December’s Child

Dec 14, 2007 | This Life

Life does not always go as planned. In fact, I suspect it rarely goes as planned. I don’t think we have much of a choice but to plan, but it’s probably in our best interests to not expect anything to go as predicted.

Or maybe that’s just me. I don’t know, I’ve always done things a bit, uh, backwards. Out of order, not according to plan. Rebellious just because I can be. So, it should not have surprised me when our child arrived in this world 5 weeks early. Three days before Christmas. Exactly what I had planned not to happen.

It did, though, surprise me. He was a much longed for and planned baby—a feat I wasn’t sure I’d ever accomplish. Prayers from many people, of many faiths accompanied me on the journey. If I was going to accomplish having a baby then I had definite opinions about when I’d like that child born. Looking back, I laugh at my insistence that I could do anything “normally”. It wasn’t in my DNA, it certainly wasn’t in my child’s either. Despite knowing this, we made a conscious choice: no babies in December. Our preference meant we “didn’t” do things to make sure that was the case. I knew going in that I was in for an adventure. I just forgot to factor in premature babies. Otherwise, we would have extended all that not doing by a few months.

I don’t know. . . Santa and Jesus are hard company to keep. Especially when you’re a kid. Yet, I’ve met my fair share of adults who struggle with having December birthdays. A lifetime of being overlooked has a way of making December babies wary. They are torn, I think, between wanting their day to be special and all the programming we receive that tells us we shouldn’t be “selfish.” Not wanting to put people out, not wanting to make demands in an already hectic season, I watch December babies shrink to the background, while the rest of us fortunate enough to be born in some other month celebrate birthday weeks or birthday months.

Now, 11 years later, I marvel at my hubris. I marvel even more that it still bothers me he was born in December. I wasn’t ready to have a baby 5 weeks early. Not then. Not now, really. My frustration, in light of his miraculous birth seems trivial. It is tempered by my awe. I remain flabbergasted by the feat of motherhood. . . and I suspect most of you feel that way, no matter how your children arrived in this world.

My child arrived early. A miracle baby. He will turn 11 in a week. As is our tradition, we decorate our tree as a birthday tree first, waiting until after his birthday to decorate for Christmas. It seems a small act to honor life’s unexpected glories, a small tribute to say, “You are special.”

So, for my darling child, who will read this when you are older. . . please know: You are special. My December baby, you were wanted and loved, even if you were planned for January. The very best thing, right next to your father, that has ever happened to me.

And it does not escape me, that your first act of rebellion was committed before you took your first breath.

Nothing a Little Sugar Can’t Cure

Dec 8, 2007 | This Life

There was once a house made of ginger and cardboard flavored flour. The builders of this house were firm believers in prefab construction and so they picked up a complete kit for their dream home at their local food warehouse. They would build a house that could withstand storms and winds and trees that swayed. They would build a house that could shine even without power, gleam even without electricity. It would be hard work, but they could do it, together.

Eagerly they tore open the countless bags of candy. Ok, the six bags of candy; dumping the contents into mismatched bowls. At first, the builders took great care to make sure their structure could withstand the perils of their land. A little bit glue here would make sure the chimney withstood any howling winds and a little bit more glue there kept the door from blowing in. . . if it could blow in. One could never be too careful, what with nibbling cats in the region and a naughty terrier roaming the land. Carefully, and with oh-so-much precision, they assembled their new abode, taking great pains to secure their roof. Recent history had taught them that Winter storms were never polite, preferring to steal lids and hats and roof shingles.

But soon, instructions and thoughtfully photographed suggestions were tossed aside.

“I bet I can put more candy on the my side of the house,” proclaimed the younger builder.

“I doubt it!” challenged the other builder. And so they set to work, plastering candy to the sides of their new home. And when they were finished, they stood back to admire  their work.

“YOU! You took all the candy for your side!” wailed the younger builder.

“I did not, you had plenty of candy. I just work faster than you.”

“But! But, that’s not FAIR. My side is hardly covered!” the young builder gasped.

“Yes, but you will get to eat my side as well as yours.” the older builder replied.

