Slow Learner

So if you've been reading my blog for very long, I think you'll recognize this ridiculous cycle:

Gee, I have so many weaknesses.
My weaknesses are really dragging me down.
Ah! Epiphany! Heavenly Father cares about me despite my weaknesses! All is right in the world.
Man, I can't believe how many weaknesses I have.
Life really stinks. I'm really lame. I just wish I could conquer these things that make me so frustrated with myself.
What? You mean that it's EXPECTED that I am weak? That's part of the PLAN? Amazing! I never would have GUESSED! Grace is wonderful!

Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.

Ummmmm...can I just ask a question?

Why don't I learn this lesson once and for all?

It's like I'm enrolled in Remedial Life (Grace for Dummies). Seriously. I'd like to be done with this lesson once and for all so I can like myself more, serve the people around me better and maybe learn something about, I don't know, something ELSE?

But then, in the plan, is there really anything but grace? Isn't that what it's all about? Maybe I'm not in Grace for Dummies. Maybe I'm in Advanced Placement Grace. After all, I'm having lots and lots of tests and even writing a dissertation or two. Looks like I'm on the cyclical learning plan. Maybe if I keep returning to the same lesson over and over and over, I'll really start to believe it.

Reason Behind the Insanity?

I just had an exciting thought...

I've been trying to be more organized for most (OK, all) of my adult life. I've been praying to be more organized for years. Now, I don't live in filth or anything, but I will admit that my desk is rarely (never) cleaned off, my closets are rarely (never) all cleaned out at once, and let's not even talk about my laundry/storage room (or as I fondly refer to it, The Pit).

So MAYBE the only reason we've felt inspired to move forward on this house thing is so that I can get organized! Wouldn't that be great? I'll have a cleaned up, organized house that has to be buyer-ready every day, and I'll learn all kinds of great habits that will carry over into the rest of my life.

And my house won't sell, but that will be OK, because we'll be so in love with our clean, hip, decorated and organized home that we won't even need to add on, let alone move to this scary new place.

So that's my new idea for the day. Maybe it will help me get through the mountains of tasks I have ahead of me.

(My neighbor keeps telling me I should get excited about the move. I'm just not there yet. Can you tell?)

More on Fear

Communal fear has obviously been on my mind. Today as I drove Josh to soccer, I happened to turn on NPR and they happened to be talking about fear How about that? It was actually a discussion about This I Believe, a radio broadcast that ran for quite a long time in the 50's with personal essays about peoples' deep personal beliefs. A few years ago, NPR decided to bring back this broadcast, and I've always loved listening.

The broadcast today was a discussion about the basic attitude of fear in the 1950's and how closely it corresponds to the kind of national spirit we feel today. They replayed some of the essays, and I was touched by the intelligence, the wisdom, the goodness of these people who were doing their best to fight ignorance and hatred, just as we need to today.

Edward R. Murrow was the host. Here is some of his essay which opened the series:

We hardly need to be reminded that we are living in an age of confusion. A lot of us have traded in our beliefs for bitterness and cynicism, or a for a heavy package of despair, or even a quivering portion of hysteria. Opinions can be picked up cheap in the marketplace, while such commodities as courage and fortitude and faith are in alarmingly short supply. Around us all—now high like a distant thunderhead, now close upon us with the wet choking intimacy of a London fog—there is an enveloping cloud of fear.

There is a physical fear, the kind that drives some of us to flee our homes and burrow into the ground in the bottom of a Montana valley like prairie dogs to try to escape, if only for a little while, the sound and the fury of the A-bombs or the hell bombs or whatever may be coming. There is a mental fear which provokes others of us to see the images of witches in a neighbor’s yard and stampedes us to burn down his house. And there is a creeping fear of doubt—doubt of what we have been taught, of the validity of so many things we have long since taken for granted to be durable and unchanging.

It has become more difficult than ever to distinguish black from white, good from evil, right from wrong. What truths can a human being afford to furnish the cluttered nervous room of his mind with when he has no real idea how long a lease he has on the future. It is to try to meet the challenge of such questions that we have prepared these broadcasts. It has been a difficult task and a delicate one. Except for those who think in terms of pious platitudes or dogma or narrow prejudice—and those thoughts we aren’t interested in—people don’t speak their beliefs easily or publicly.

Couldn't that have been written yesterday? Substitute "biochemical warfare" for "A-bombs", and it fits perfectly.

We just need to remind ourselves that people have battled evil and fear for eons, that we've been threatened with destruction countless times in the past. My faith teaches me that we work for good, we put our trust in God, and live with the belief that we can make it through anything we're given, even if it feels like we can't.

So there. I'm done discussing fear now.

