{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.
Friday, November 29, 2013
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
build community
Build community wherever you go.
Build community...
This phrase is a charge given to her young nuns by Saint Angela Merici many years ago. I was first introduced to Angela while working at a small Catholic women's college some years ago, though Angela's focus on community will stick with me always. Angela understood long before feminism the importance of a strong network of women and the role women play in each other's lives - a role of nurture and compassion and affirmation.
I was so warmly reminded of how beautiful communing with women often is at gladsome this past weekend. Strangers quickly became connected partners in creating, important constants in our own personal journeys. How quickly and beautifully this community of women came to trust, to share, to shape, to inspire, to hold, and to encourage one another. This short pause in time taken with intention by each woman in the group. This short opportunity to breathe that will lead us deeper into our true, authentic self. This shared and common experience that will forever tie us in spirit to one another.
I am so thankful to have shared this second gladsome retreat with this new group of women. I am thankful that each woman opened herself to the experience. I am thankful for the gifts I had to offer and how warmly they were received. This is truly humbling, to know I've touched the lives of others. A powerful surprise and reminder of how important it is to make good use of these gifts.
I am just...thankful for gladsome!
Build community...
This phrase is a charge given to her young nuns by Saint Angela Merici many years ago. I was first introduced to Angela while working at a small Catholic women's college some years ago, though Angela's focus on community will stick with me always. Angela understood long before feminism the importance of a strong network of women and the role women play in each other's lives - a role of nurture and compassion and affirmation.
I was so warmly reminded of how beautiful communing with women often is at gladsome this past weekend. Strangers quickly became connected partners in creating, important constants in our own personal journeys. How quickly and beautifully this community of women came to trust, to share, to shape, to inspire, to hold, and to encourage one another. This short pause in time taken with intention by each woman in the group. This short opportunity to breathe that will lead us deeper into our true, authentic self. This shared and common experience that will forever tie us in spirit to one another.
I am so thankful to have shared this second gladsome retreat with this new group of women. I am thankful that each woman opened herself to the experience. I am thankful for the gifts I had to offer and how warmly they were received. This is truly humbling, to know I've touched the lives of others. A powerful surprise and reminder of how important it is to make good use of these gifts.
I am just...thankful for gladsome!
Friday, November 15, 2013
this moment {dinnertime laughter}
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.
May you be filled with laughter and joy!
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
a giving heart
The baby was born weighing only 15 ounces, read the newsletter. Before I knew what the article was about, I'd begun reading it aloud right in the midst of little ears. He's doing well and gaining weight, it continued. But Mom has had to take a leave from work and travel daily to the city (over an hour away). They could use our help.
Feeling empathy as only mothers can, this story struck me to my core. I could feel the hollow in my heart that would never mend if I were her. The terror in the thought of this being my child. The gratitude that it never was. Tears streamed my face and my children fell silent, intently listening for the ending.
As the final words of instruction for families wishing to make donations fell from my lips, Peace bolted from the room. I was fearful this story had been too much for her sensitive heart. Then I realized... she had bolted for the very first $10 she earned in chores just the day before. Following her lead, Pie found every penny, nickel, dime, and quarter she could fit in her tiny little hands.
Together they made cards pondering what would be the best message for this family. Should the message be of hope? of peace? simply to say we are sorry? The envelopes were stuffed with every possible monetary contribution the two of them could make and even wishes they had more to give.
How much is 15 ounces Daddy? He found a can of green beans in the pantry and helped them feel the weight. How much should a baby weigh Daddy? Something like this gallon of milk. Flickers of knowing and sadness in each set of eyes as they lifted that gallon.
Then, talk of how they could spread the word ensued. We'll tell our friends and our class and collect money for this family. Their kindness and generosity contagious and palpable.
For all the busyness of our home, this was a moment that made time stop. We were still and with one another and safe and thankful. I was in awe of the children who have blessed me with the name Mom.
Feeling empathy as only mothers can, this story struck me to my core. I could feel the hollow in my heart that would never mend if I were her. The terror in the thought of this being my child. The gratitude that it never was. Tears streamed my face and my children fell silent, intently listening for the ending.
As the final words of instruction for families wishing to make donations fell from my lips, Peace bolted from the room. I was fearful this story had been too much for her sensitive heart. Then I realized... she had bolted for the very first $10 she earned in chores just the day before. Following her lead, Pie found every penny, nickel, dime, and quarter she could fit in her tiny little hands.
Together they made cards pondering what would be the best message for this family. Should the message be of hope? of peace? simply to say we are sorry? The envelopes were stuffed with every possible monetary contribution the two of them could make and even wishes they had more to give.
How much is 15 ounces Daddy? He found a can of green beans in the pantry and helped them feel the weight. How much should a baby weigh Daddy? Something like this gallon of milk. Flickers of knowing and sadness in each set of eyes as they lifted that gallon.
Then, talk of how they could spread the word ensued. We'll tell our friends and our class and collect money for this family. Their kindness and generosity contagious and palpable.
For all the busyness of our home, this was a moment that made time stop. We were still and with one another and safe and thankful. I was in awe of the children who have blessed me with the name Mom.
Sunday, November 10, 2013
home
Home....
This simple and lovely word has been very present on my mind of late. What does it mean, exactly? How does one find home? How does one make home?
