plum tuckered

x's and o's

2011-08-03T09:05:00.000-07:00

Walking in line with a few hundred other graduates at the Convention Center-- the first thing I looked for was H and the boys. A sea of faces, where were they, I squinted up and finally saw them, my heart skipped a beat—they’ve never looked so handsome and so big, and so well, I got lost in a moment of love for my family and gratitude for this strange journey.

Relief swooshed over me walking onto that platform in graduate attire, relief when I shook that outstretched hand, passing a document rolled cleanly like a baton, wrapped with a little silk ribbon. The relief—walking back to my seat. It’s finished. This part is finished. Scroll in hand, I found the boys again in the distant stands and saw their thumbs up, outstretched arms and excited waves, I saw H beside them, his still-tantalizing-after-11-years-grin saying everything, “I’m so proud of you. Here we are, we made it again.”

I found my seat and listened one by one to all the other names called and thought of the stories behind the names, the journey each one of them took—the struggle of a few hundred motley crew students through school via second chances, single parenting, day jobs and night jobs, babies born during capstone courses and still not quitting. Everyone has a story. We breathed a collective sigh of relief. Perhaps the biggest collective sigh Cox Convention Center has ever seen. “It’s finished. This part is finished.”

In reality, this is just the beginning. The next chapter has started and we are on our way. For me, what that means, I can’t really say.

School wasn’t simply a stepping-stone towards something ahead like i originally thought.

When I started back to college three years ago I had the best of intentions. But you know how intentions go. I want to be a therapist I’d say. Oh and then I’ll get my master’s, and then... and then… just you wait. I was sort of embarrassed about being right where I was. I apologized for my lack of ambition in the past, those infamous, postpartum, roaring twenties, and I handed out my common soliloquy to make certain you knew I had a plan. “Oh yes, I have a plan. This school thing, oh don’t mind that, pretend that’s not there. Here, look at what I’ll become.”

Then, halfway into getting back into the swing of college demands—brain chalked full of vexing cognitive quarrels—H was struck with a near fatal illness, and more than a few times I near fell apart trying to keep everything together. Come to find out, trying to keep everything together is an illusion along with thinking you have a plan, and one must learn the formidable act of uttering two simple words when necessary, “Please help.” A major lesson while learning lessons in class—learned.

Back to glancing up while in graduation garb and seeing the boys in the stands: I had a wave of realization hit me as I took in the moment. I learned more while on this strange journey than I could have imagined, and I don’t just mean about neuroses and psychological theories. And what I learned won't impact a might-be-career, near as much as the way I parent.

Somewhere along the way I stopped caring so much about what other people think. Somewhere along the way I stopped apologizing for the kind of parent I wasn’t yet, or for the kind of parent I’d been when I ‘secretly’ sought solace in the banal bottle of booze. Somewhere along the way I learned how to love learning, remembered how to ask questions, and feel the natural high of being curious and sleuth-like about things I know not of yet. So many riddles in this life! So many curiosities and quandaries beckoning us to come see and find out, look into or read!

Somewhere along the way I decided not to compare myself anymore to the slew of “shoulds” that took up residence for so long in my psyche.

Somewhere along the way, I learned it’s ok to be this random Alison person with all these upside down and backwards ways of doing things and that maybe just maybe this is the mom I’m supposed to be to these little human beings entrusted to me for a wee bit of time (shall I say big, growing bigger in their sleep each night).

College at 34 was exactly where I was supposed to be to find out how to be in the now, to grab hold of it, to share the upside down and backwards process with the boys—all the pains and joys of learning some ‘elementary’ lessons as an adult. To learn to not pretend I have it all together, but include them in the family story by really living in it, engaging in it, not wishing for a different one or someone else’s story. Re-engaging in life before it all makes sense, to fully ‘live the questions now’ as Rilke implored. Before I learn how to organize, or the house gets fixed, or we have a grown up family sized car, or before we find Dave Ramsey’s financial peace, in other words stop putting off living and love life in the here and now. Live the questions now.

I looked up in the stands waved up at the boys and saw them waving with the hugest smiles on their faces. As younger brother, L described how he felt about his birthday party bliss one year, “I can’t explain it with words Mom; I can only feel it.”

That’s my family up there, my team. They are my home. My residence could be anywhere, and in the last 10 years has been many-wheres. But this crew waving at me, we fought to stay a ‘we’, we ran the heck out of some plays out there on the 'field'.

Pretense doesn’t have a place anymore, fear isn’t fought alone anymore, pain cannot penetrate the walls anymore, chaos or catastrophe cannot control anymore. We have learned love really can conquer and cover and connect pieces back together.

{I’m not talking a Hollywood-ending kind of love here. This is a new beginning sort of love. A forgiveness sort of love. A willingness to come out of hiding, out of acting parts but really walking around with a broken heart sort of love. A love that usurps physical pain/limitations, mental/chemical imbalances, ugly phases, pretty faces, hard truths, and bad news. A love that we found by finding out how little the externals matter, and how strong “starting from scratch”(sometimes a second or third time) can re-build this fortress called family.}

Miracles come out of mistakes if we let them, if we keep playing, keeping fighting towards the other side- upside down as it may seem. There is a crack, a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in, as Leonard Cohen sings.

School wasn’t a stepping-stone to something bigger. School is a part of the story. And as upside down and backwards as it may be some days, I’ve learned to live life on life-now’s terms rather than yearn or strain towards a life I think will look better, feel better in the future; meanwhile missing miracles that come out of mistakes or mayhem or come what may.

I’m grateful to be a college graduate finally. I’m grateful for the lessons I learned along the way that taught me how to engage in the game of life and parenting more than i did before. We can take those kinds of lessons out of any challenge confronting us.

To echo Coach Taylor’s unfettered phrase: “Clear eyes, full hearts, can’t lose.” As H says—sometimes joking sometimes not—thank football. This time I may have to thank football. Vince Lombardi sums it up well, “Once you agree upon the price you and your family must pay for success, it enables you to ignore the minor hurts, the opponent’s pressure, and the temporary failures.” On to the next play…

Welcome stranger

2011-06-23T07:17:00.000-07:00

I had a dream last night. In the dream I went to a restaurant on a pier in a different city than the one I live. I passed an old fellow walking by me and we made eye contact.

Eye contact.

He found me later and sat across from me at a table and he asked me questions about who I was, where I came from and where I was going. He did the strangest thing throughout the conversation—he looked me in the eyes. At first I didn’t know how to look back at him, it felt so foreign, so unrushed, and so different. But by the time he shook my hand and wished me good luck and walked away as mysteriously as he came, I realized I was starving for this kind of interaction.

Eyes. Something we don’t see near as much, perhaps we make less eye contact than any time in history.

Even in a dream state, I felt ‘seen’ and remembered how to ‘see’ someone else. This stranger across from me was a worn, unsightly fellow yet through the course of a conversation became a radiantly incomparable kind soul.