The Swine Flu is Coming, the Swine Flu is Coming

Have you heard about this little thing called Y2K, I mean anthrax, I mean bird flu, I mean the crazy liberal agenda, I mean swine flu?

It's terrifying, isn't it? I think I'd better keep my family home from school and work. Oh, and tape up my windows with plastic and duct tape. And get my shotgun out to protect my food storage from those people who aren't as prepared as we are.

Honestly, I'm tired of fear. I'm sick and tired of people trying to make me afraid. I'm not afraid of the swine flu. ANY flu can kill you. Did you know that? 36,000 people in the US die a year of the normal flu. Did you know that? Josh got the normal flu, remember, and had a fever for 19 days, remember? Believe me, I don't have any fondness for the flu. And while I understand the danger in a flu epidemic, I refuse to live my life in fear.

The natural world can wallop us. But do you know what? We're strong. We're resilient. We're capable of surviving hard things. Even if the worst things happen to us, we can rebound.

But there are two things that really do terrify me: hatred and ignorance. When I consider Rwanda, or the holocaust, or any form of genocide, it seems to me that when we take these two ingredients and mix them together and spark them with (you guessed it) fear, you have a recipe for tragedy on an enormous scale. And really, it's what man does to man that seems to be truly horrific.

You know what combats those two things? Love and education.

And one more thing that scares me. Conservatives.

OH, I AM SO KIDDING. It's really the liberals that scare me. No, it's the inflammatory talk show hosts. No, it's the liberal media. No, it's lion-tamers. They're so unnatural. No, it's people who listen to country music. No, it's romance-novel readers. No, it's vegans. No, it's teenagers.

No. It's hatred and ignorance.

Essay

Hey, I got an essay published. Well, kind of published. OK, not really published, but it's on a website for Mormon women. Therefore, you can assume it's about spirituality, and you've been duly warned. If you'd like to click over, you are welcome.

Anyway, this makes almost three posts in a row on a spiritual bent (if you ignore the Poptarts. I am ignoring Poptarts. I only eat them when I run a really long time). I apologize to those of you who prefer programming as usual and promise I will get back to normal now.

On Perfectionism

Every second Wednesday morning, you will find me in Kate's kindergarten class. It's Mommy Helper day, and while I am tired by the end of it (bless you, all you teachers. You amaze me), I am also surprised at the insights into humanity I receive while watching children learn. It's not as in your face as being in the junior high lunchroom, of course, but MAN, there is a lot of variety in our souls, isn't there?

Today, my job was to help make a butterfly mobile. Each child was to trace a small, a medium, and a large butterfly onto construction paper, cut out the butterflies, and decorate them in a symmetrical way. Simple enough? For most of the kids, six months into kindergarten, yes. But there was one incident that still has me thinking.

A. is a beautiful boy with lashes that I might kill for. I've never noticed anything unusual about him until today. But when it was time to trace his butterfly, he came unglued, over and over again.

"I can't DO this."

"Will you do this FOR me?"

"I CAN'T DO THIS!"

He would trace over the same section of wing, and anytime his finger moved the diecut he was tracing, he tried to put it right back into place and then retrace that same section.

I said, "Hey, A., it's okay if the tracing isn't perfect. It's really fine if you just try your best."

He said, "NO. It has to be PERFECT. It's not GOOD ENOUGH"

We had the same conversation six or seven times. He kept asking if I would do it for him, and I kept saying, "Let's just ignore the problems and try again," and he would tell me that he wanted it just right. It couldn't be messy.

By the end of the third butterfly, A. was in tears, and I wanted to throw my arms around him, put him on my lap, and hug him tight. I wondered what impulse was making him feel that perfection was the only option. I wanted to heal him of it and watch him do as sloppy a job as most of the other kindergarten boys had done. I wanted him to enjoy just the effort of trying and to forget about being perfect. After all, the end result was not the important thing...it was the process that was important.

As I struggled to communicate to A. that "good enough" can really BE good enough, I felt a strong impulse come over me, an understanding that my Heavenly Father feels the same way about me. How often have I struggled with a feeling of inferiority because of my lack of perfection? How often have I cried and struggled and yelled that I wasn't GOOD ENOUGH? I'm sure Heavenly Father has wanted to throw His arms around me, hold me tight and let me know that he just wants me to give it a good effort, and if necessary, grace will make up for the rest.

Sweet A. He finally finished his butterflies, and they were pretty darned good. I can guarantee that they were certainly good enough.