Paint is my usual answer. Just paint the walls. This color or that. Warm or cool. Paint will make this place home. You see, that's the extrovert in me which believes if I can control what's on the outside, I will feel in control on the outside. Unfortunately, I have a strong introverted side that doesn't fall much for this pretense and still looks inwardly for answers.
It seems I have a tendency to know in my being when I am not in a place to call home. That shy, pulled back temperament sneaks in and effectively shuts off all intention of interacting with others. I am guarded.
I've done my fair share of whining about how this place is exactly that -- NOT home. Work, community, churches, the narrowness of it all. I've held the same position at the same institution for eight years and feel no more part of that community than I did the day I first stepped on campus. Such irony for a campus known for its warmth and welcome. It's there, to be sure. Just not for me and I am not alone in this experience.
For much of my life there has been no place more like home than church, especially when I was making music with others. I'm still working hard to find home in that space.
As I've not been able to find it in the traditional places, I've been yearning for home. A place where my body softens. Where I might laugh. Where I might stop trying to figure things out for just a bit. Where hugs are genuine and strong and the people inside know the heaviness of my heart before I even speak a word. Where once inside, the heaviness falls away. Just...like...that. So simple.
My respite has been my mother's home where my guard comes crashing down and I stop doing. This is a place where I can say aloud the thoughts on my mind and don't fear they will go unheard or belittled. Where the loneliness of my darkest hours finds company and my spirit strengthens. This I call home...
I want so very much for my own home to be this space for me, for my children. I notice how there is tension when we greet others in our home and I wonder what I've done wrong. Somehow our home seems a base, a place to clean and straighten before heading out into the world in our own separate ways. A place where doing gets in the way of being and there is much to be done.
A few weeks ago, a dear friend invited me and my family to a peace pole dedication. I watched as my son leaped through the front door to find his new friend and thought how he looked as though he were home, a place quite familiar and comfortable. As I crossed her threshold, I felt it too. H.O.M.E.
She told me later she was glad we came. Holding back tears, I replied...it feels a little like being home. And it did. So many dear friends and friendships unchanged. I recognized myself in her home -- my own warmth, my own love, my own softening.
I think of her words often. She thanked her guests for coming that day and making her new house feel more and more like home. She's written about the moments in their new house that add to the feeling of home. I've witnessed her being that sings an example of making home for every person who comes through her door.
Following our visit, I had a strong urge to paint. I brought home paint samples galore with a patchwork of colors still fixed to my kitchen wall. We did paint the dining room. But, Papa looked at me in the middle of my frenzy. He gave me those eyes that said this isn't about paint. And he was right. It is all about finding home...
This simple and lovely word has been very present on my mind of late. What does it mean, exactly? How does one find home? How does one make home?
Paint is my usual answer. Just paint the walls. This color or that. Warm or cool. Paint will make this place home. You see, that's the extrovert in me which believes if I can control what's on the outside, I will feel in control on the outside. Unfortunately, I have a strong introverted side that doesn't fall much for this pretense and still looks inwardly for answers.
It seems I have a tendency to know in my being when I am not in a place to call home. That shy, pulled back temperament sneaks in and effectively shuts off all intention of interacting with others. I am guarded.
I've done my fair share of whining about how this place is exactly that -- NOT home. Work, community, churches, the narrowness of it all. I've held the same position at the same institution for eight years and feel no more part of that community than I did the day I first stepped on campus. Such irony for a campus known for its warmth and welcome. It's there, to be sure. Just not for me and I am not alone in this experience.
For much of my life there has been no place more like home than church, especially when I was making music with others. I'm still working hard to find home in that space.
As I've not been able to find it in the traditional places, I've been yearning for home. A place where my body softens. Where I might laugh. Where I might stop trying to figure things out for just a bit. Where hugs are genuine and strong and the people inside know the heaviness of my heart before I even speak a word. Where once inside, the heaviness falls away. Just...like...that. So simple.
My respite has been my mother's home where my guard comes crashing down and I stop doing. This is a place where I can say aloud the thoughts on my mind and don't fear they will go unheard or belittled. Where the loneliness of my darkest hours finds company and my spirit strengthens. This I call home...
I want so very much for my own home to be this space for me, for my children. I notice how there is tension when we greet others in our home and I wonder what I've done wrong. Somehow our home seems a base, a place to clean and straighten before heading out into the world in our own separate ways. A place where doing gets in the way of being and there is much to be done.
A few weeks ago, a dear friend invited me and my family to a peace pole dedication. I watched as my son leaped through the front door to find his new friend and thought how he looked as though he were home, a place quite familiar and comfortable. As I crossed her threshold, I felt it too. H.O.M.E.
She told me later she was glad we came. Holding back tears, I replied...it feels a little like being home. And it did. So many dear friends and friendships unchanged. I recognized myself in her home -- my own warmth, my own love, my own softening.
I think of her words often. She thanked her guests for coming that day and making her new house feel more and more like home. She's written about the moments in their new house that add to the feeling of home. I've witnessed her being that sings an example of making home for every person who comes through her door.
Following our visit, I had a strong urge to paint. I brought home paint samples galore with a patchwork of colors still fixed to my kitchen wall. We did paint the dining room. But, Papa looked at me in the middle of my frenzy. He gave me those eyes that said this isn't about paint. And he was right. It is all about finding home...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)