Perhaps it’s still true—the eyes are windows to the soul. Perhaps kindness and interest and compassion and many other emotions can be transferred through looking into another’s eyes and communicating worth. Maybe we are not a food hungry country but maybe we are a face hungry country.

I don’t want to get used to the feeling of holding and checking and looking at my phone while having a conversation with one of my boys, or husband, or friend, or stranger. When did it become so okay to be so un-present?

It took a dream of all things to wake me up, to remember what face time and conversation—undivided attention—felt like. Ironic. I woke up hungry and aware of my foibles.

No one else is going to teach my kids etiquette when it comes to eye contact and conversation. If I omit the human action of undivided attention, then it follows that my kids will most likely omit undivided attention from their relationships and perhaps their kids one day.

Wake-up. This stranger on the pier seemed to say with his actions, wake-up. What do you hold dear? If it is conversation—with family or friends or strangers—attributing worth through eye contact, well then do it. Put the phone down, away if need be, and be deliberate with what you hold dear. Fight for what you hold dear internally and externally. Don’t wish for a time when you didn’t have to decide because there was no such thing as a device in your hand that held your life. Hold your life in your hands and decide what you are going to do with a device that is put-away-able. Decide and then keep deciding. Don’t blindly start and continue hiding behind it. Practice and decide, teach your kids that they have a choice as well, that they can disconnect for various lengths of time and connect with the human face. They won’t be missing anything, they will be gaining the ultimate and increasingly rare gift—being present and showing worth to the person you are with. You will be gaining this gift too, and it will fill your starving soul with what it needs to stay connected. Then you can give the gift away and offer what the stranger in the dream offered you.

Sustaining power of eye contact for a starving society. I think we are going to get more and more hungry and we will need—strangers who remind us, even if in our dreams, to wake us up and feel the longing to see and be seen, to stop and ask questions, to connect; device not included.

101

2011-06-20T09:11:00.000-07:00

I've received an unconventional education. I don't so much mean school. Though my school education was a bit unconventional-- jam packed with various "inhibitors" hardwired into my brain at a wee age. That aside;

The unconventional education I'm referring to: "Addiction 101" and "Depression/Anxiety 101." I failed much of 2 decades worth of classes. And then...A bit over 4 years ago, I started passing these classes and actually learning something, retaining a few things, and applying a few whatnots to some whathaveyous. For this education, now I am eternally grateful. I know for fact I wouldn't be a parent or wife or friend or student or dog-owner (etc) were it not for this unconventional education. Because i was originally a runner (not the cardio kind), a non-forgiver, a non-asker-of-forgiveness, a know-it-all though i acted like i didn't know it all, a doubter of hope, a victim of loss, a confused little girl unable to grow up. In other words, really needed to figure out how to pass some classes or else i was going to flunk out of life completely... and almost did. And then a couple of rather brilliant, humble teachers (the first of many) encouraged me as good teachers do-- that i had some potential if i would just take a look at some things (refer here to "I was originally a...") and be willing to do something different and admit I wasn't so original but simply human, like all humans, and thus the pressure off having to prove my originality over and over i could finally admit and see-- I'm selfish (check). I'm addicted (check). I'm ready for something different (check). Hence, admittance into school of hard knocks round 2, now armed with a study guide or 2.

I'm in no way a 4 point student. There's certain pop quizzes, especially when it comes to anxiety or fear, that i still barely scrape by. There's moments in being a parent especially that i fail and then realize a make-up quiz is immediately available, i just have to be willing to take it. Which usually entails an "I'm sorry". Which as a parent is humbling. But I've seen make an impact far greater than what i used to think parenting naturally entailed: Act always like you have it together. Especially when you don't. Pretend like everything's peachy, don't admit your wrong because the wee ones might smell weakness; lecture and spoonfeed, brainwash if needed, be in control.

hogwash.

Yep, i said it, hogwash.

This line of thinking kept me drunk and depressed and emotionally eating my way into bed.

This line of thinking kept my wee ones at a distance, and established a "do as i say, not as i do, why? because i said so." kind of relationship.

This line of thinking is not in my new study guide. And thank goodness. thank all that is thank-able.

Pretense teaches how to pretend. So if I strive to 'pretend' like everything is ok, and then expect my wee ones to take responsibility, act humbly, be honest, any number of lecture points we carry in our parent arsenal-- well, simply put, fail. It will fail. It's like the law of gravity. It's no fun. It wastes precious time that could be spent connecting and dealing with our own poop instead of incessantly covering over our poop only then to start teaching others how to cover their poop. I apologize for the uncouth comparison. But this is an important, no vital, lesson to me constantly. A lesson i have to keep learning or i try again to live to cover up poop instead of live to learn. And in effort to learn, I find that teaching (especially wee ones) NATURALLY and organically occurs. Our learning process with all our A's and D's and every grade in between can be a classroom in and of itself to our wee ones (referring to all ages of course). It's not about trying to convince others we are straight A students when really we are struggling to even pass, it's about getting extra help when we need it, a tutor for some of our questions perhaps, being open to see new formulas or strategies to help work out the problem.

Lecturing usually entails a whole lot of words and a teensy weensy bit of listening (and comes from our own foibles usually, as i've revealed in earlier posts- oh the lecture i hastily give wee one when meant for me to change so that i could learn and then show instead of tell. Why this compulsion with words with so little behind sometimes? ah, I'm chief amongst. education continues forth...)

But the key now is that i know there is hope. I know that i don't have the answers inside my own mind to my problems and that's half the battle right there. I know that life is one big classroom with learning and experiments and opportunities to grow and... so many lessons that i can't wait to keep learning from.

Random as they are, Dr. Ginott's thoughts teach me constantly to look at how my words and intentions so directly affect the wee ones (though not so wee anymore):

“
"If you want your children to improve, let them overhear the nice things you say about them to others."”

“"Children are like wet cement. Whatever falls on them makes an impression.”"

(Dr. Haim Ginott)

night o' the free-write.

