Live Big
"You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn't serve the world." —Marianne Williamson
I intend to print this quote out in bold color and big font and tape it to the refrigerator for my children to see in honor of back-to-school. If you have been in my house, you know that there are quotes and definitions adorning my fridge all season long. There are words and phrases that inspire me, ideas that I want my children to learn, to absorb. Occasionally there is a funny email or a silly joke, but it is always something "wordy." More often than not, there are simply words and meanings, there for them to soak up every time they grab the milk. For me, it feels good to surround myself and my people with words that I like.
Generosity.
Happiness.
Confidence.
Peace.
Joy.
Inspire.
Family.
But back to my new favorite quote. Playing small. Today we drove home from South Carolina, and on this long drive I was thinking about how these words impact my own life. I found that I could easily confuse "playing small" with "acting small." Different kinds of small, I believe. Acting small is easily mended, usually in the moment. But playing small? Fixing this would require a commitment to LIVING BIG.
Am I living big? And what does that mean? I am a child of God, and my playing small doesn't serve the world. In my life, what does it mean to ensure that I'm not playing small, that I am living big enough to serve the world?
When I wrote about the Olympians the other day, I wrote in total admiration of their talents. Everyday they shine, by using their gifts fully and completely. From childhood classes to Olympic training sessions, they have treated their talents with respect and care, and then on the biggest stage in the world, they show the biggest audience—the WORLD— how big they live.
I am not an Olympic athlete. (Surprise.) But on those days when I do not shine, when I let fear hold me back, when I say "I can't" instead of "what if?" am I playing small? What is it that God has fully planned for me? When I do not trust myself to follow, am I not allowing myself to have the biggest possible life that I can have? What is my Olympic stage, and what will happen when I stand on it and open myself to all possibilities?
Today, when we were almost home, we saw a hot air balloon in the sky. I had to laugh, because I was just trying to figure out the "living big" thing in my head, and it was as if God sent me a very colorful message. "See this guy, Christy? He lives big. HE rides in a hot air balloon. "
In just four short days, the children are heading back to school, and back to everything else: sports, dance, theater, academics, band, orchestra, art. There will be no playing small. There will be joy, there will be fullness, there will be trust, and there will be living. Big. So when I feel unsure and negative, when I feel like playing small, I'm going to try to recapture some of that trust and just live. Bigger. I hope you will, too, because I'd hate to be cheated out of whatever it is that you have to offer this world.
Lock Down
Here is what I do know for sure. If the back door, the garage door, or the front door opened and shut (and by shut, of course I mean slammed) one more time in this 24 hour period, I might have ripped any and all of these doors from their hinges with my newly manicured bare hands.
My darling children are not locked out forever. In fact, I will let them in when they knock (maybe) but what I need is the warning period. . . I need the few minutes of peace between the knock and the entry. I need the few minutes while they are trying every door to gain entry into the house. For yes, every door is locked, and one is even dead bolted. I need a minute.
I love summer.
I love Popsicles, sprinklers, flip-flops, bikes, dirty feet, you name it. . . I love it. Late to bed, late to rise, movies, day trips, poolside lunches and ice cream dinners.
Love it.
There's a lot of togetherness in the summertime.
I am grateful for every moment of it, although you may not actually glean this truth given the start of this particular entry. I'm not the mom who wishes summer away. I don't crave the first day of school, the yellow bus coming around, the moment when my children are gone. In fact, I dread it. This will be the first year when all of my babes are gone all day long, and I'm not quite sure how I'll react. Badly, I suspect. But, the fact that I have locked the angels out of their own abode today doesn't mean I fear their imminent departure any less.
I just needed for us all to have a tiny bit of distance between us so we can appreciate each other later this evening. What didn't I need? I did not need anymore bathroom doors flying open today while I am getting dressed. I did not need to find any more kitchen cabinet doors left open while three kids (and three friends) scour for snacks. I did not need to hear the microwave door, the fridge door, or the freezer door open and shut one more time. I did not need to hear the creak of the patio doors only to look up and suddenly find that someone has changed the channel from the Olympics to Disney.
Not that I couldn't use some good sunshine and playtime myself, and I may open a door myself and do just that. But in the meantime, it's outside for the lot of them. Our mothers weren't so dumb. . . we were outside all the time, no questions asked, no better place to be.
Oh no. . . one of the children is knocking. Hang on a second. . . I need to go speak through the window.
"What? I know you can't get in. I know the Popsicle is cold, it's frozen. No. No. Yes. No. Outside. Later. Because I said so. Because. Because. Because."
Crisis averted. Phew!
It's peaceful, these few moments, but I do see them circling.
When I am alone and lonely on those early September days, not so far from now, I will miss the slamming doors, and I will remember how hard it was to find even a moment's peace. Remind me that summer will roll around again soon, and that all the things I love—the noise, the Popsicles, the bikes, and the friends will soon fill my days. And remind me that I only locked the children out of the house once, in a moment of weakness. And that it only lasted for ten minutes. . . I'm heading out to play.
And The Medal Goes To. . .
