new eyes

Have you ever had that moment when you turn and look and the whole scene appears new?  It's the same one you've seen a million times, yet something is different?

It's been a difficult week at work.  There has been much cause for reflection, for quiet moments, for introspection.  Sometimes, that's how it is when you believe your work has meaning.

On my drive in this morning - the same drive I've been making for nearly 6 years - I was deep in thought.  The same thoughts I fought throughout my morning meditation.  Hmmmmph!  

I was pining over a problem I've faced year after year and listening to Rachmaninoff's Vespers, a work I often turn to in tough emotional times. Vespers is a collection of a cappella pieces with voices layered in rich chords, some comforting, some conflicting.  It has the power to pull me away from the conscious world and into a space that is purely spiritual.  It has the power to give voice to every complex thought and emotion swimming in my very being.

At the climax of a powerful piece, I literally and figuratively turned the corner and saw the scene before me with new eyes.  Of course, there was a dramatic change in the physical landscape.  A view that has been gray and brown and lifeless for weeks was suddenly drowning under water.  The magnificence of nature stopped me in my tracks and I pulled over to wonder at the sight.  I sat frozen, seemingly a bit in shock.  I've never seen this stretch quite like this before.  It was strangely beautiful.

this moment (birthday preparations)

Linking with SouleMamma and many others:

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.

dreamy

Okay.  So, I've realized for a while now where I'm frustrated with life, what I don't like about where I live or where I work, or how I do/handle various things.  And I've spent much of the last year (well probably longer than that if I want to be honest) thinking about where things would be better or different or what new job what address the things that seem missing in this one.  All this thought process is sprinkled with self reminders that life is really very good - stable job, beautiful family, yada, yada, yada.

My mantra has been (in attempt to convince myself that change won't fix the rhythm of my thoughts) "the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence."  It's true, no?

I'm a problem-solver, not a dreamer.  So, I think up solution after solution, only to convince myself that there's something imperfect about that solution, too.

I wonder, though, what it might be like to simply dream about what perfect looks like.  Here's my dream...

Monday morning - Wake up, without hurry or angst.  Get the children off to school.  Find my way to campus. (Yes, somehow I know there is a college campus in my 'perfect.').  Take a class.  Teach a class.  Meet with students.  Meet with faculty.   

WALK home, because my perfect involves home and campus being closely connected.  A town small enough that walking everywhere makes sense, but large enough to offer activities and culture, opportunity, whole foods and fresh foods, green space for gardening, biking, walking, and being outdoors.

I'm home to find my children just walking home from school.  We'll take a long walk together. Or go to the park. Or play in our modest yard.

Dad's home soon, too.  

Then dinner - homemade, of course.  Homework (for them and me), bath, and bed.  A peaceful sleep.

Tuesday through Friday - Much the same with activities and events peppered in, all close by and encouraging us to connect with our community.

Saturday is "stay-at-home" day as my children call it, even now.  Grocery shopping, trips into the nearby big city, concerts, culture, visits with extended family and friends.  A leisurely day that doesn't start too early or too quickly and ends even later than planned.

Sunday - I see us sitting in church - a warm, inviting space filled with people of all colors, races, and creeds.  I see the family next to us parented by two women and the pew in front of us filled with a family whose skin is darker than ours.  I see men and women my age, others younger, others older.  I see families - broken and whole.  I see friends, sitting side-by-side.

I feel life in worship, warmth from the sun shining through the stained glass windows.  I feel a love and compassion that is genuine and extended to every person who walks through the door.  I see my children feeling at home in this space, running with their friends, hiding in corners, and wanting to sit out the worship service in exchange for fellowship.

Following worship, I see my family - my parents, my sister, her children - convening at my home for dinner.  I see afternoons filled with laughter and love, food and drink, cousins and grandparents.

I know that dreams don't always come true and that perfect can simply be a state-of-mind.  But, I've enjoyed sitting in this dream and allowing it to be just that.  And, who knows. maybe. just. maybe.

bedtime (the musical)

(Alright, so there really isn't any music.  At least, not that you can hear...)

Home from work and school.  

Dinner.

Homework.

Bath time.

Then, bed.

(Enter stage left) - The oldest child - After erasing today's date from his wall calendar (dry erase), he climbs up the ladder of his bunk bed.  Off to bed he goes.  Then back down the steps to ask a parent to come and chat for a while.  This is followed by a few minutes of silliness, laughter, "what if" scenarios, stories of dreams for his future.

(Cue hazy bubble for flashback) - Mom recalls night after night of this child crying out of sheer, raw fear.  After falling asleep with a parent at his side, he wakes in the darkness and runs wildly into our room.  Shaking, we walk him back to his room - once, then twice.  After the third time, he ends up in our bed.  Ah, sleep at last.

(Back to present) - Now he falls asleep alone.  Comfortably. Feeling safe.  There is a peace about this change.  A beautiful peace.