2011-05-30T21:38:00.000-07:00

i don't know
if i've aged well according to the information age.
as in, grown into a grown-up who deals well with information.
information overload feels like a strange ride
like the Gravitron
the first time i road it and the floor fell out from under me
and i was suspended in air from the force of the carnival ride
i loved it.
so much so- i exited and re-entered the ride,
handed necessary number of tickets to the ticket taker
and rode again.
this is the problem with my brain.
the 2nd time I got violently sick.
The Clam Festival was over and done with for me, prematurely, due to Gravitron sickness
and i had to go home, sans cotton candy
while the lights were still blazing joyously
and fellow 5th graders were still basking in the festival night
and able to keep down their cotton candy.
they basked because they knew you just don't get on the Gravitron
if you just got off the Gravitron.
Replace Gravitron with Google.
When i want to know about something that i realize i don't know much about
but feel i should
or could
and that information if i just find it
understand it
memorize it
takes notes about it
will help me understand life or dreams or parenting or writing or documentary making or
jeezlouise. i find i've squandered precious time
feeling utterly inferior
far less capable
aware of what i don't understand
far more than what i do, or did, oh
guts.
Watching Ramona and Beezus with the wonderboys
took me back to age 9 and i missed being
more aware of the dreams, the possibilities, the imaginings
than my deficiencies.
Ramona, often confused and misunderstood
but alive and inventive and uninhibited often in her own world.
I miss Ramona, I miss identifying with her-
in some ways the 9 year old
could teach me oodles about life
much more than google
I don't think my brain on the information age
is a good thing.
Sure, if i could enjoy the ride, the research, the find
for what it is, glean the bit o' nonsense i need for the whatnot...
but no, i jump right back on the Google Gravitron, the floor falls out from under feet
and suddenly I've lost the joyful convenience of finding a needed tidbit of info
suddenly i think i need to keep finding "answers" to questions i don't know i have yet.
some nights i feel that same motion sickness feeling in my gut
like when i walked home from the Clam Festival
sick as can be and green.
wishing i rode a gravity defying ride
once, left it at that
and kept down my cotton candy.

L. quotes Dr.Seuss

a wee yarn

2011-04-21T09:58:00.000-07:00

One night before bed, i ask Noah,
"Have you read, just like your teacher said?"
"no, mom, i didn't. i don't like to anymore."
i gasp under my breath, almost fall to the floor.
not acceptable! the thought- then my voice:
Noah, you must finish the books you start to read
or the habit will get out of control completely
you must remember how it important it is
to finish what you start, you must finish what you start...
i say with my kind of kind and kind of annoyed voice,
there is no choice!
for heaven's sake, you need to read! Be disciplined and follow through indeed!
You need to do this. You need to do that.
You need... to do just what i ask!
our "Goodnight" said after that
i walk out of his room
instantly hit with mom-guilt-attack.
as Noah slips into the land of nod
i'm struck over the head with a lightning rod:
a shot of truth...
the lecture was so premature,
laced with fear
rather than something pure

i try to mold his sacred being
into what i think he needs to be
when the lecture
needs to be- to me.
i half finish things so chronically.
especially books-
i start them you see-
i want to get smart,
take the books right to my heart
but ambitions too big for my brain or eyes
i don't take a dang book one page at a time,
i set 5 out to read...
then stay online.
the very thing i berate Noah for
is the very thing I've done for 30 years more
than i care to confess,
but now did-
SO...I'm now reading
one book
with him.
apropos...
Ali, don't tell.
Show.

4.19

2011-04-19T09:28:00.000-07:00

April 19, 1995

I skipped first hour. Slept in. Felt a boom, in my bedroom and I think like many Oklahomans that day, in my heart. It was so surreal- those next 48 hours. I was a senior and a piece of the wanderlust- the allure of life after graduation—was snatched away in that moment I found out what anger, hatred, and resentment can do. The bomb hit downtown, the bomb hit our hearts, the reverberations of that morning echo still when we least expect it-

That night in 1995, April 19 into the wee hours of April 20^th, I went downtown with my dad to deliver blankets. The Red Cross workers shuffled us through to ground zero to make circles around what had been a few hours before a stalwart Federal Building. We offered weary workers coffee and blankets —the unexpected shuffle from what we had planned: dropping off blankets, to the unplanned: putting blankets on weary souls at ground zero.

H was there too that night, and the next day. We didn’t realize the impact of the shared experience until far later.

April 19, 2009

I had the humbling opportunity to co-write a song for the Oklahoma City National Memorial that year. The morning of April 19, a Sunday, our family was going to head downtown together to be a part and listen to Jami Smith sing our “Stand Together.” The days leading up to this were full of meaning and sense of accomplishment—H was an Oklahoma City Police Officer—we were all so proud of him and his resoluteness in fulfilling this dream to protect and serve. This was a direct result of witnessing the OCPD protect and serve and search, tirelessly, at ground zero.

We had finally come to some semblance of ‘normal’. Eight days on, six days off. The boys and I had gotten into a rhythm with H’s odd schedule, we had our way of saying goodbye’s around nine p.m., watching dad head out into the dark night with uniform perfectly pressed, bullet proof vest strapped firmly underneath, flashlight amongst other necessities in belt.

We found a rhythm. This after some discordant years of financial, relational, emotional insecurity, postpartum, more than a dozen jobs to make ends meet, amongst other onerous events.

The morning of the Memorial ceremony was going to be a culmination of growing together through all those things as a family. A closure per se. When we could’ve and should’ve at many times have grown apart. We made it through some of our own ground zero moments, H was living out a dream, and I might be about to embark upon one of mine.

But instead, that morning H came home from third shift with a massive headache. This headache coupled suddenly with another onslaught of kidney stones. He stayed home to try to sleep off the pain, I put water by the bed, kissed the boys who skipped over to Hanny’s, and I headed downtown alone.

When I returned home just a couple of hours later, it was evident H’s pain had increased rather than decreased, and to a shocking level. I don’t remember how I got him into the car and I don’t remember the drive to the first hospital experience of the day, but I remember the shock, like a bomb dropped when we least expected it, and the aftershock was greater than what we could have ever planned for. Confronted again with the unexpected problem of pain.

I want to say I’ve been brave and resilient the last couple of years. But mostly I just feel tired. I haven’t found a rhythm since that day. I’ve found some major chords, some fluid moments of a concordant melody, but mostly the aftershock of watching my husband almost lose his life from a strep infection and blood clots, watching his OCPD dream vanish, watching our finances siphon away through medical bills, watching the boys have to ‘adapt’ to more changes and unknowns… aftershock.

Perhaps these are minor chords; in between there have been major chord harmonious moments that have emerged in fortuitous ways as well- wonderful opportunities that wouldn’t have otherwise emerged. Many good things.

And yet still, I’m tired of aftershock. I’m tired of trying to make sense of the constantly changing tunes; tired of trying to learn the melody only to find it has changed again. I’m tired of trauma and sickness and chronically tense shoulders. Tired of feeling helpless against these tsunamis and storms.

Or maybe I’m just tired of not being able to help those in their own aftershock as much as I’d like. Because I know what it feels like- the loneliness of grief, the grrrrr of life interrupted by sickness, the struggle to make sense of seemingly senseless events. And I want to help. But many times do not know how. And often don’t know how to mend my own melody still.

April 19, 2011

Life is a gift. Family is a gift. Breath is a gift. Mystery is a gift. Tears are a gift. Laughter is a gift.

I don’t understand why they shuffled my dad and me with blankets and coffee in tow and sent us down to ground zero to that deafening silence, with those unthinkable sights. But I’m grateful because it’s part of the story.

I don’t understand why at the least expected moment H got sick and we almost lost everything. But we gained so many unexpected blessings in the aftermath- like time- especially H and the boys- getting lavish time to connect and be, present father and sons, that third shift might never have provided. I’m grateful, even in the aftershock, because it’s part of the story.