Since Friday night, I have viewed handball, basketball (men and women), volleyball (regular and beach), fencing, cycling, swimming, gymnastic qualifiers, soccer, water polo, rowing, air pistol shooting, and I think I flipped past some sort of equestrian event very late last night. It may have been a preview. I can't be sure.
I have so much respect for these athletes who have trained for most of their young lives to come and perform on this Olympic stage, in front of the world. Some leave with memories of golden moments, some face disappointing finishes. Some are injured in practice before ever competing and are forced to simply watch as their teammates live the dream. The Olympics are filled with heartbreak and triumph. . . but every single athlete walking into the stadium in Beijing on Friday night was already an Olympian, having made it to Beijing by virtue of talent and skill. Admirable.
Maybe I am so totally enthralled by these two weeks because they represent so many dreams that I never even dared to dream. I can't imagine this dedication to a sport, this sort of physical prowess, this strength, this speed, this power. I admire it, I remain in awe of these young (and, thank you Dara Torres, medium-young!) superstars. I want my children to see what it means to work for something and achieve a goal; and, to see that sometimes winning has nothing at all to do with a medal. Note how many winning moments are less about the medal podium, and more about the story of courage, the story of hope, the story of overcoming great trials to run the race in the first place.
As I write, our National Anthem is playing for Michael Phelps and the relay team. Our flag is being raised, our swimmers are on the podium. Yes, I love these two weeks. We can all share pride in these runners and swimmers and fencers, we can pretend to be them, we can hope and dream for them, and we can thrill in their victories and agonize in their defeats. But don't agonize too long. . .they are all OLYMPIANS.
This super-fan must sign off. . . the television coverage from Beijing is over and will start again in the morning. I wish you all Olympic dreams. I know I have them, day and night.
Adam, Amazon, and God
First, I have to make a disclaimer. I have never had one tiny bit of trouble with Amazon. I love the website, I depend on the service, and I'm a loyal customer. That being said, I have never tried to find the 800-number on Amazon's website, which was the problem du jour. Apparently, there is no phone number listed. Anywhere. What Adam did finally find was a "click here if you want an immediate call back" button. And "Todd" did call him back, but put him on automatic hold for six-and-a-half minutes.
"What if God did this, Christy? What if God had a system that demanded that you enter all of your information, and then He called you back and put you on hold?"
He kind of does, I think, but I couldn't very well express that theory to the madman with the phone on his ear, waiting for customer service.
"That would be terrible," I said, instead, trying to act in a conspiratorial manner. "But I would love it if God had a website."
God.com. I have no doubt that someone owns this particular domain, but I highly doubt that it is God. I think they tried to portray a version of God online in the movie "Bruce Almighty"; millions and millions of emails to God pouring in, separated into different prayer categories, overloading the never-ending inbox. But it's the "contact me" button that could get a little tricky. Would God answer? Direct you to a live chat with a support person? Or, like "Todd," call you back and put you on hold?
It's not really that big of a stretch. If prayers are like contacting God's customer service, sometimes we're on hold for years, and even then, we might not get the results we expect.
"You're going to be angry at the person on the other end of the phone, aren't you?" I ask.
"Yep."
"You're going to tell them about their terrible customer service, aren't you?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
"Of course I am. No 800-number? Ridiculous."
And when "Todd" finally answered, I hear Adam say to him, "I know this is not your fault, Todd, but I have to tell you something. . . "
I know this is not your fault, God, but I have to tell you something. . .
If God did have a website, it might not be so different after all.
Sanctuary, Part 2
It wasn't half bad. I quite enjoyed it.
And though my cell phone rang once, and I found myself continuously looking up from the pew to ensure that I was alone, all in all I would call it a valiant first effort. It was an unexpected moment, having received some news that required immediate prayer. I needed to be alone with God. The cross and the stained glass windows were as they ever are, but somehow, they seemed present just for me. The realization that I could come here everyday was stunning.
I will admit that I felt like I was sneaking into a private club, or crossing an invisible red velvet rope. To be entering the sanctuary on a weekday afternoon, alone, seemed like something I should do on tiptoe, looking over my shoulder. Clandestine.
Or was that just solace?
I should mention that I was once caught in a sanctuary when I was truly not supposed to be there. In tenth grade, at the high school lock-in, I was found (kind of) in the choir loft making out with Tom Lucky. I say "kind of" because the youth minister came into the sanctuary, fell to his knees, and prayed out loud for the future of the youth of the church. He never acknowledged our presence. In fact, for many years I felt bad for overhearing his private prayer, until one day in my adulthood, seriously out of the BLUE, I realized that this "prayer" had been for our benefit entirely. Can you just imagine his pre-prayer conversation with the volunteers at the lock-in? "Hey, watch this. . . those two are hiding in the choir loft and I'm totally going to pray them out of there. . ."
Is this why I can't be in a sanctuary alone? Can I not be trusted? I guess that's not it (well, not anymore anyway.) God knows what's on my heart, and it hasn't been Tom Lucky for a good many years.
Our church doesn't have a choir loft, anyway. . .
Couch Runner
And let's define "running." So far, it's small intervals of walking and jogging. But it's increasing.