“Well, then, in that case, you win,” smiled the young builder.

The older builder swallowed her “I told you so” and smiled. Normalcy is not reconstructed overnight. But ginger houses built with love and laughter and lots of sugar certainly make an excellent foundation.

The Advent Hurricane

Dec 6, 2007 | This Life

You can call it a storm if you want to; but I lived through it, and it was a hurricane.

I’m here… and we’re alive. We sustained significant damage to our roof… (the photo above is not our house) but we are physically well and in good spirits. Power went out on Sunday and has just been restored—at least temporarily. Quest is up, Charter is not. Phone service has been restored. I am busily answering emails, uploading terrible photos of the devastation, and processing this event. Obviously, I’ve not gotten to comments yet.

It’s been a long 5 days but this community has survived the worst storm in recent memory. And in the process, we have banded together and we have stepped outside our own homes to extend a hand to our neighbors. I am proud to be an Astorian, proud of the way this community handled this crisis, proud to know that even if the world is unaware of our crisis, we are completely aware of our neighbor’s need. If there is anything to be gained–it is this, in the past 5 days we have not only learned to “love our neighbor”, we have embodied that. There is perhaps no better example of love incarnate.

I’ve just begun to go through the emails and comments… but thank you. For your prayers, your concerns, and your love. It means more than you can ever know.

I’m off to hot water and a hair dryer. And maybe a few loads of laundry.

Tone Deaf

Nov 30, 2007 | This Life

Comment Update: Thank you all for you lovely support and words. Due to the storm, I never got a chance to go back and respond to all of these amazing comments. While it is my custom to publicly answer comments, I am opting to respond individually via email. Considering all that has happened and with some distance, answering it all “out there” feels a bit off to me. But please know, I do so appreciate all the kind words and sentiments. It means the world to me that so many of you chose to participate on this post.

Tha

When I was 13, my cousin came to live with us for a year. We were the same age, but in very different places in our lives. In fact, our lives couldn’t have been more different. Our mothers may have been sisters, but that’s where the similarity ended. Sadly, that difference could not be breached—we had no idea at the beginning how impossible it would be for her to live in our world.

In retrospect, as much we tried, I don’t think we tried hard enough. Not because we were bad people, or mean people. But we were uniformed people. We were clueless and ill prepared. My parents might disagree… and I can’t speak for them. Their issues with this young girl were not mine. They dealt with the hard stuff of parenting, and I can’t judge one way or another if what they did was what needed to be done. But as a collective whole, I don’t think we even understood the enormity of the gulf between our way of living and the life she had previously known. We made no attempt to bridge it either. We simply expected her to fit in, to adjust, to become part of the family. She drowned in the ocean between our continents. She couldn’t swim. We couldn’t rescue.

What stands out about that year, to my eternal shame, is the fact that my cousin was tone deaf. Except, she had no idea. If American Idol had existed then, this child would have moved mountains to audition. She was going to be a star! And not just any star, a recording artist. She would have been famous, but for all the wrong reasons. It would have been this sweet, but deluded girl featured on the wannabe roll. Singing at the top of her lungs, in one ear wrenching note, “It’s the, Eye of the Tiger, it’s the thrill of the fight!”

As painful as it was to listen to her sing, it was more painful to listen to her dream. And this is where we failed. Where I failed specifically. You see, we didn’t allow her the delusion. Instead, we tried to impress upon her that a recording contract probably wasn’t in her future. I’m ashamed to admit, that we taped this poor kid belting out Survivor and made her listen.

She was only 13. She had nothing else but this dream. What we couldn’t see, was just that. It was her dream—delusion or no, we had no business taking that from her. I wish I hadn’t done it. I wish I could go back and be the patient kind of person she needed me to be. The kind of person who kept my cringing to myself and loved her for her little dream. Life would soon strip her of any hope she might have had; I didn’t need to be party to that robbery.

Delusions and dreams. There’s such a fine line between the two; it’s usually in the eye of the beholder. Or, ear. And I wonder, who would she have become if someone had believed in her dreams? It’s not that simplistic, is it? I mean, there were educational hurdles and behavioral issues that can’t be solved by believing you’re going to be famous. Wishful thinking. Magical thinking. Delusional thinking. That child needed a dose of reality. Right?