I feel like an observer. Like I haven’t yet been able to connect to aspects of life since 2009. Or haven’t been able to re-attach myself to dreams I felt so sure of before.

I have no wise words or expertise. I have very little common sense or know-how regarding this thing called life. But for whatever it’s worth today-

To the ones in pain- whether physical or emotional- you are heroic in your unseen battle you fight. You are the strong ones, you are the survivors, you deserve all the respite and refreshment life has to offer. I wish I could pour all the needed peace and relief over you to enliven your step today and take some of the pain away. Know today that if your pain is great, your strength is greater- what you are enduring is a battle and you are a valiant champion fighting it, often unseen and without the accolades and compassion you deserve. I see you. You are a wonder.

To the ones who have lost everything it seems- you are in for a unique perspective on life—that in the mess of loss- whatever the loss may be— may you find a release and relief from the feeling of having to keep up with the Jones’ or the incessant race to the top of whatever however… I hope you can find reassurance in the ‘little things’, renewal in simplicity, regeneration in letting go of old and finding meaning rather than despair in the mystery of the new. I hope for lightness for your soul in the letting go. And a wave of possibilities to breeze through you like wind through trees.

I’ve lost almost everything- only to find the most essential things present like never before. I’ve tiptoed sanity- only to find peace comes in the present, nothing in the future is for sure, no matter how ‘good’ I am, my achievements or how well I’ve mapped out a grand plan.

If you feel alone with the weight of the world on your shoulders or pain tucked in your pocket so no one will see or lost everything and can barely breathe—you are not alone. And you are braving so brave. You are the heroic ones today and I hope you find smiles on strangers faces, peace in random places, unexplained joy pitter-patters in your heart, beauty for the ashes, a pleasant song to assuage any grief, and hope perching on your shoulder every moment of every day until the aftershock dissipates…

From Viktor Frankl’s Man Search For Meaning, p.135

"We must never forget that we may also find meaning in life even when confronted with a hopeless situation, when facing a fate that cannot be changed. For what then matters is to bear witness to the uniquely human potential at its best, which is to transform a personal tragedy into a triumph, to turn one's predicament into a human achievement. When we are no longer able to change a situation…we are challenged to change ourselves."

7th day

2011-04-10T12:24:00.000-07:00

my face hurts. a really lot. it burns and feels tender. but pre-cancer cells are melting away, and that is good.
Don't have much to say, have much in my brain
not sure how to say.
working on that.

here's kind of what it looks like inside though.
anyhoo, thought i'd check in and say 7 days into Efudex isn't too terribly bad. a little self-conscious, but i know it's going to get worse before better.
thought I'd share this quite amazing entry that super encouraged me and put a spring in my lolligagging step from:
Austin Kleon author of Newspaper Blackout.

and grateful for brother C today- you have copious creativity streaming through your being, thanks for drawing pictures with me when i was a tiny tot. and you are a dang good doctor. and a dang good brother.

that's all for now.

Dabbling in scribbling

2011-04-04T21:57:00.000-07:00

You know how life feels like it's on fast-forward and you can't find the remote to stop it or slow it down?
You know how the information age presses information into us at a faster rate than sometimes we can take in the information and actually 'feel' a response?
You know how there seems to be a kazillion and one expectations that are both internal and external coming at us at kazillion and one miles per hour?
You know how sometimes at the end of the day you remember what you were going to say to someone but then forgot because there was so much swirling around in the air and on the screen and everywhere and...
a quiet moment to face to face, eyeball to eyeball, talk. or not talk and just look. or not look and just be?
This is so very the way i feel sometimes.
Maybe i'm the only one who feels all this mush of stuff. But i've found a little something that helps ease a bit of the mush stuff feeling.
{Even if a day stays harried and i endeavor to chill afresh the next day.
or even if logistically we are running from one thing to the next and all 4 of us are doing homework late and we forget to look at each other in the face all day.
or even if we have an ever so wonderful day together and ahhhh, we sigh and our emotional tanks are filled up... but right before i go to bed I remember something I really wanted to tell N. or L. or H. but forgot too.
or any number of moments called life, especially life in twenty eleven, that can feel so very fast forward...}
I write Notes to the Boys. handwritten scribbly short-sometimes, long-sometimes, notes. in a cheap dollar store notebook. cheap cover decorated with wallpaper-y looking paper or not, just whatever i feel like for that notebook. It helps keep me AWAKE and AWARE as life zooms forward, or lectures are to be had more often than affirmations, or i simply forget to be present and aware of all the oh-my-goodness-so much-goodness.
I keep adding lines of snippets and blippets as they come, as the awareness compels the writing.
{what i feel about love and life, things i believe but forget sometimes, things i want to say but can't get a word in edgewise with life at times, funny anecdotes from the day, random memories that i don't want to fade, favorite songs and why, what i love about the boys, what i love about their dad, what mistakes i've made and what i've learned, what i'm grateful for (oh the abundance once list begins...)}

Sometimes i take quotes as prompts to dialogue on a page or two about, sometimes i take words and put their definition to the side and banter back and forth with words like ping pong balls about why i like that word and meaning. sometimes i apologize for things i've said or done that have been out of fear or anger. sometimes i write silly, goofy, rhyming, mushy stuff that feels like a snapshot of that moment.

There's no same way on all the pages or lines. No right or wrong way to commence and end, just blips and snipets here and there.
I write because i know each day this 8 year old and this 9 year old grow more into their lives- this growing- however heartbreaking at times for their mama--is a gift, and a gift they will decide more on their own what to do with, and how to do it.
I write because sometimes i need to say less out loud, let them work things out,
the times come (more and more) where they naturally think and feel and deal more on their own, a sacred process they bravely must face each day and i want to be present when need be, but not in their way. Writing helps me resume my own growth and learning rather than hyper-focus on their learning or constant adherence to my growth and learning process. I write to work on or work out rather- this balance as they grow into little men.
I write because sometimes i'm tempted to think my voice doesn't matter in this boy world, but writing helps me remember my voice does matter and to please don't give in to the temptation of silence and frenetic thought (the great inhibitor of being awake and connected).
I write them these notes most of all to tell them how much I love them,
how much i love every day with them-- the brilliantly technicolor grand days and the grey-ish stormy cloudish days.
How much we learn together and grow together through all the seemingly 'small' frustrations or challenges.
How the sea of love that surrounds them is wide and huge and unending and therefore they have a sea of love to give away- to share this sea of love wherever they go- and this will bring them more joy and fulfillment than any dollar amount or upgrade or letter behind their name ever can. How the sea of love is theirs to swim in and be inspired in and then inspire others with, be givers not takers, possibility see-ers.
I write to them to make some sense of the seconds and minutes and days we have together, to take in life as it's happening and learn from the daily lessons, enjoy the daily treasures. TO slow down and smell the roses.
Sometimes days even weeks go by between writings.
It seems my reign as queen of inconsistent is still alive and well. But that aside, these scribbles are not about perfection or punctuation. It's about expressing, becoming more aware through releasing the deep well of who we really are, leaving the perfectionism, ism's in general aside- the rather irrational but occasionally understandable parent fears and fluctuations and frustrations caused by the shoulds and ought to's and they-better-listens...
The notebook represents pieces of an ongoing story. N and L will be writing more and more their own truth, telling their own tale. Scribbling helps me let them go, let the boys form their own notebooks, start their own scribbling.