I have to hand it to the folks at coolrunnings.com. It's a good program, if it actually got me running. Me, the girl who has always said that running is for thieves and children. Well, that actually sounds like something my friend Cindy said and I adopted, but I wholeheartedly agree. (Or. . . maybe it was "sneakers are for thieves and children" which is why I had to buy new shoes. I had no sneakers.) And a new bra, but that's another topic entirely, and one not for the aforementioned children. . . but I digress.
ANYWAY, I did find my feathers slightly ruffled at the "couch" part of this workout title. I might not be Bruce Jenner (before he married the mother of those crazy Kardashian girls,) but still, I'm not really jumping into this straight from sitting on the couch 24-hours a day. "Couch to 5K?" Instead, I like to think of this as "Christy to 5K," but I'm a little self-centered. Should you choose to take this on, you might like a different name. Suit yourselves, obviously.
This evening, at the gym, my iPod was tuned to my inspirational playlist. (See previous blog entry : "Crossed Wires.) I found myself running just a little faster than I was last week. The music moved me spiritually, and I was listening to the lyrics instead of watching the clock. Was it possible that I was running AND filling my soul at the same time? I've spent YEARS walking endless treadmill miles, watching the tick, tick, tick, of the treadmill timer, just waiting to be finished with my session. And tonight, it felt like I was running toward something, completing something, filling something. Hmmm. . . could this turn into a 5-Pray?
When I was finished, I stretched, said my goodbyes, and left for home. I figured I could let you in on my secret. I mean, you might be one of my running friends one day, and now you can say, you knew me when. . .
Dragonfly
The dragonfly has six legs, but she cannot walk. I wondered why God would give a creature so many legs that she could not use?
The dragonfly begins her life in water, but as she grows, she moves to the air. I wondered why God would have her leave her place of birth?
She becomes physically strongest during the summer months. I wondered why, when she might seemingly need more strength during a time when she is facing more difficult storms.
But then I learned that it is from the reflection and refraction of the radiant light of this same summer sun that the dragonfly achieves her brilliant colors. The sun offers her more than strength. It makes her who she is.
And even though the beautiful dragonfly moves to the air as she matures, she stays close to water. She can always go back to where she was born.
And why would that lovely dragonfly ever need to walk? My God. . . how she can soar.
Welcome home, Beth.
Moses and the Migraine
I am a horrid Sunday School teacher during the regular year. I worry and I stress and I have 1,000 yellow Post-It notes all over the lesson plan. I don't sleep the night before, wondering about how I will navigate myself and these precious little lambs through the Bible verse and the lesson. But VBS week? Count me in. I put on my lime-green STAFF t-shirt and proudly walk the halls, singing the songs of the day.
Exodus. On my first day of teaching VBS, I asked the kiddos, "Who knows what this word means?"
"Exit."
"A book in the Bible."
"A big group of people."
"It's when Moses led the Israelites out of Egypt."
Wow, I think. All of the above. Aren't kids smart?
And on that particular day, the kids wanted to spend so much time looking up Bible verses and reading them, that we almost didn't have time to sing "On the Trail Again" (yes, to the tune of "On the Road Again.") Kids excited about reading the Bible? Who knew! And by the end of the week, we had sung the songs, danced the dances, constructed the crafts, read the stories, walked the park trail, and really experienced the story of Moses. And I had a migraine that was splitting my face wide open.
I am cursed with migraines, and have been for more than 20 years. Usually manageable, this one was not to be controlled. No medications, no exercise, no stress relief, and no amount of sleep was helping. And on the last night of VBS, I found myself in a warm bath, duly medicated, with an ice pack across my neck. I love VBS, but I hate migraines. And suddenly, on this night, my last ditch effort to feel better, the door to the bathroom flew open.
"Mom, I need you to . . . "
"Sam, I love you. Get out."
Was this the drugs talking? Thank goodness for that "I love you."
And then the door again. Was this a plague? It was my 10-year old daughter.
"Mom, Dad says it's really important that I get medicine on my cold sore right now."
I looked at her like she was an alien. Does she not see the bath, the ice, me?
"Get out. I love you. I will help you soon. Get out."
Now I knew I was loopy. And I wasn't even sure I wanted to keep saying "I love you," but it kept happening. I just wanted them out.
The door opens again. Are you kidding me with this? My husband.
"Chris, can I find the cold sore medicine for Abby?"
"I will find it when I get out." I am speaking slowly with my teeth clenched. I can't look at him.
"God," I think to myself. "Let my people go. Let my people go OUT OF MY BATHROOM. Let them make an exodus OUT OF MY BATHROOM."
"Do you need anything for your headache?" he asks, leaving.
Teeth still clenched. "I need two minutes with no one in this bathroom."
He closes the door.
Exodus. It's an exit. Lots of people. Leaving.
After my bath, I joined my people downstairs. I kissed Sam good night, I found the cold-sore medicine, and interestingly, not too many people asked me for things during the course of those few short minutes that I remained awake.
Thank you, God, for a good week at VBS, for relief from a three-day headache, for an accidental "I love you" dropped into a sentence, and for sending my very normal family out of the bathroom, on a very short exodus. . . to the family room.
Save the Last Dance
Last night, we were dancing to Jack Johnson, the first song on a CD we had created on my iTunes account. A CD, I might add, that we had also copied as a gift for a friend on the last day of Kindergarten. A girl.
