an accident

It began as most February winter mornings do - cold and dreary with a soft layer of new fallen snow on the ground.  Our morning routine wrapped up successfully and I dropped the kids off at daycare in comfortable time.  As I headed up the familiar steep hill, I concerned my mind with the potential oncoming traffic that makes its presence known suddenly, often causing a quick veer toward the edge of the road.  The road narrow, without berm, drainage ditches lining both sides.

In an instant, my tire caught the edge of the road.  I watched as my front right side sunk deep into the ditch and I exhaled.  Time stood still and the van bounced violently from ditch to air to grass; forced left and back onto the road, missing the tree by inches.  

I cannot recall or imagine what my feet were doing.  Did I brake?  Did I accelerate?  I do not know. 

My arms steered.  Did it matter?  I do not know.

The car stopped as suddenly as it began.  There was no other car traveling toward me that would have spurred my movement off the road.  Just me.  

'What happened,' I wondered.  I do not know.

I found my coffee cup under the gas pedal emptying in gulps onto the floor.  The visor had been forced down as though shielding me from the sun.  I got out of the car, shaking, breathing.  There seemed to be little damage.  

The tire tracks in the snow, however, told a story of luck or grace or guardian angel.  The deep descent into the ditch, the air born seconds between ditch and landing, the narrow escape from front end collision.  Again, it seemed only right to breathe.  There was a prayer of gratitude in that breath.

I got back in and drove off slowly.  The van drove as though it had been on a simple adventure.  Only the steering column forgot to straighten itself.

A day later, the car has been examined and appears to have minimal damage, mostly cosmetic.  Though the memories and what-ifs haunt my every thought.  Time will heal this, I know.  Wrapped in those memories, though, is a deep thankfulness for how it happened and who was not in the van with me and that there were no other parties involved.  So, I try to hang onto the thankfulness and breathe out the what-ifs.  And know, in the breathing, that God is oh. so. good!

it's raining

What to do when the weather doesn't cooperate? For certain, the to-do list posted on the refrigerator will have to wait.  You know, the one that contains raking leaves to prep for garden mulching, taking down the trampoline for the winter, cleaning off the back porch for. the. winter.  Not gonna happen in this dreary, cloud covered, rainy, pre-hurricane set of days.

Funny how weather sometimes makes us do the very thing we fight so hard against: REST.

Instead of our hectic preparation and putting away, we did exactly that.

Here's a glimpse:

 :: snuck in a horse ride before the cold air arrived
:: baked biscotti with my dad for the very first time
:: watched a movie or two
:: built a fort
:: slept in said fort
:: moved to the bed when his adult back told him he must
:: stayed in our jammies all day
:: slept late
:: cleaned up said fort
:: had dinner with Grandma and Grandpa
:: watched football with neighbors
:: played board games with Grandma and Grandpa
:: enjoyed a bit of being forced inside, forced to sit with each other, forced to pass the time playing with those we love

Wishing you and all living beings a safe week filled with happiness and joy!  Special thoughts and prayers to all who are facing Hurricane Sandy this week.  May you be well!

affirmation

Mommy, she whispers softly, my belly hurts.

Again? I think, rolling over to look at the clock recognizing the time as mere minutes before the alarm sounds.  I mutter, Close your eyes and take a deep breath.  I'm sure you are just excited.

Mommy, if I throw up, will you send me to school? She says with angst recalling the frequent occasions when she missed the big event because her anxiety got the best of her the night before.

Knowing now that her stomach issues are most likely linked to her emotions, I sit up and give her a look of what I hope is reassurance.  Yes, honey, you can go to school today.

Why don't you lay down and close your eyes.  Let's breathe together. 

Slowly in and make your belly grow big - nice and slow.

Let your breath blow out through your nose - nice and slow.

Take a few more breaths like this and think of something that makes you happy.  Maybe your friends from school.  Or a food you like to eat.

Just. keep. breathing.

Her body softens now.  Her face calms, too.  She is safe now and she knows this.  Her anxiety can't steal this place from her.  Near Mom.  Safe.

Feeling better already, her gaze up at the moon, she shares sweetly:

I'm so lucky to have a Mommy like you.  If I had a different Mommy, she wouldn't know how to help me breathe.  Then I would just throw up and couldn't do the things I want to do.  I mean with your baking and your meditating, I'm just so lucky.

Then she laid against her pillow, instinctively placing her thumb in her mouth, closing her eyes and drifting just into that place of consciousness before sleep.

Imagine this moment.  Close your eyes and feel with me how powerful these words were for my spirit.  I was captured in that moment.  Time standing still so that I didn't have to wish to remember it.  I recall feeling bright, so full of light that every once of my being poured out sunshine. 

I taught her to breathe.  And that means something to her.  And that makes everything okay for her.  I gave her safety and coping skills.  And that means something to me.  And that makes everything okay.

Have you ever wondered if you are doing the very thing you hope you are doing?  Or being the very person you wish to be?  In all my self reflection and intentional living, I've often wondered if others perceive me to be doing the work I believe I am doing. 