It also helps that unrelenting feeling of fast-forward dissipate. Helps melt the fretting, the regretting, that sometimes robs so much of the instinctive joy of parenting- of LIVING.
a simple way to save a little sanity, slow harried life down, write the heart of hearts down on a page,
let go
and let live.

(addendum... they may or may not ever read what i put on the paper. that's not really the point i suppose. the scribbling nonetheless and mysteriously changes- me. i become more aware in the process, and less hindered by what's in my head, more motivated by what's in my heart. An organic way to grow the healthy mama heart, helps silence the control-y-helicopter-tendency-mama part.)

1.2.3.

2011-04-03T12:23:00.000-07:00

I don't know if it's the sloughing off icky pre-cancer cells that's going on or the season changing or what-- but I've been re-struck with some fundamental sound bites that were offered and subsequently consumed when I was in treatment. January 2, 2011 marked the 4th year of living semi-insanity-free. Simply said, sober.
Sober from alcohol because it nearly wrecked my life and those around... check.
Sober from the same kind of crazy thinking that i either a)still try to numb with some other non-alcoholic something or b)still try to hide for some strange conditioned and/or innate reason... not so check.

Here's what I learned in treatment that i hold on to with my life still today:
Recovery/Sanity depends on my ability to be:
1. honest
2. open
3. willing

These 3 bites I used to munch on quite a bit. I would take the actions I needed to take when one or more was lacking. When I put off looking at my inability to be honest, open-hearted or minded, or willing-- I get uncomfortable in my skin, I write a lot of stuff down but don't do much, I avoid more and more of life. Then i get stuck. Stuck inside my head. And that my friends is simply not good, not a good track record, just plain not a super-sun-shiny place.
Re-seeing the importance of honesty, openness, and willingness is good.
Just like taking care of my skin issues that would otherwise keep growing into bigger issues, is good.
Slathering on antimetabolite cream that kills abnormal cells doesn't feel good or look good in the moment, in parts of the process. I can't cover over with make-up and can't stay in denial about damage done and the type of skin i have that is more or less allergic to sun. I can't deny the fact anymore that extreme care and commitment to sunscreen must be a part of my daily regimen ad infinitum. I can't keep writing myself reminders about changing my daily habits, can't keep putting it off until tomorrow or next soccer game or next summer.
As I start this treatment for my skin, I also realize I don't want to stay stuck in my head. Don't want the counterproductive- pre-cancerous so to speak- thoughts to grow.
So with that I'll slough off a snippet of what's been stuck inside, untended to, and growing- fear. Fear of not getting things done i know i need to get done, fear of not doing things right, fear of not being good enough, fear of losing someone or something, fear of talking, fear of fear for heaven's sake.
Open-- i feel like i just opened what was like a storm door holding all that fretting inside. It's out. Out in the open and all is still ok.
So now, there you have it... as the skin sloughs away, so do some of the paralyzing thoughts that multiply in a similar fashion to cells.
One minute at a time today means being inside this minute- not letting the anxieties of Monday or finances or the paper due Tuesday or the job i need to find or the book i want to write or the slew of 'good intentions' that only create caverns of unrealistic expectations and mountains of things-to-do lists...
Willing, I'm willing to be right here in this minute and not squirm around unhappy with the RIGHT NOW. Even if right now isn't where i think i need to be. I'm willing to start small, right here, with these words, releasing copious fears as i write them. Willing to leave the sense-making to the Creator of thoughts, and that is definitely not me.
Honest-y today I seek. Not seeking to hide or hermit, but seeking honest minutes like this, for no big picture reason other than to slough off thoughts and cells and
well, just be here in Sunday.

Too Much Frying for Ali Pie

2011-04-02T21:41:00.000-07:00

“See you later Mom, I’m going to the pool.”

“Ok, just make sure you put on sunscreen first.”

“yeah, right” I say under my breath as I trot out the door thinking my skin perpetually youthful and somehow more olive complexioned than is reality.

I run across the street to the kind neighbor’s pool they offered my brothers and I during the two summers we lived there. I lay out in the sun, bake, burn… I did not much to my chagrin and constant attempts otherwise, tan.

My non-tan-able skin got fried that day as on most days that I pretended to use a shield against the sun’s harmful rays. I said ‘bring it on’, and I’m paying. And for the burn I got in Mexico because I didn’t think one could get sun on a cloudy day…oh i can't even go there- blistering, painful to lay on my back for months, crud.

I hear my mom’s words echo…echo…echo in my mind

…As I slather Efudex cream all over my face in effort to quell the mutiny on my epidermis.

Why oh why didn’t I listen and put the gosh darn sunscreen on before I went swimming (and all those oodles and oodles of other times). I suppose many daughters hitting middle age utter similar sounds. “Why oh why didn’t I listen?” I suppose many daughters are still saying 'yeah, right' under their breath. I hope we all begin listening more though. I really hope we do.

I regret not wearing sunscreen because I now have skin ripe with pre-cancer cells, basal cells, sunspots, and deeper-than-need-be-for-30-something-wrinkles.

Anyhoo, I’m applying cream that’s supposed to slough off those danger cells starting tonight. I’ll update on the 3 week process, try to find out a little more about how this Efudex stuff works. I understand the ol’ face might be a bit of a frightful sight as the medicine does the job and gets rid of the harmful whatnots. But would much rather look blistery and odd for a few weeks than the alternative, and let the mutinous cells keep having their way.

Happy Birthday to Who? to you Dr. Seuss!

2011-03-02T08:02:00.000-08:00

The Sense in Nonsense: Waking up the Brain Cells

By Ali Plum

To the me’s and the you’s and the Cindy Lou Who’s

What might this wise Seuss say if he were here today?

I think Seuss might say what he said in his own day, “Children want the same things we want. To laugh, to be challenged, to be entertained, and delighted… A person’s a person, no matter how small.”

I adore the nonsensical words and rhymes Dr. Seuss penned. I adored listening to Billie- a surrogate grandma circa 1983. She read to me in her natural Okie tone, I can hear it today, MCGELLIGOT’S POOL.

“If I’m patient and cool, who knows what I’ll catch in McElligot’s pool,” says the boy with the vivid imagination who despite the ‘seen’ (a muddy puddle he’s fishing in) believes in the ‘unseen’—surely this pond leads to the sea. The gruff furrowed brow farmer in the story implores the boy to stop the nonsense, to stop wasting time imagining there’s something beyond the concrete.