"She's my GF, Mom."
"GF?" I had paused, a few days ago, during the explanation.
"Girlfriend," he said, as if I should have obviously known. "I told her on the bus."
He told her.
"Did she answer you?" I asked him.
"No."
Note: I am not biased AT ALL but Sam is a catch. Smart, cute and funny, so obviously she was just stunned into silence.
So when Sam wanted to make her a CD with his favorite songs, I acquiesced, thinking it an appropriate Kindergarten gift, and together we created the CD. (Or, as you and I might have called it once-upon-a-time, a "mix-tape.") The songs were cute, a nice mix of Sam-type songs and some dance tunes, and off it went on the last day of school. And a copy was made for Sam to keep, and thus inspired this conversation that we had last night, during our dance.
"I wonder if [GF] (name withheld for privacy
) is listening to her CD right now," Sam mused."Maybe," I speculated.
"What if she started her CD at the same time I started mine?" he asked.
"That really would be something," I said, still dancing.
He threw himself back on the bed, lost in some GF thoughts, dance over. So soon?
My other children did not have an early love, a GF or a BF. It's all very sweet and very innocent, but I know that all too soon will come a day when it means more, when a real GF truly is playing the CD at the same time, hearing the music, thinking of Sam's tumbling curls, his dimples, his eyes. He's so MINE right now, and I grab his little hands and hoist him up on the bed to dance with me again.
So much ahead, so much to look toward. But tonight, little boy, save the last dance for me.
Kindergarten Mix-Tape
We're Going To Be Friends — Jack Johnson
Magic — Pilot
Accidentally in Love (Theme from "Shreck 2") —Counting Crows
I'm Me and You're You — Laurie Berkner
Funkytown — Lipps, Inc.
Somewhere Over the Rainbow — Israel Kamakawiwo'ole
Vacation — The Go-Go's
I'm Gonna Catch You — Laurie Berkner
Upside Down — Jack Johnson
Our House — Madness
Drive my Car — Laurie Berkner
Shake your Tail Feather — The Cheetah Girls
If I Had $1,000,000 — Barenaked Ladies
Walking on Sunshine — Aly & AJ
September — Earth, Wind and Fire
Hats
Now, about those hats. . .
I have so often referred to myself as a baseball mom, probably because of the mass of sunflower seeds, bats, mitts, chairs, Gatorade, and dirt that all live in my van. I love watching my sons play baseball in the summer— sunglasses, a chair, a bottle of water, and a baseball game—these all speak of summer to me, and I relish the warm evenings, the cheers, the big wins (or a character-building loss), the drippy Popsicles, the time spent together. Seeing Jono on the mound on the same day as I watch Sam hit from the tee is such a strong reminder of how fast time flies. I am thrilled that I have years to watch Sam play. I will treasure the next few years of watching Jono on the field. When did it become "real" baseball? This game is in his heart,and because of that, it is in mine. Yes, I wear the hat of a baseball mom for sure. (A cap, probably.)
And I wear the hat of a dance mom. This year, during her recital weekend, I was more able to stand back and watch Abby take care of her things, make her lists, organize her tights, her hairpieces, her leotards, her shoes, and I was on call for quick hairstyle changes and cool water bottles. I love watching her grow in her confidence, create a real sense of self, and become a leader. This year, she and her friends seemed to be straddling a very fine line between being young dancers and being grown-up ballerinas. In fact, they may have crossed it. They were graceful, they were breathtaking. How is my girl not the tiny dancer in the tutu but instead, the lyrical dancer, the tapper, the jazz performer? I watched her dance, with her whole class, but mostly I was watching Abby and her friend from her very first class, Emily. They met as baby dancers, in the aforementioned tiny tutus, with dance already in their souls. I watched Abby and Emily dance openly and honestly to "She's a Butterfly," and as they twirled and leaped, I watched them as butterflies. Spreading their beautiful wings. Growing in strength and courage and becoming who they are meant to be. Yes, I wear the beautiful hat of a dance mom.
I wear other hats, too, for sure. Don't we all? The hats that describe the gifts that God gave us, and the hats that describe just the crazy things we do, or the things we love, or who we are. Mom, writer, friend, girlfriend, volunteer, wife. . . you name it. . . there's a chapeau! The baseball and ballet hats are worn in honor of the passions that my children so truly and deeply feel, and to the commitments that they have made. Both hats are fun, both are exciting, both can be hot and sweaty, and neither is a hat I ever wore as a child. I love nurturing these God-given gifts and though I don't own these talents, I do have an amazing ability to cheer at a game (loudly) and to applaud at a recital (loudly) and to sit back in awe that they do what they do. And for this, I take off my hats to them.
Red Friends, Blue Friends. . .
Old friends. There is just something about an old friend who knows you well, who knows the truth of you, the heart of you, the youth of you, the start of you. The very idea of you. I find that as I get older, I start to categorize my friends in my head: high school friends, college friends, friends from town, friends from church, friends from different cities in which I have lived. There are friends who don't fit into any groups— my best friend from the time I can remember, Lynn, has a category all her own. There is a Bowhead category (another blog, another time!) There is a Lisa-and-Cindy category. There is a Beth/Toby/Cindy/John group. How lucky am I?