(Enter stage right) - The girls' room - The older daughter yawns with exhaustion.  Her eyes are heavy and she wants sleep desperately.  The younger daughter, having had a good long nap this afternoon, sits on the floor in a pile of stuffed animals playing.  She moves (not so quietly) to the mound of books she's set on the bed for a parent to read.  Growing impatient, she moves (quite loudly this time) to the markers and coloring books at the corner of the bed.  

The older daughter grows frustrated and fights back tears. "All I want to do is sleep.  Be quiet!"

When a parent arrives and settles into bed in between the girls (at this point, two twin beds are pushed together to allow for multiple bodies to fill them each night), the youngest nags and utters excitedly for him to read a book.  Reading follows.  And more reading follows.  And now at least two children are asleep.  The parents are darn close too. 

Yet, the youngest remains awake and poised for action.  Nearly two hours later, and many books, the youngest falls asleep too.  "Scratch my back," she says.  "Hold me."  These are her cues.  Then she's out.

Of course, the parent is too.  

this moment (a legacy)

Linking with SouleMamma and many others:

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.

dinner conversation

(as retold by mama and papa)

Down the stairs she walks with confidence and purpose.  In her hands was a rock garden water feature used as part of our bedtime routine.  The garden had been put in storage months ago.

She sat down at the dinner table with her story queued up.

Picking up one stone after another, the conversation turned story turned drama. . . 

THIS is a macada duck. Quack. Quack. Quack (in the highest and screechiest of voices).

THIS is a white duck. Quack. Quack. Quack (a little less screechy this time).

THIS is a black duck. Quack. Quack. Quack (her voice normalizing).

Quack. Quack. Quack. (looking at the rock in surprise) You're supposed to be a lion.

THIS is a double-chocolate fudge swirl rock.  Where if you press the button, chocolate syrup will come out (she presses the entire rock to demonstrate).

Picking up another stone. . .

If you press the button on this purse rock, a purse will hop on your shoulder.  Only if you are a girl.

If you press the button on this rock, a hat will go on your head.  Only if you are a boy.

When big sister tried to join in on story-telling, the batteries in the rocks stopped working.

Realizing mama was in the background snapping pics, the last rock turned camera.  You hold it up to your eye, you see, and press the button.

This creative and impromptu story told all the while she was casually and frequently sneaking a peak of her reflection in the dining room window.

Our little storyteller is getting quite creative, she is.  And we love it!

all grown up

We have a birthday coming up.  My youngest will turn 4 years old!  Oh my, where has the time gone?

I realized the other day, how quickly she is growing up.  So much faster than my older two.

She has this "Get out of my way. I can do it." way about her!  

Her teachers call it "independence."  That, it is!  They follow this up with "Her independence will serve her well as an adult.  As a child, we'll have to work with her."

Yes, she is trying.  Yes, my heart stops on a daily basis as I watch her jump from heights that seem too high.  Yes, she wants what she wants and she wants it now.  Yes, we will have to work with her.

But, I love this about her.  Sometimes, this means I have an eager helper at my side.  Sometimes, this means I can steal a minute for myself while she takes her bath.  Sometimes, this means that she can clearly communicate what she wants if I'm only smart enough to listen.

This makes her unique in our household.  And I LOVE unique!

So, today I'm celebrating her independence, her growing up.

I'm also celebrating those moments when she is still too cute for words and the baby in her peeks through.

falling short

Today is the celebration of the life of Martin Luther King, Jr.  I'm sure you know that already.

Image borrowed from Google homepage

On my way home from work, I heard a story of a young woman who was a college student so desperate to continue her college studies in the face of extreme financial difficulty that she robbed a bank.  What pierced me, though, was her admission that she could not ask for help - oh whom? where?

My students returned to campus today and my student staff spent the day in training.  The topic - Safe Zone.  We talked about creating safe and inclusive educational environments so that students are free to learn.  We watched a documentary about a gay male student who sued a school district for failing to protect him for harassment and abuse.  It was a powerful film.

My work is certainly not that of Dr. King.  I have not changed the world through a personal fight for justice.  But, I hope, in the work I love, that I've created safe spaces.  I hope I've made students comfortable enough to ask for help.  I hope I've fought a little fight, now and again, to be sure everyone has a voice at the table.  

This is important work.  A responsibility I take seriously.  So much so that I sit here tears streaming down my face in my emotional exhaustion of having immersed myself in it today. THIS is my purpose!

What pains me is the knowledge that I have fallen short.  There are students who will not approach me.  There are students who do not know I'm an ally.  There are students who have not learned from me what I have to teach.  This work will never be done.

So, today, as I reflect on the message of Dr. King, I ask for strength to continue the fight, courage to continue teaching, and patience with myself along the way.  May a student never leave my presence feeling defeated, excluded, patronized, or helpless.

How has Dr. King influenced your life?