I remember hearing Seuss tales and my heart skipping a few beats with excitement, the lyrics, the scenes, and the imaginings. Quite honestly, his lyrics made me want to learn to read. His books are like music to me, and bid me come into the pages, into Who-ville and climb those funny slanted mountain doodles, and shake the hand of one of those famous friends- Yertle the Turtle, the Wocket, Thidwick, Gertrude, and the Zax (among others of course. One can’t leave out the Grinch.)

Dr. Seuss changed kid literature. He changed learning as well. He changed learning for me at least. And I know a couple of other little Plums bit with the Seuss bug in their toddler days—and the bug remains (thank goodness!)

School would have been unbearable for me without the likes of Dr. Seuss, a 5^th grade science teacher named Mr. Corbett, and a few others. It was patience and their insistence that I believe in myself rather than disdain my kid brain, their mantra ‘Oh the Places You’ll Go!’ changed the way I perceived myself at many points in life. Though school always remained a great challenge.

Public education is a quandary these days. I hear NPR discuss the teacher’s union outrage in Wisconsin (uh, many other places as well, this being the most recent). I hear my home state do a lot of talking, a lot of stressing, and a lot of complaining about the state of public education. I hear a lot of about test scores, angst about test scores, shutting down schools cause of test scores; meanwhile debating teachers abilities in this that or the other way. We don’t pay teachers enough to be under the immense amount of pressure to ‘perform’ much less to teach. No one’s to blame and we are all to blame. Blame game has proved moot. Moot doesn’t move us to a new resolute. If we are not resolute we are like wet noodles flopping around making excuses for something so fundamentally important AND simple—teaching our kids how to love learning, how to engage in their own mental process, how to ask questions, and how to believe in themselves as thinkers, creators, innovators.

A lot of us furrowed brow grown ups look at the puddle like the farmer in McGelligot’s Pool and say, ‘Oh don’t bother imagining it will get better. It’s too broken. It’s a waste of our time. Let’s just keep debating who’s right and who’s wrong. Let’s keep pointing fingers. That’s much more practical than seeing, imagining possibilities.’

“The more that you read, the more things you will know. The more that you learn, the more places you'll go.”

Well, it happens to be Marco-the boy- who enlightens the farmer. Not Seuss, the usual narrator in his other works. Marco imagines a number of possibilities, endless in fact. “The Child is Father to the Man” the line in William Wordsworth poem resounds powerfully in my mind as parallel to Marco’s interaction with the farmer.

Perhaps if we simply asked or paid attention to how kids learn, what brings letters and numbers and fascinating things to life? We would probably find more than enough ideas to re-start the education engine. Perhaps we’ve been looking at learning upside down. Yes, test-test-testing leads to numbers that indicate something helpful for big people in big places. Tests are necessary, I’m willing to see that. But tests aren’t the whole picture. They are the black and white, the silent film of learning. We need Technicolor classrooms to revive the laughter, the challenge, and the delight of learning.

(I am the least qualified person to comment on such things, although I am a student, and a human who is a lifelong learner. Disclaimer: this is purely my opinion.)

Perhaps many kids love the way the classroom works. Perhaps many thrive in it.

But for me, and many I’ve met through the years- young or old- like me, the classroom functioned as a place to feel significantly less smart, less successful than others. It was a place that signified stress and concepts I didn’t understand ‘on time’ and fear of being called on.

The upside: I loved stories, writing, and art. Those classroom experiences felt like safe havens, where there was room for daydreaming, creating, expressing and learning a great deal through those processes.

It’s taken me to my thirty-something age to pass algebra and learn how to write a real live outline and abstract (although admittedly all the rules and wherefores still confuse the heck out of me.) But this feeling of failure or lack of success rather doesn’t just go away once past the high school room doors, or once diploma was in hand. The feeling got lodged in my psyche round 5^th grade. And then stayed-- like an unwanted guest, siphoning many of my natural resources—the feeling that I was dumb or unmotivated or a number of other descriptions.

I’m not throwing a pity party—quite the opposite. For once I feel exhilarated by the fact that I’ve learned learning never stops, open minds leads to a more open heart, asking questions leads to finding out new possibilities. Learning new things keeps connecting pieces of puzzles. Our brains are amazing things!

And now, experiencing this love of learning—I hope with resoluteness for our education systems to embrace a new way of seeing teaching, a new way of motivating learning- an intrinsic experience of neurons and brain synapses breaking into dance! An experience that allows a heart to be moved by what it hears new that day at school. That teachers could have the freedom to move in their uniqueness and teach the way that makes sense to them because then what they teach will make more sense to their students.

I have a dream that one day, all the multiple intelligences will be celebrated and valued equally. I have a dream that we will stop labeling our kids one side of the brain or the other, hence limiting their view of themselves and abilities. I have a dream that the generation who still has recess and eats in that famous elementary cafeteria smell every day will love words and poetry as well as numbers and math, seeing that both can be fascinating and full of riddle, rhyme, and pattern.

I have a dream that Dr. Seuss’ encouragement, “Think left and think right, think low and think high, oh the things you can think up if only you try!” will ring and resound through school halls; kindergarten through senior year and beyond! that we parents will motivate by encouraging curiosity, fostering creativity, and expressing affirmation rather than endless stressing about deficiencies. As a wise woman has told me many a time and I now understand, “Focus on the donut, not the hole.” (Thanks mom. It makes so much sense now with my own kiddos.)

We might be late bloomers, we might be early risers, we might be artists or we might be scientists. We might be motivated, we might whine, we might act tough, we might act like we don’t care about our mind.

“I like nonsense, it wakes up the brain cells. Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living, It's a way of looking at life through the wrong end of a telescope. Which is what I do, And that enables you to laugh at life's realities.”

We all are born to take in new things daily, find stories in stars, wonder about how A + B= C and relish the process of finding out why, look at history finding fascinating similarities and learning vital lessons for the future.

This is what I dream about when I look in the puddle—the possibilities for learning are as endless as the sea.

I hope the phenomenon (that I often fight) of social media will one day lead to change, real palpable change, on the road to education reform. If a country’s people can find their voice and strength through such a thing; why can’t we ‘as the people’, the parents, the teachers, the kids, the ones who care about keeping the learning spark alive in the classroom, find our voice and in unison say,

“Ok, we’re ready to see the possibilities. We are ready to look at what we’ve done that hasn’t worked. We are humble enough to ask questions and be open to new innovative solutions. We are hopeful and courageous enough to leave the denial and heated debates aside and HOPE in the younger generations. Rather than give up or label them or criticize them.