We celebrated my husband's 40th birthday recently, and some of his categories came together, and as I watched, I was moved by the old friends who haven't wavered in their relationships with my husband. They remain silly. They remain the people in the photographs that adorned the collages that evening. Those boys in the pictures, in the gym shorts and tube socks, the glasses and the braces, are now grown men in golf shirts, with children, who helped me move heavy things, but remain 7th-grade boys in their souls. The college friends are now married and busy but remain the same people that we hung out with in the dorms, that we met Uptown for dinner.
I watched the old friends meet the new friends, and I realized why we have been drawn to our newer friends. They are just like the old ones. Loyal. Honest. True. Silly. Dependable. They mixed well. They seemed to like each other, and I loved seeing them all in one place. The friendships that my husband has maintained had a palpable feel that evening. Like one big heartbeat on our deck.
As Adam worked the crowd, one of my good friends (from the Lisa-and-Cindy category) said to me,
"I like meeting Adam's old friends. They're so loyal."
"Like you," I said. "You know that's what he always says about you."
She had no idea. But I did.
I love to reflect on the idea that people come into our lives for a reason. At just the right moment, a person might enter your life and change you in big ways or small ones, and you may not realize it is happening until you look back and say, "Oh! That makes sense! YOU were there to help me through that situation with grace." Or, "YOU gave me strength when I had none." It is my greatest hope that in this reflection, I become more open to what purpose God has for me as I build relationships with old friends and meet new ones. Old friends, new friends, red friends, blue friends—each a blessing, each a gift.
Marketer's Dream
Make-up adds a whole new dimension. I can choose to wear my Heart and Soul (on my sleeve?) or I can pick Well-Rested, Night-Owl, Princess, or Girls' Night Out, just to name a few. Fantastic! I have tubes and bottles that promise I will smell of Sweet Pea, Green Tea or Peony. I am certain that I have a natural glow, a subtle shimmer, and an inner-beauty. None of these are supposed to turn my skin an unfortunate shade of orange, but if they do, I will hope to name my new shade something beautiful like Apricot Sunset or Peach Mango Dream. My nails are often claiming to be Down to my Last Penny (copper), Fair Dinkum Pinkum (pink) or Socra-Tease Me! (Red). I do not know what a dinkum is, and I do not care. That polish has not let me down yet.
My shampoo promises Body Envy (please, oh PLEASE, don't be talking about my hair!), and my lotion, obviously, promises to firm and tone. My after-shower spray? Serenity. God knows I need some serenity with all of this conversation going on in my bathroom.
My husband once proclaimed me to be a "marketer's dream." I can't deny it. I tear out the magazine ads, and I'm a sucker for a new TV commercial. I have, on occasion, gone directly to the drug store in search of "the latest thing." My friends have called me to ask me about a new mascara or a trendy lip plumper knowing full well I will have given it a test run. I'm late going to bed because, as Adam as put it, I'm often "creaming myself to death."
But I do like to start my day with Heart and Soul, and end it with Grace and Peace. Even if they are just words on a jar or a sparkle on my eyelid, words are meaningful and words stick. And perhaps those marketers have achieved more than they intended.
The author does not officially endorse any products
Road Trip
I hope you all have a wonderful weekend. We will be heading to Indian Lake to be with my family, so I will clean and pack the car today, a ritual that begins now for countless summer weekends. Duffel bags, beach bags, grocery bags, sleeping bags, movies, snacks, birthday presents (late) for my sisters-in-law, games and treats for the road, and at the very last minute I will grab my sunglasses, a bottle of water, my new magazines, a warm cardigan, my purse AND my lake tote, and we will hit the road. All for a three-hour drive. The car will be packed with enough stuff to last us in case we get lost in the wilderness along the way. Except, of course, we would not have any gear at all that we would actually need to survive in the wilderness unless you count a few iPods and a family size bag of Tostitos.I love family road trips. I have all of my people held captive in one relatively small space where they somehow seem more open to questions and more ready for conversation. They can't tell me not to sing because I am closest to the radio and the 80's station is already programmed. We usually end up with at least one spilled drink and a Chex Mix casuality, but by the time we arrive, we have acquired a few more family jokes, a few "dad quotes" and a good start to the trip.
If you are traveling, travel safely. Take a moment to remember what this day is about. Enjoy your family and enjoy the holiday weekend. Happy Memorial Day.
Caller ID
I smile when he says it. Even though he doesn't call much, it's not as if I wouldn't recognize his very distinctive voice on my cell, and it's not as if my cell-phone screen isn't flashing his number and his name, "DAD," in capital letters.
"Hi, Dad." I drop my purse on the bench outside Abby's ballet studio and watch to make sure she gets inside. It's warm, there is a breeze, and I am happy to get a phone call as I wait for my daughter to take one of her many dance classes this week. "What's up?"
"Who sings that song I like from that movie I like?"
"Ben Taylor."
"BEN TAYLOR! Of course!"
"Do you know who wrote it?" he asks.
"Ben Taylor?" I venture. Obviously, I'm a freakish mind-reader, and I'm on a roll.