Here’s the thing. That’s all she’d ever had, reality. And it was a painful, loveless, abuse filled reality. She clung to a dream of a different life, where she would leave all the reminders of the hell she came from behind.

We all need to be delusional from time to time. Life has a way of bringing us into reality on its own. It’s not to say that when our dreams border on delusion, we don’t need people to come along side and suggest, softly, alternative ways of grounding ourselves to reality without losing our passions. But we don’t need people destroying our dream too soon. Not really. And as tempting as it might be, as good intended as we might think we are, what benefit is there in pointing out the obvious to the oblivious? Sometimes, there is a reason that tone-deaf children believe they’re going to be stars.

So the photo above… these pants, are my delusion. Evidently, I am tone deaf. But not so blissfully as I would like.

Last month I decided that I would move Thrifty Goodness over to etsy. And to my utter dismay, it’s doing just fine there. Better than fine, if you consider I’m not doing much to promote that change. When I consider the effort and work and hours that went into launching my own store—I’m sick to my stomach at having missed my moment. Etsy was the way to go from the beginning and I’m now playing catch-up.

However, with the move a terrible thing has been made very clear to me. Etsy allows viewers to “favorite” items in any given store. And if you troll through my store, and click on the “see who hearts this item” you will find that most of the things I’ve listed have fans. Several fans in many cases. I’m hearted all over the place. Except. . . except for the things I’ve made myself. Evidently, the world of etsy likes vintage but thinks that I am tone deaf. There’s little ol’ me, singing at the top of my lungs while the viewing world clamps virtual hands over their ears, cringing.

Oh. The. Horror. Seriously, I’m embarrassed. I want my delusions. I like them. Every time I step into my craft room with a new idea I can just feel it in my bones, “I’m going to be a star!”

Except, in a virtual form of what can only be Karma if Karma worked that way, I’m the only one who thinks so. And I’m surrounded by people who are with-holding “hearts” that tells me otherwise.

I can’t help but think of my cousin. I’m realizing that at nearly 40 I might be learning this lesson too late. In terms of her reality and mine, there is NO comparison. I feel lame even making the connection. But it’s what I’m thinking about today. Because, I’m an adult, and I’m going to get over the fact that I’m tone deaf. I’m going to get past the fact that no-one likes my handmade items. It’s just my ego at stake—not my survival. But, there is a 13 year old girl inside of me who mourns that I could not even begin to imagine, much less empathize with another 13 year old girl who needed more than anything for me to Heart her dream. And that part me, really is sad. Because as stupid and lame and absolutely INCONSEQUENTIAL a store on etsy is… it’s rendered me to the core thinking about real love and real dreams and real compassion.

So, there’s not much I can do. I can nurse my bruised ego. And I can tell my darkest secrets to you—hoping you will go out and HEART other people’s dreams, even if you consider them delusions. But I cannot change the past. I cannot love my cousin the way she needed. I can only sing at the top of my lungs and hope that she has found a way to keep singing too.

Glimmer, Glimmer

Nov 29, 2007 | This Life

I needed a break. And so I took one. Did you miss me? I missed you! I know you all are full of stories… I’m hoping you are continuing to write them!

I don’t know about you, but this time of year, my stories pile up in my head. Tall stacks of words, begging to be written—and my instinct is to avoid. It’s a by-product of being a terminal student. I’m only a year out of that world and the residuals are gleaming. I’m radio-active, people! Glowing brightly in the night, but nary a word from me. And now, everyone born before 1952 will be singing.

Total aside: speaking of Glow-worms and songs about them, and this will only make sense for those of you who spend an inordinate amount of time in church, but does anyone else think of the words to Glow-worm when they sing “Shine, Jesus, Shine?” I refuse to link the lyrics to that song on principle… google is your friend. 😀 I swear, I do. And someday, I’m going to sing Glow-worm over everyone else’s Shine! I’ll probably be 92 and they’ll blame it on my dementia. But you and I will know, deep in our hearts that I’d been planning this all along!