Discovery

Watching Ben explore the snowy backyard helps me remember one of the gifts of motherhood: Discovery. Keeping company with this charming guy who loves to wear Kate's too-big hot pink snow boots, watching him stomp around in the crusty snow, it all reminds me that the world is full of wonder, that even days-old snow has draw for some of us. I should unlock my doors, fling open the windows, and let adventure happen every day. I'm not good at this. I tend to get bogged down in daily expectations. But discovery keeps me alive, keeps me excited for the next day and the next. I'm grateful that Ben is here to keep me aware of the joys of newness or of simply seeing old things with new eyes.

The Junior High Lunchroom, or Social Darwinism at its Finest

I don't really need to write this post. All I have to write is "Junior High Lunchroom" and you can see where I'm going, can't you?

I had the "privilege" of being lunchroom monitor at the junior high today for two lunch periods.

Wow.

Some observations (some positive, others not so much):

Josh has a great group of friends. His table was chatty, happy, and full. Whew.

Josh is not in elementary school anymore. He not only did not come over and give me a hug, he barely acknowledged me. Sigh. I guess that's how it should be, but it's proves he's growing up.

I am glad that Josh's school has a nice amount of diversity. I loved seeing girls in hijab, hearing Spanish, and watching some kids who are African refugees.

I am sad that there was so little mixing of culture. Well, I should say, there was a decent amount of culture mixing, but it seemed to be almost entirely minority cultures mixing. There were many many tables of 100% white kids. Kind of defeats the purpose of diversity.

Some kids are mean. Some kids like to break rules. Is it group mentality? Is it what we fall to without a really loud conscience?

I have some kickin' mom chops. I was there to monitor, not to observe, and I was all over those kids. I shut down a baby carrot food fight, gave the evil eye to some loudies, smiled at the kids who looked like they needed a little encouragement (and is anything sadder than a kid sitting all alone at lunch? About broke my heart every time I saw it), and stopped a chase. Don't mess with me. I am Lunch Mom.

Someone threw up in the hall. Isn't that just the cherry on top?

Two stories to close my lunchroom saga:

First story: I noticed three boys I've known since kindergarten. They're a little quieter, a little more intellectual (OK, they're a little more nerdy. There. I said it). They sat at a table and ate together, which made me glad. Like I said, nothing sadder than eating alone. And then before I could get a handle on what was going on, this group of obviously way-into-themselves boys joined them at the table. And as I moved closer, I saw what was going on...the three boys were getting kicked off of the table. They quietly got up, shoulders slouched, and I got all in the mean boys' faces. I told them off. It didn't do any good. The three kids left and tried to find another table. One of them just took off and went to eat in the hall. It still makes me sick. I wish I could tell their parents how disappointing their boys' behavior was. (I'd want to know so I could kick some sense into my son.)

Second story: First lunch was a little quieter. There were a few tables empty. One table held only one dark-haired boy who was eating quietly. As I watched him, I decided he must be on the spectrum, but pretty high-functioning. I watched him on and off, and noticed a really tall kid approaching, a handsome blond boy who looked like an eighth grader. He came up to the first boy, smiled and said something, and before I knew it, he sat down and they proceeded to have a long conversation. The blond boy spent more than 5 or 6 minutes sitting with the dark-haired boy, gently teasing him and being about the sweetest thing I've ever seen. It was obvious it wasn't the first time they had hung out. I was so moved by this small but important show of friendship. I wish I could tell their parents how amazing their boys' behavior was.

I get to go back next month. Can't wait.

Coming Down from the Mountain

My guess is this happens to you, too. You have some phenomenal experience. You're one with something bigger than yourself (music, the spirit, a conversation with someone dear, whatever). You feel expanded, enlightened, enraptured, maybe.

And then a kid pinches her sister. Or the dog throws up.

And rather than taking a leisurely walk down the mountain, preparing yourself to enter the real world again, you've just leapt off a high cliff face and landed in a patch of thorns.

No matter what, it's always hard to leave the mountain (like Moses, leaving the burning bush and finding his people getting all nasty around a golden calf.) But it's even harder to be shoved into the bumps and bruises of everyday life without any warning. I overreact. I snap a little. Then I catch my breath and try to relax.

As much as I'm enjoying myself at the piano day after day, I will admit that I'm getting chucked off the mountain way too often. Someone needs a diaper change. The phone rings. The kids are screaming at each other. Maybe THIS is why it's been so hard to get back in the groove...not that I didn't have the interest, but that it takes much effort to leave the mountain and then run right back up.

But it's worth it. It's so so worth it. I'm feeling alive, feeling my old self returning, finding my voice again.

So I trudge back up the mountain. Again and again. As many times as it takes.

Life Has Loveliness to Sell

Life has loveliness to sell,
All beautiful and splendid things,
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Soaring fire that sways and sings,
And children's faces looking up,
Holding wonder like a cup.