"Nope. The Beatles," he announces. "See, I remembered that the song was called "I Will," but I could not remember who sang it for the LIFE of me, but on iTunes there were tons of different versions, and I downloaded the original, by the Beatles, plus some cool instrumental version."
"So you now have three versions of "I Will" on your iPod?"
"Cool," said my dad.
Giving my dad an iPod for Father's day a few years ago was dangerous. He may well have already purchased every Four Seasons and Franki Valli hit known to man, with some James Taylor and Billy Joel thrown in as a nod to his time spent raising us in the 70's and 80's. Now there are crazy things happening, like on Spring Break this year, when he said to me at the pool, "Christy, listen to this, I found this great group." He handed me his iPod (set to a volume only known as gigantanormhumungous) and made me listen.
"Dad, I don't know this song."
My younger sister-in-law grabbed the iPod.
"Dad," she said, "that's Feist."
"I know," he grooved. "I saw them on Saturday Night Live and I loved them."
"You don't know Feist?" they both said to me.
"No," I said, lying back in my chair.
"Christy," he said, "listen to the next four Feist songs. You will love them."
"I already have one of those as my ring-tone," said my sister-in-law.
"You guys are too cool for me," I said with my eyes closed. "I have Manilow on my iPod."
"I LOVE Manilow," says my dad.
"You love everything," I say.
By now my dad is doing his dad-dance by the side of the pool with his headphones in, which are really of no use, what with the volume of choice. My kids are laughing. I am laughing. People sitting in their loungers are laughing because there's just something totally cool about a man living in the joy of the moment: loud music, a great song, the laughter of his family, a sunny sky, all of his favorite things. I'm not sure if his Feist phase will last, but I do know the man loves his life, and it shows.
And now, outside of the ballet studio, on my cell, he is telling me more about all the versions of this one song, a song I very much remember hearing with him for the first time, years and years ago, a song he has loved because it is a sweet love song that probably reminds him of my mom. And he called me because he knew I would know from the first words of a crazy cryptic sentence what he was talking about. Honestly, he could have said, "Who sings that song. . ." and I might have known. I don't need caller ID to recognize my dad. I know him by heart.
Note: The song "I Will" is sung by Ben Taylor (son of James Taylor and Carly Simon) and was featured in the movie "Bye Bye Love."
Tuesday
Sam is fine. And, truth be told, there's a lot to be said about the events of that day, but all I can really keep thinking is: Thank you, God, that his throat stayed open. Thank you, God, for the gift of time that allowed us to travel to the ER safely and without panic. Thank you, God, for my friends who were instantly there—on the phone, by my side, at my home—and thank you, God, for the brilliance of the scientists who created these medications that worked almost instantaneously to relieve this tri-fold reaction. Stomach, skin, and airways: Anaphylaxis.
In this house, two of the people I love most in this world have food allergies of their own. My older son, peanuts. My husband, poultry. And now Sam. . . the allergist thinks he reacted to the cashews in a snack mix.
I can do this. I can read labels, limit foods, take extra care, and protect. But most of all, today, I can hang out with my littlest guy and go to the park, play a game, and read a book, maybe two. Perspective is quite something, isn't it? Sam was amazingly fine during his overnight stay at the hospital. I was amazingly grateful for those that observed him for secondary reactions and watched his vital signs as he was given medicine. But there were parents at the hospital, wearing their sadness on their faces. Parents who don't leave those halls after 24 hours. Perspective. On my own day, on how it compared with my own yesterday, and on how it might compare with someone else's everyday.
Thank you, God, for Sam.
Crossed Wires
It has to be said: I’m a technology geek. When something new comes into our home that has wires or plugs or USB cords, I’m the girl to call. IPod? Computer? Digital camera? I’ve got you covered. TiVo? Yep. TiVo with a DVD player? No problem. For those of you who know me, I know you’re laughing, because you don’t believe me. I don’t think I come across as Radio-Shacky. More as Desperate-Housewifey, but it’s the truth. I researched and purchased our last computer, brought it home, set it up, installed everything, and cringe every time someone clicks fifty times on an icon or yells, “Mom, it’s not working!” Because I know for a fact that it is working. It’s usually user-error. But there is a downside to my mad skills.
“MOOOOOOOOOM! Can you help me print something?”
“Can I download a song from iTunes?”
“Where is the ClipArt?”
“Why won’t the internet work?”
“MOOOOOOOOM? Can I play Spongebob on your laptop?”
A downside, to be sure.
Technology has become a part of our lives. Instant messages, text messages, cell phones, printed documents at the touch of a button, e-mail, faxes, live TV paused for our own convenience. This morning, I paused The View so I could dry my hair, and then I came back to hear the rest of what Supernanny Jo Frost had to say about childhood sleeping patterns. All of my children have been sleeping through the night for years. So why did I pause the show? Because I could.
The other day, I found myself at my computer, answering emails about one thing or another, then flipping to a document that I needed to polish, then checking my phone for a message. My kids were at school. It was a beautiful day. I clicked back to my inbox. Three more messages. One that would require some phone calls to follow-up. One that made me really, really sad. One that kind of bugged me. My lovely computer. How did you turn on me so quickly?
