understands this longing I have. This longing to recapture parts of myself that I had put away in order to make room for first finishing school, then getting married and starting work, and finally starting a family.
Now, I rarely turn on the TV, but sometimes I will watch the History Channel. I prefer a good mummy show, but on one occasion, a program about the universe was on. In this particular episode, they were detailing atypical galactic masses. One of these was called a planemo. A planemo is a planet that doesn't have a star around which to revolve. These planets drift through space, of their own accord. How lonely, I thought, but such a perfect analogy to our lives as humans. At times we move through life aimlessly, without a guiding force or in dissolution, just as a planemo would. But other times, we come in contact with splendor. We graze by stars that throw their radiating light deep into space. We navigate through cold belts of asteroids. We are enveloped in rainbow clouds of strange gasses, and are drawn dangerously close to black holes. We are at times in the presence of awesome circumstances and at others we are on a dark path as if in a void. But always we are moving, moving from one celestial wonder or danger to another, always searching.
So, with this blog I hope to explore my journey. I hope that you will help me explore it and learn something about your journey, too. Because we all have one, and we might at some point pass each other in the night sky.
At that epiphany, I draw in my breath, which I am sure is inaudible, because I am a bit ashamed of the feeling that sweeps over me. The direction my life has taken. It is at times like this that I feel foreign to myself, as if I float above the woman sitting on the bed, and I whisper, Who is that person? Is that me? Really?
Your 30s. I have found for me it is has been a period of analysis, inner change, and realization. At times I have reached my hands deep into dark places and have drawn up to the surface aspects about myself that had never seen the light before. At other times, I have wept for the things about myself that I felt growing smaller and smaller, like imploding stars. And I think now, it is these imploding stars, these hot, volatile cores of concentrated need, that have lead me here, to sitting down and writing this.
To be perfectly clear, I have a beautiful family: 2 beautiful daughters, a handsome son, and devoted husband. I have a nice home and a good job. I have an honorable profession that allows me to help other people. I have a love of God, and I thank Him everyday for His gifts. I have more than most, and probably do not deserve all that I have.
But, I have developed as of late, in my 30s, a need for something more. I feel something in me (and it is sometimes a physical feeling), that has been caged for too long. An avenue for creative release. And so, this blog came about at my husband's prompting. Thank goodness for me, he understands this longing I have. This longing to recapture parts of myself that I had put away in order to make room for first finishing school, then getting married and starting work, and finally starting a family.
Now, I rarely turn on the TV, but sometimes I will watch the History Channel. I prefer a good mummy show, but on one occasion, a program about the universe was on. In this particular episode, they were detailing atypical galactic masses. One of these was called a planemo. A planemo is a planet that doesn't have a star around which to revolve. These planets drift through space, of their own accord. How lonely, I thought, but such a perfect analogy to our lives as humans. At times we move through life aimlessly, without a guiding force or in dissolution, just as a planemo would. But other times, we come in contact with splendor. We graze by stars that throw their radiating light deep into space. We navigate through cold belts of asteroids. We are enveloped in rainbow clouds of strange gasses, and are drawn dangerously close to black holes. We are at times in the presence of awesome circumstances and at others we are on a dark path as if in a void. But always we are moving, moving from one celestial wonder or danger to another, always searching.
So, with this blog I hope to explore my journey. I hope that you will help me explore it and learn something about your journey, too. Because we all have one, and we might at some point pass each other in the night sky.
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