Life has loveliness to sell,
Music like a curve of gold,
Scent of pine trees in the rain,
Eyes that love you, arms that hold,
And for your spirit's still delight,
Holy thoughts that star the night.

Spend all you have for loveliness,
Buy it and never count the cost;
For one white singing hour of peace
Count many a year of strife well lost,
And for a breath of ecstacy
Give all you have been, or could be.

-Sara Teasdale

I love this poem, with its gentle reminder that loveliness is found in large and simple things. I have found that loveliness in Ben's pats on my back, in finding the right low leaping left hand octaves, in hearing the Spirit and listening. It is in my dog resting her head on my knee when I'm feeling especially low, in David's sweet text messages, in my childrens' faces in candlelight. It is in reconnecting with those I hold dear, in running at dawn, in finding my pillow at the end of an everlong day.

Life has loveliness to sell. Find it. Recognize it. Buy it.

Giving Thanks, Day 18

I am grateful to be a stay-at-home mom.

I have worked part time my entire adult life. I wasn't sure if I could give up my profession and still feel like myself. I have identified myself as a musician for as long as I can remember, and that label seemed to be my biggest identifier. I also have a great affinity for teaching and grow to truly love each of my students and their families. I care about their progress as people as well as musicians, and have enjoyed the opportunity to be a part of a child's growth from early in their educational lives until graduation. There aren't many professions that enjoy those kind of long term relationships, and I loved that part of teaching piano.

I was also happy to be an accompanist for Viva Voce, a women's choir that I have been a part of since January of 1997. I had the opportunity to perform and record in many different venues, and it helped keep up my reading and playing chops. I loved the women I worked with and, again, especially was thankful for long term relationships that often buoyed my spirits. (And to be quite honest, it was nice to be appreciated. Moms don't get the same kinds of acclaim as women can in the workplace.)

But it all got to be too much. Too much time focusing on other peoples' children. Too much time worrying about what I needed to do to become an even better teacher, an even better pianist. Too much stress, trying to figure out how to get my kids where they needed to go, how to help them finish their homework, how to get dinner ready after hours of teaching, how to be unfrazzled in the evening so that we all could feel peace in our home, how to get my OWN kids to practice after trying to convince all my STUDENTS to practice. It became clear that something had to change.

So after months of agonizing, praying, fasting, and worrying, David and I made the Big Decision.

And now it's done. And life is beautiful.

Well, a lot of the time it is.

The house isn't always clean. But it's cleaner. Dinners aren't always fancy. But we have dinner on time almost every night. I'm not always a paragon of peace and tranquility. But the kids are happier. Much happier. I don't know how we would have survived this year if I were still trying to keep all the balls in the air. I am truly truly grateful.

We couldn't have made this decision too many years ago. My income was vital for a long time. I have so much empathy for moms who work, and I'm downright blown away by those who work full-time. It's HARD. I respect moms everywhere who are trying to do the best they can with whatever hands they've been dealt. But I'm grateful that I was in a position where sacrifices could be made so that our family could be in a better situation than we were.

Am I still a musician? Yes. But I'm a mom. For now, that's my priority. And, surprisingly (to me, anyway), I love it.

Thinking about Junior High

Josh is having a great time in junior high. This is a relief. I did not enjoy junior high. It was a very tumultuous time for me. Wasn't it for you?

"The seventh and eight grades were for me, and for every single good and interesting person I've ever known, what the writers of the Bible meant when the used the words hell and the pit." Anne Lamott said that in Operating Instructions. I laughed very hard the first time I read it. (Don't feel bad if you liked junior high. I'm sure you're still good and interesting.)

But man, kids are just plain mean, aren't they? I was mean. I remember being mean, even to one of my closest friends, when I decided I needed to be cooler. And I was raised in a nice family, with great parents who tried to teach me about kindness and right and wrong, and I still wanted to be cool rather than be nice.

Maybe boys are just different. Josh is enjoying his hard classes and his easy classes. He apparently has no angst about changing in front of other junior high boys for PE (don't even get me started on locker room drama. Seventh grade was Horrible.) and has many friends. He doesn't mind that he's probably one of the two or three smallest kids in the whole building, and although he doesn't like that loud, rowdy, obnoxious bus, he's not throwing a fit about taking it. So is it a boy thing? Or is he especially resilient? I don't know, but I am truly grateful.

I know that junior high (I mean, the pit) helped create the person I am now...both good and bad. I have empathy for the underdog formed over all those times I was pushed to the ground during the mile run in PE. I have an ability to forgive based on how I learned that I needed to BE forgiven, when I was the one creating the pain for someone else. But I still hope Josh comes through these next two years and doesn't even begin to understand Anne Lamott's quote. Maybe he'll say, "I loved junior high. I learned so much and made fantastic friends." Ya think?