I grabbed my iPod. (Could I use technology for good and not evil?) I tossed off my flip-flops and stepped into some gym shoes, and headed for the park. Now, as much as I AM a technology girl, I am NOT much of a nature girl, but I have never been called to JUST GET OUTSIDE as much as I was in that minute. I found my playlist marked “inspiration” and started to walk. I found myself engaged in instant prayer, before I even knew I was praying. And then suddenly, I was crying. What sent me over the edge? The emails? The phone messages? The beauty of the day? The music?
This has happened to me before, and almost always when I am outside. Instantly overwhelmed, I will catch myself by surprise when I connect with God usually at a moment when I didn't even know I was seeking His guidance. Once on a bike ride on a mountain (now THAT is a good story. . .I don’t even like bikes) and often by the water. And today, just the pull of the sun, and the trees, on this path, by this lake, I was led out of my own world and into God’s world where I could just BE. And I was thinking of so many things that I needed to lift up, and so many things that I had to be grateful for, so I walked, and I listened, I cried a little, and I prayed. Maybe I am a nature girl after all. . .
I like that path. There are no screens or beeps or buzzes there, and even though I normally enjoy the modern conveniences, wired or wireless, I loved being where I couldn’t receive any messages—except the ones that really mattered.
Inspiration Playlist
Here Comes The Sun—The Beatles
Beautiful One—By the Tree
Imagine—David Archuleta
I Say a Little Prayer—Diana King
100 Years—Five For Fighting
With My Own Two Hands—Jack Johnson
Let It Be Me—Jackson Browne
Shed a Little Light—James Taylor
Hallelujah—Jeff Buckley
Suddenly I See—KT Tunstall
Somewhere Over the Rainbow—Israel Kamakawiwo’ole
Anyway—Martina McBride
She’s a Butterfly—Martina McBride
Unwritten—Natasha Bedingfield
Beautiful Day—U2
God Only Knows—The Beach Boys
Ode To May
Ode to May
May is busy,
May’s a mess,
May is crazy,
I'm totally stressed.
Lunches, brunches,
Mother's Day.
Softball, baseball,
Teas, ballet.
Gifts and groceries
Checks to write. . .
Washing those uniforms
Late every night.
Signing this form and
Sending in that. . .
Five dozen cookies,
In two minutes flat.
Picnics and parties,
I love them, I do.
But May is a nightmare,
(Between me and you.)
Concerts and programs,
Recitals and shows,
Why all in May?
Are April and February such horrible bad terrible months to plan anything in in this town?
I digress, and I'm sorry,
I won't miss a thing.
I love every second
Of this jam-packed school spring!
But I'm counting the days,
Until next month arrives.
Saying, "Happy June 1!"
Once again, I’ve survived!
C.C., mid-May breakdown, 2006
It's Not Easy Being Green
"We'll get you a bin today," said the gentleman on the phone. "Put the plastics and cans in that, and keep the paper stuff separate." (I know he was thinking, "Sure, we'll get you a bin, Lady, last person on Earth to recycle.") I told him what I thought I had known. He said, "Well, let's just get that bin out there." So I really don't know the truth. And I'm pretty sure I don't want to know. Could I have misunderstood "sorted out at the plant?" Sorted out of the bins? The bin I NEVER HAD?
"We're recycling!" yelled my daughter when she saw the bin. "I can't wait to tell my teacher that we started recycling!"
"No!" I accidentally shouted. "Don't say that! That's silly. Just say how much you love recycling." That's right. You heard me. I told the child to lie.
All around me the world is green, and I thought I was doing my part. Stella McCartney makes Earth-friendly make-up bags, Gwyneth Paltrow feeds her children only organic oats, Oprah has rid Harpo studios of all paper cups. And on the very day that I drop my first water bottle into my blue bin, I hear Cameron Diaz say that Americans go through 2 million water bottles a day. A day. I don't like the look of that bottle in my bin. So I will buy my reusable water bottle tomorrow, and we will be more careful about both our trash and our recyclables. Because Cameron Diaz, you've got nothing on me. Well, not anymore
A Quick Calculation
Total cost of the frosted cookies: $97.50
Amount of money raised to give to various missions: $2000
My daughter telling me that "it was really cool to help at church today:" Priceless
Preaching to the Choir
The other day, I ran into my minister in the grocery store. We stood and discussed the virtues of the fantastic salads available at our "gourmet" salad bar. "You’re preaching to the choir," I said, meaning, of course, that he didn’t have to convince me, as I bought my salad for dinner.
It was only later that night that I realized that I, a member of the church choir, had spoken that line to my minister. Who, of course, preaches. To me. In the choir. Regularly. It made me giggle to myself. It was such an unintentional but perfect little gem of a moment.
Have you ever heard the expression, "It’s like the blind leading the blind?" Well, my grandmother often told the story of how she used those very words when speaking once to an acquaintance. Who was blind.
Is this gene hereditary, or does this happen to everyone? Are the characteristics and personalities of those around us so heightened that we leap to the nearest cliché without even thinking?
Those who know me will attest to the fact that I suffer from a severe case of foot-in-mouth disease, even on my best day. So much so, in fact, that I have learned to simply say, "I’m sorry. Allow me to remove my foot from my mouth and start over!" Or, "I tend to live most of my life with one foot on the ground and the other in my mouth, so I hope you’ll forgive me."