Here’s a little tidbit: my parents are missionaries. Most of you didn’t see that coming right? And while they went to the mission field late in life (I was in college), I grew up in an extremely religious household. Yeah, that didn’t surprise you one bit! When I was really small, my father and his best friend started a church. Which was cool. I’m not on board with their theology… but their act of purposeful community was courageous. And really, set the tone for my understanding of what community is. I’ve been judging churches and their effectiveness based on that model ever since. And here’s the thing: most of us don’t measure up.

Now, this post was supposed to be a story about my sock-puppet. I imagine my stack of stories as freshly baked cookies piled up, just waiting to be consumed. Ooey gooey chocolate chip, thank you! And the sock-puppet is the cookie on top. I’ve been thinking, and writing, and testing material on IZ. But sometimes, the cookie you want is the one in the middle of the stack. There’s just something about it. Here’s hoping that by pulling out that cookie the whole stack doesn’t come tumbling down. And sometimes, I run amok with a metaphor.

The cookie in the middle of the stack is yummy when it’s baked right. But most of us struggle with this idea of community. We are not alone. Our great teacher (and some of you would use other words, and that’s OK too!) said that loving our neighbor was a true task. A task, an effort, a command right next to loving God.

If you spend any time in helping institutions (schools, hospitals, churches, social services. . .) then you know a great deal of word power is spent talking about community. But I’m not so sure we really have any idea of what that word means. It’s a catch-phrase. It’s a way of feeling good about talking without ever doing. And it leaves people wanting. And wondering. It leaves people with shallow definitions and no way of accessing “community”. Even now, this slippery term refuses to remain in my grasp long enough to be concrete. It reminds me of another word that plays predominately in my life: Spirituality.

The problem with definitions, with being too concrete is that we risk alienating others with our outlines. I’m not interested in being that concrete, and I’m certainly not interested in alienating any of you. But as I stand here, I have to say, that in my heart I do equate “loving my neighbor” as foundational to building community—in part, because I also equate “loving my neighbor” as “loving those close to me.” This is inherently tricky—because it’s an easy leap to say that “neighbor” means “those close to me” and then stop there. I’m not advocating that! I’m not. PLEASE DO NOT HEAR THAT. It’s just that, I don’t see how you can love the world, how you can see the world as your neighbor, if you are unwilling, or unable to love those close to you.

Except, in some ways, it’s easier. Love the world… and ignore that pesky sibling who drives me nuts! Love the world, but we won’t address the constant abuse shoveled out by a spouse or a friend or a parent or… ourselves. No, loving the world is easy, because THOSE people aren’t going to criticize, injure, ignore, abuse. . .

But see, I’m not interested in loving the world so limitedly. No no no! In a world waiting to be born, which it is every year at this time, I am only interested in flinging my whole self into the fray. I can’t do that if I refuse to love my neighbor. I hold part of me in reserve by only loving the world at large. And that, dear readers, is NOT community.

It’s a risk, isn’t it? To love people who can hurt us. Because they will. They do. We hurt them, too. And damn, people, that is so sad. It breaks my heart to know how much injury I’ve caused, when deep in my heart, I only seek to love. But LOVE IS HARD. There is a reason it is called a great commandment! We don’t do it right all the time. And me, confession time, I suck at it. I don’t love with my full self. No no no no no. No. NO.

No, only parts of me get spread out in a thin layer. To those people who feel most deserving. Preferably to people who can’t hurt me. This makes me human. But it also makes me wrong.

At some point, we choose to risk love. We must. And the trick, and it’s a BIG trick, is to keep risking. To keep adding to the list of people we love… while still loving those closest to us. And forgiving. All the while forgiving. Ourselves and others. But probably, mostly, ourselves. We cobble together a cadre of people we call community. We gather together our own posses, our own crowd, our own families. Somehow, I don’t know how, in the process we begin to glimmer. Shine, shine, shine.

And I told you this story to tell you another story about sock puppets.

Good Morning, Fair Monday

Nov 26, 2007 | This Life

Welcome to the week! What are you going to do with it?