And we are ready to see the grave misstep somewhere along the way when we thought it was ok to take creativity and expression away. It’s not OK. Our kids will need art and music and movement more than ever heading into an age where they are seeing less and less of our faces and more and more screens. We are more plugged in to devices and less plugged into getting to know each other. Kids need a place to still play, be kids, let out how it feels, they need a place to imagine nonsense and write from that place not just fill out blanks on another worksheet. They need to be able to try science experiments and work out equations on the big white board. They need a place to learn how to solve problems and collaborate with each other. They need a safe place to falter and then learn from those tries. They need a place where they can learn they are not the kings of the world, but learners, observers of it—and what a fascinating, fun, and weighty role to look into the who, what, when, why, and how of things.

I think Dr. Seuss might encourage us adults to take a deep breath and then exhale and admit we’ve tried awful hard to make a system work, but in our best efforts its broken plain and simple.

Broken pieces though can form a most vibrant beautiful mosaic, especially when lit.

And that’s my dream for public schools in OKC and abroad—that we can heal in a mosaic way—the shards of glass strewn about all over the place we can bring together in puzzle form with a cohesive collaborative glue and create a stunning outcome.

“You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself in any direction you choose. You're on your own.

And you know what you know. You are the guy who'll decide where to go.”

I believe. I believe in learning. I believe we can help learning happen more in classrooms—all classrooms—by taking cues from the Marcos how to find possibilities, use our imaginations, and respect the rhyme again, just like Dr. Seuss…

“Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It's not.”

tick-tock

2011-02-26T22:52:00.000-08:00

When sitting across from your date, your spouse, your mate

Your friend, your business partner, your kid even say…

Put the gosh darn cell phone away.

Yet here I am with the rant and the soap-box

Giving a speech about how we talk or we don't talk

But when push comes to shove

My email inbox hovers sometimes above

The words that I hear, the words real life and clear

The face in front of me

Worthy of listening

Worthy of eyes contacting

Worthy as human beings

And yet we forget

As soon as our phone rings.

This isn’t a slam, or verbal shove

I am the worst of us, certain times I love

Escaping, noggin rotating, twittering thoughts

Avoiding the real, the feelings I feel

Dare even pain, fret, or hurt

But instead, a human voice, a word spoken maybe curt

My choice is face do I face you

Or pace away with my screen face to

Read and bleed those real emotions into.

Information age, is it forever this way or a stage?

Can we balance our eyeballs on faces and back-field sky balls

Play in the rain at the drop of a hat, snuggle kids, not call back

Immediately, see this immediacy—to check our online life

Rather than deal with real life- strife

can we pause when we want to be steady and still?

Can we still put down the phone and heal-

The wounds we have caused when we stop looking in eyes

Or the wounds done to us that creep up still- surprise

Do we run virtually to escape our own us

Do we get rustled and fester when our kid starts to fuss

Asking ‘when will you unplug and let go and play?’

When will you sit with me, run with me, stay

on this couch, and not look away

To see who just texted or emailed or rang.

It’s been food for thought, as of late, recently

To take a good long look at the cell phone and me

Is it important constant constantly?

Is it as urgent as we’ve now made it to be?

Virtually the need- take inventory

Realistically it’s real life that I need

To remember what miracles surround

a real glance, a real voice, each real unique sound

Try today, boldly put the phone down,

Perhaps shut it off just to see just to glance

At the potent place in our life, what it adds

I’m not saying it’s all bad,

we have grown and evolved

New ways to connect and resolve

this strange planet we see in all kinds of new ways

let's not focus on what’s so wrong these days

But one can take stock,

like an ol’ grandfather clock

Make sure the hands still move through the hours

that one can still run through rain showers

See that the winder is wound

The heart is still present and one’s voice is still found

1.5

2011-02-14T08:34:00.000-08:00

Skeletons in the Closet #1.5

…the closed door. The room. The closet.

So my fairy godmother did not nor will make a showing.

I know, you are shocked. But I’ve come to peace with this fact. Well, I wouldn’t say peace. Simply on the basis that cleaning to me doesn’t equal peace so much, but I suppose that’s not the point of cleaning. OR perhaps it is, and I’m just slow seeing the light.

As the prologue suggests, behind the closed bedroom door has been a sight for sore eyes. But as I finally bust into cleaning mode to my side, my own closet, my ‘stuff’; it became immediately clear to me… I have to learn to keep my side, my closet, my stuff clean first before wrapping constantly around anxieties of H or N or L not keeping their stuff clean. Easier said than done. But nonetheless true. OH so true.

I’ve known this theory from treatment, “cleaning my side of the street clean” and it’s been just that. A theory. I’ve acted like I live the theory, when in reality I haven’t had the faintest clue how to really, really live it.

Until I stepped into the craziness of my space in my room and began the de-cluttering, the much overdo organizing, the hanging of some pictures that had been stashed in my closet because our bedroom has been a storage unit rather than a room. This whole time, putting all this aside like a martyr (lazy martyr) spending a few years in a row anxiously wrapped around the inefficiencies of others, the need for order in other rooms belonging to them, meanwhile literally ignoring and hiding my own disheveled chaos (concrete or metaphorical implied- external or internal, take your pick).

Needless to say, the last week has been awfully enlightening in the way of taking care of my own ~~crap~~ excuse me, mess. And there’s been a number of ‘skeletons’ I’ve found in my closet there in the chaos as I’ve been cleaning. In between hanging up clothes and finding the floor:

Uno: A lost journal from before treatment. Dos: some pictures of the boys as bambinos, a few of their baby socks and t-shirts mixed in somehow with the mess of whathaveyous… quatro, cinquo, etc… (there were many things unearthed in the mess)…

(cue thought/memory clouds above head)…I’ve never been very apt at handling memories. Whether forgetting them or re-living them to a fault or not letting go of them or being deathly afraid to face them… memories seem to have some strange, paralyzing power over me. I’ve surrendered scared many times to this feeling. Thus, cleaning and de-cluttering even in the most necessary of ongoing ways, has proved an unlivable task. Emotionally I curl up in a ball and feel paralyzed. Once upon a time before treatment, this feeling would come- at the sight of a toddler shoe too small or a packet of pictures hidden under piles only to emerge with such force of emotion, that I would waddle myself into the kitchen and deal with the wave of overwhelming ‘missing’ feelings, the memories, the moments I might have missed somehow, head on—with a re-fill of wine mixed with juice, stir and consume. Ah, now I feel ok.

These are the skeletons attached to my old ways of cleaning things out, dealing with clutter, organizing life and memories—I would drink in order to not feel reality, the reality that time moves along whether or not I’m ready, whether or not I’m scared or you name it. The few times I was able to go through grown out baby and toddler clothes, my many-times-angel-Kathryn was there, helping take the edge off the letting go process, helping by being present in my weird but profound pain of releasing time, releasing memories, releasing my guilt of what I did or didn’t do right, releasing the cuteness of some of my favorite clothes I’d put on the boys and how tiny, and now how big, oh it was simply

Too much. To feel. Even with the help of a dear friend.

Afterwards I would drink. And drink. And try not to think.