What’s the expression . . . the one about a glass house? Oh yeah. . . if we live in one, we shouldn’t throw stones. That’s why we forgive each other these moments of imperfection, like my grandmother and the blind man. I’m sure she handled herself with grace and beauty, and I’m sure she was forgiven. And as far as preaching to the choir . . . well, I can only hope for more moments of perfect irony in a grocery store, ones that I couldn’t write any better.
It would be a great accomplishment for me to exist for a decent stretch of time without a questionable comment to look back on, without words that I regret immediately, without apologies needing to be given for things that I have said. But what is the greater sacrifice? To stop this crazy mouth and to begin censoring a little, or just to keep on living out loud, mistakes and all, and ask for forgiveness if required?
Maybe it’s six-of-one, half-a-dozen of the other. . .
After You've Gone
“What should we do with your body?” asked my husband recently. “You know, when you die.” It’s not the first time he’s asked. His wish, for his post-mortem self, is to be cremated and for me and the children to drive his ashes to Hilton Head Island and scatter them ceremoniously into the ocean. I have told him that I am not looking forward to that 12-hour drive for many reasons, not the least of which is that I will be doing all the driving. All of this is assuming that he goes first. But assuming that he does not, what is to be done with me?
“No autopsy,” I said.
He raised his eyebrows.
“Would there normally be?” he asked.
“Well, with murder or suspicious circumstances, I suppose.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.”
I’m serious about my request, though. On any given day, should someone take a look inside this aging beauty queen (another story for another time), who knows what tale could unfold in the small town news? Among the findings inside this temple would surely be at least two different migraine meds, not to mention the daily Ibuprofen topper. Oatmeal for breakfast, the doctors would note, and nod approvingly, and then in dismay, find the York Peppermint Patty chaser, the diet Coke, the Happy Meal leftovers, the Lean Cuisine, and the half-cupcake eaten after the gym. Dependent on the day, there might be a couple of Midol, some caffeine mints, and a sugar-free Red Bull (honestly, what's the point?) tossed back on the way to church choir. And really, who among us has not had cookies for dinner and Lucky Charms for dessert? It would all be laid out on the table, so to speak, and I would become the Anna Nicole of my village. I can picture the scrolling words under Larry King on CNN: "Cause of Death: Possible Interaction Between Crystal Light and Dark Chocolate.
So there will be no autopsy. The killer goes free.
“I know,” I say, “I will leap desperately into the ocean after your ashes, consumed by heartbreak.”
“That will be super for the kids,” Adam counters, “plus, you’ve never been much of a leaper.”
I didn't really see the need for the insult, seeing as I was consumed by heartbreak and all, but I tried to be agreeable.
“Same as you, then, I guess. Same thing, same place, same kids.”
“Are you sure? You don't sound sure.”
“I want to be near you.”
“Well, unless we die together one of us will be long swept away.”
“Symbolically near you,” I grit my teeth. “You know, for the kids.”
“Okay. Good.” He goes back to his book.
Okay. Good. And it was decided? That simply cannot be the decision. He is obviously not remembering a conversation we had about this when we were first married (yes, we've been talking about this for 16 years.) He told me that he while he himself hoped for cremation, he pictured me buried under a shady tree, where he could lie down, peacefully, and talk to me. How do I let that go?
I know that we are not our bodies, that they are just on loan to us while we roam this Earth. But still, I wonder about those we leave behind and what they might need. I think I will be just fine remembering Adam at the ocean. Where will he need to remember me? It's a decision that will require looking deep into honest needs and true beliefs, and then having the courage to look ahead with faith.
And speaking of our bodies, I intend to pray tonight for motivation and self-direction, so that I can treat mine a little more like a temple. I think this body deserves at least that much.
Sanctuary
I recently found myself able to steal a few moments in the stairwell during the sermon. Dressed in my choir robe, waiting in the stairwell, sitting on the cool steps, all alone. I could hear the words of the message. I had no bulletin to leaf through, and I had no church family to worship with, but in that dim, quiet stairwell, I felt such peace. I leaned my head against the wall of the stairway, and the cement was cool on my cheek. When the organ played, I could hear it and feel it all though my body. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, I was looking at the door that would lead into the worship service. There are gold letters on this door, spelling the word "SANCTUARY." I wondered if I was the first person who had found a tiny sanctuary on this, the other side of the door. I'll bet not.
Unexepected moments of peace are one of my favorite things. But instead of letting them find me, and take me by surprise, I may have to also start actively seeking peaceful moments for myself. I was at church for quite a while, yesterday, working on a couple of different events, talking through a couple of different situations, and I felt a pressing need to be alone for a few moments. I could not discern if I needed to reflect, pray, meditate, think, or decompress, but I didn't think it mattered. But there was a problem. I have never sat alone in the actual sanctuary; someone might see me. There is a lovely small chapel upstairs, but again. . . isn't that for people who have REAL prayer needs? I was craving my stairwell. My sanctuary.
And I didn't go.
Don't deny yourself your peaceful moments with God, especially when you really feel you need to talk. Be brave. Si