I work in a field where we assess everything.  Did students learn what we taught them? Did they find value in the program we planned?  Are they satisfied with our services?  Always seeking areas for improvement.  My mind operates much the same way in assessing my own effectiveness, authenticity, and ways of being. 

Both in work or in self, sadly, I don't take the time to explore what I've done well or where I am hitting the mark.  We joke, in our field, that we don't celebrate well our successes because we are oft too busy planning the next thing.

So, to be graced with this external affirmation, this moment to pause and savor something I've done well is a gift that won't long be forgotten.

So, too, with this affirmation from a co-worker:
     Gina, you always seem so calm and composed.

And this one from my boss:
     What I will miss most when you change positions is your presence in crisis management.  What you bring to students who are in need.

And this one from my son:
    Mom, I love when you sit and talk with me at night.  I feel like I can go to sleep better. (followed by a big, fat hug).

I do what I do, both at work and at home, because of an inner motivation to do good work believing that my work (whatever that might mean today) affects others every day. Impacting others is a responsibility I take seriously.  I want to know that I'm doing that well.

What I've learned as of late is that all the self talk in the world cannot ever truly reveal to me who I am and what I do.  But, these affirmations, they are windows into the minds of others that help me see myself beyond the criticism and wonder.  They are measurements of the present I've given to others.  A wonderful mirror lifted up to me at exactly the moment I need to see and know.

And I am thankful for each and every one.

one important lady

My sister and I had quite a good time planning and dreaming the events of this summer.  There were so many possibilities to create fun and memories for our children.  While there were certainly some dreams that couldn't fit in, there was one summer plan that couldn't be missed.  A priority it was!

You see, there is a lady - a very special lady - who is responsible for this whole mess of aunts and uncles and cousins.  My sister and I call her Grandma.  She's also known as Great Grandma (because she is great says my son), Ma (in the way only Italian children can pronounce), Betty to her friends, and Bea by my grandfather.

She's a feisty old lady, she is.  She's outlived most of her friends.  She's prays each day for God to bring her home and she really means it.  

She's not too old to scold us or to tell us how it is or to offer her opinion of the world today.  And she's not too timid either. We all chuckle when another bends the first knuckle on the pointer finger and gives it a wag in imitation.  We call it The Betty.

But she's not too old to be generous and this is what we will remember most.  You can be sure that you will be fed for even the shortest of visits to her home.  You'll never leave empty handed.  And my children know to expect a small bag of pencils or snacks when she visits us.  Generous with gifts, but generous with her spirit.

More than food or trinkets, we can also count on her to listen with kindness, to laugh with hardiness, and worry with compassion about each one of us, and to love with all she is.  You see, while we made her a priority during this summer of ours, she's made us a priority our whole life.

welcome back letter

It's been so long, my friends.  And a busy, busy summer since I've last written.  It occurred to me as I sat at the computer that it was just officially summer the last time I wrote anything of substance.  Now summer is over, despite the fact that the calendar says there are five weeks left to enjoy.  (I work in higher education, so my summer ends the day the first set of student athletes arrive to campus.)

As the last few weeks raced by, I thought often of this space and my few faithful readers.  I've missed you much.  I've missed the loving and supportive comments of this space.  I've missed the understanding.  I've missed the opportunity to use words in my own process of meaning making.  I have to be honest, though.  I would not have traded a. single. moment. of my summer for the opportunity to write more.

Writing has given me the gift of considering the present: stopping long enough to ponder what each moment means and putting each story on paper so the moments take on a life of their own.  But this summer, I lived in the moment.  For. the. first. time. of. my. life...

I know this because I did not think of work when I was home with my family.  

I know this because I have hundreds of memories that keep playing on the screen of my mind - the sound of two girls arguing and solving their conflict; the mimicking of teaching in their makeshift classroom; the modeling of outfits complete with bracelets and necklaces and high-heeled shoes; the red-eyed, wet-haired exhaustion of children who spent the day in the pool; the sweet chatter of cousins at bedtime; the silly songs with lyrics made up by older and younger children alike; the snuggling; the quiet walks around the pond (yes, with all 8 children).

I know this because my heart leaps at Mr. Man impersonating his younger cousin. I feel the pang of excitement when my text tone sounds, hoping it will be a picture or a greeting or an update about the daily goings-on of my sister and her children.  I know this because I share any news with my husband and children and they are equally excited and interested.  Together, we share our goings-on with them.

I know this because I've learned so much about myself and my own children that I would have never realized without this summer.  Things like I can survive without being in complete control or Peace and Pie thrive in very social environments, while Mr. Man and I need some quiet alone time often or I may worry about choices my sister makes, but they are hers and they are made with thought and care and love, as are mine, each in the hopes of meeting the needs of our families, neither exactly right and neither exactly wrong.

So, I hope you'll understand my absence.  I hope you'll return to read my musings again.  And I hope I'll bring something different to this space because of the difference this summer has made in my real-time life.

Peace,

G

this moment {farewell}

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.

What an amazing summer it has been and now it is time to say farewell.  In the weeks to come, I hope to share much of what we experienced with our larger family.  There is so much and it is hard to know where to begin.  I suppose it should be said simply: we are grateful for every moment together and are sad that it has come to an end.


More to come...

a sweet gift

Some times Mama's need a break.  A break from holding the baby, comforting him, soothing him, knowing he's tired, recognizing signs of hunger, especially on a particularly cranking day.  I remember those days from when my children were babies.I remember that feeling: I just can't hold this baby one minute longer.

I saw this on my sister's face a few days ago.  Her look of gentle exhaustion.  Knowing she would do whatever her baby needed of her.  But longing to have just a few minutes where her body was her own.

Then I remembered the most precious gift my husband would sometimes give me.  When I wore this look, he would gently take our child and walk.  He would show our children the world - the leaves, the trees, the sky, the house.  He would talk so quietly, his voice so soothing it would settle any fear.

Often each child would find their way into peaceful slumber.  And he would keep walking.

I've seen this same magic from my own father.  Countless hours he's spent walking sleeping babies.  I'm sure he would not use the word countless, though.

I nudged Papa Bear and he recognized that look on my sister's face. He moved swiftly, but softly to scoop up her child.  And they walked. And walked.  Eventually, this child, too, lulled into a peaceful place. 

Ahhhh!  Such a gift from these men in my life.  Such a beautiful gift!

on my commute

How many people do you know that can say they absolutely love their commute to work?  Well, I do!

I've come to know the rhythm and flow of the seasons through my commute.  While I drive these 12 miles nearly every day, it seems I never travel the same road twice. One day I might see land; where heavy rain fall might leave a river the next.  

In the winter, I see snow and ice, barren trees and slumbering fields.  Yet, I see cattle and horses and farmers working despite the frosty temps.

In the summer, I see corn fields visibly lengthening each new week and soy beans in alternating fields.  I see colorful wild flowers which help me track the time - orange day lilies, light purple and white bells, and yellow ragweed (itchy nose, ahem!).

In autumn, I see beautiful shades of green, brown, orange, red, and yellows in the trees and in the fields.  The fields and woods always seem to speak of slowing and resting as fall arrives.

But spring!  Oh, spring!  The earth awakens and I can almost touch the energy coming from nature.  The fields are plowed in neat little rows.  The greens appear, every known shade.  The green of the grass.  The bright green of trees budding juxtaposed with the deep green pines.  The emerald green of the roadside wild flowers almost buzzing as my van drives along.  

Then there are the birds and butterflies of spring.  Just last week I counted nearly 100 flying creatures whipping joyfully near my van.  The butterflies orange, black, and brown.  Small birds dawning the same colors.  Sparrows, robins, blue birds and red.  Even wild turkeys! I hear the woodpeckers, too.

Sometimes, though not as often as I should, I surrender to the urge to stop, and look, and smell, and breathe, (and take pictures!). I'm thinking that when I do, I'll share the joys of the week's commute with you and hope that you enjoy them too.  Here's what's happening this week on my commute:

where do you see?

This morning we talked about where we see God.  For a quick and practical demonstration on this absolutely glorious, sunshiny day, we set the kids loose with the camera - to find God.  Each of us took a few photos of something that helped us see God.  Here are the places we found our Creator:

:: in the beautiful pinks and blues blossoming throughout the yard

:: in all things because God makes all things, even toy cell phones!

:: in sky and trees

:: in newly potted plants

:: in young sprouts of swiss chard

:: in a toad hopping through the backyard (a little blurry was the best I could get)

:: in the whimsical moments of children

:: in a child snuggling gently into her parents arms and falling asleep a few hours too early

Where do you see your Creator today?

creating childhood stories

We parent from what we know - our own childhood, what we've learned along our own journey, and attempting to be two steps ahead of what our kids will learn along their own paths.  Papa Bear and I love to share "When we were young..." stories with our eager listeners.  Sometimes we laugh together at those stories.

I remember many of the stories my own parents shared about their childhood.  It seems to me that neither of my parents had a childhood much like that of my own children.  I can recall vivid examples of using their imagination, connecting with communities full of other children, being outside much of each day, and living each day fully.  My children have much more stuff and hardly leave our side, mostly because our fears of their safety preclude us from sending them out into the neighborhood to play.  It is just a different world.

So, when an opportunity comes to remove ourselves from today's world and share with grandparents a piece of their childhood, I'm thankful that not all is lost.  

A few weeks back, on a beautiful, sunny, spring day, we had this opportunity.  The air was cool, my campus was empty of students, and the wind was flying just enough.  Grandma took us kite flying.  

Each of my children took to kite flying in a different way.  One had kites soaring in the air quickly.  Another had some successful flights and knee dropping crashes.  The youngest simply enjoyed rolling in the grass and watching everyone else.  Grandma was behind each child - with praise, with encouragement, picking them up, putting their kites back in the air.

I was reminded of a simpler time, even that of my own childhood, and was grateful that my children can know a little of that time.

Thank you, Grandma!