{The vicious cycle of compulsive brain and chemical reaction…}

Until I hit that end, that substructure of self that has no frame left to hide atop. I lost my marbles, my mojo, my motivation- to live and be. I didn’t know how to be me anymore without falling apart, or breaking something or someone, or blacking out, or passing out. I couldn’t hide the pain anymore, couldn’t find sane on my own anymore, needed help, needed.

Evidence of this tsunami of a cycle was found in the old journal unearthed through the closet clutter. Waves of remembering, how did I get so far out? How did I make it out of the last night, the last binge alive? (miracles do in fact exist I believe). What kind of mother was I to do such things, be such and such way? the wave of assaults at my old inner self, guilt creeping back…

NO! skeletons, you have no power over me. I’m thankful for my past, you skeletons have taught me what it means to finally BE ALIVE. I crave life now, even on blue days… I want to LIVE. I can smell life in the springtime blooms, but can also sense purpose in the whiting out with snow. Before treatment, I couldn’t even muster a step forward, life seemed unlivable in my skin, living seemed unattainable without artificial means to ‘help’ get through... I’m grateful that I’m not defined by that past, I don’t cringe or carry shame. Daily clearing of old thoughts by thinking new thoughts, being taught new ways to react, respond, re-new…

This cleaning process… bring it on! I fear you no more.

(cue coming out of thinking cloud above head) …So now you know. Running into old things, old thoughts while seeing those old things, feelings I get about those old things—this is the madness that has traditionally been attached to the clearing out/cleaning process. It’s been a monster I’ve been scared to face, thus many times over not faced… thus the interminable shut door policy.

This is a new time, I’m not afraid to face the piles of memories, or clutter, or whatever else might be found in the process. I’ll feel the feeling, but it won’t cripple me. I’ll face it with courage, perhaps some tears, and then get myself to a meeting or sit down and write.

Perhaps that’s the point of discomfort or pain or loss or remembrance—to feel something we need to feel anyway but deliberately push aside because we want to feel in control of the discomfort, we want to hold it far away as we can.

But maybe the feeling it, and the taking care of ourselves in a healthy expressive way, is what frees us from the unlivable part of the pain. And frees us to live in a connected, fresh, present moment sort of way with those around us who need us indeed- present.

This cleaning dilemma I’ve had going for a long time—it’s not about Peter Pan and the 2 lost boys living in my house (j/k HP) and them changing and miraculously bippety-bobbity-boo! cleaning their rooms on a regular basis {one thing at a time}

No, it’s about me learning how to keep myself free- from the old stuff that creeps in, or the clutter that can start forming mounds over the ground, or the thoughts that become too overwhelming to face, or the frustration over what someone else isn’t doing that becomes my ill-fated-focus. It’s about learning how to keep my side clean to the best of my ability and then the rest…

Let it be.

Until

Well, until, we’ll see. I just need to focus on keeping my side clean.

prologue: Skeletons in the Closet.

2011-02-09T10:54:00.000-08:00

Cleaning closets

Domestically speaking, I am challenged, developmentally delayed. No really, ask N and L. I hear often an assuaging statement from even them: "It's ok mom, you have other strengths." Needless to say, before I start drawing metaphors about skeletons in closets allow me to set the scene:

The front and middle portion of our ranch style home has become a conquerable challenge. The kitchen- ummm, well lets just say it depends on the day and the amount of food consumed by the wonderboys (hint: plethora).

A la Ali-HG-TV style, walk with me a moment…the floor plan is like a little ‘t’, the arms of the ‘t’ lead to bedrooms and a bathroom per side. On one arm of the ‘t’ is the master bathroom and bedroom. On the other arm are 2 little bedrooms belonging to the wonderboys, a circa 1970’s bathroom between bedrooms.

The long stem of the ‘t’ includes a living room and back play room. Wonderboys art is added ongoing to the walls with that blue tacky stuff that isn’t supposed to leave a mark when removed or replaced.The vacuum has a decent relationship with this area of the house, not afraid to interact with the Hans-ified concrete floors.

Needless to say, if you walked into casa-plum you would hopefully feel welcomed by a decently uncluttered overly couchified space. Now imagine a couple of doors on the 2 sides of the ‘t’ that are shut at all times, save sleeping hours... and for good reason. Few have dared to enter the lair on the master bedroom side (we’ll leave the 2 small wonderboy’s rooms out of this for now).

Behind these closed doors lies a site that would make Martha Stewart recoil and shudder. A site that would make a celebrity mom-blogger faint (she who uploads daily pictures of a domestic wonderland she’s created and maintained. I’m skeptical there’s not some trickery involved here… cleaner? interior designer? Fairy godmother? Househusband? Photoshop? please tell me the secret?!? Oh poo.)

Anyhoo, onward. There must be a reason for this banishment of said room from plain view, from being reveled in, pleasant for dwelling purposes. There must be a reason the door…stays…closed.

As I dare enter this particular day with a motivation other than ONLY sleeping in bed, the reasons fill the forefront of my mind, having been pushed aside day after day- the scope of the task too large to tackle psychologically, too perilous on too many levels! (melodramatic? a pinch. apologies. but this is serious psychological beeznees!) Without further ado…

Reason 1.

I have yet to figure out this multi-person-laundry dilemma, oh who am I kidding, I had yet to figure out solo-person-laundry before thing 1 and thing 2 arrived. THUS clean clothes 9 times out of 10 end up in frequently purchased bins in none other than master bedroom. We are talking copious loads… unfolded, unmanaged, clean yes, but separated according to person of various age or size no.

Reason 2.

I’m lazy and dislike picking up after myself and/or others if public viewing will not be had. (irk, honest assessments un-fun indeed). added note: involving others in picking up process proves a groundhog day experience. imagine wendy... lost boys... kind of theme. No offense Peter and Lost Boys! Wendy hasn't been the best delegator.

Reason 3.

I’ve been waiting for my fairy godmother to lightly descend with her perfectly fairy tale-ish attire and magic wand, her supernatural better-than-bath-and-body-works-pumpkin-spice-scent whooshing and wafting through all needed areas, dusting long forgotten, rarely seen places, and lovingly saying to me, “Oh Ali dear, you’ve done such a heroic job with the good portion of your home, proving yourself deserving of my services. Step aside, go get some coffee, RELAX, and let me magically transform this room into something even Nate Berkus could not conceive. Never fear… fairy godmother here!”

If you asked if I believed such a thing, I would like to tell you- why of course not, I’m a rational adult who beholds household tasks as necessary and unavoidably fulfilling.

Fact is I’m often irrational, with my head in the clouds (over) half the time. Somewhere deep down I’ve been impatiently waiting on the revered Ms. Fairy Godmother for the most difficult household tasks. Not because of the size of the task as you might suspect at this point, but because of the emotional size of the task. More on that later... when the metaphor plays out a bit more.

Blame it on Cinderella. I was far too impressionable when I first met her. Cinderella introduced me to a notion wherein one’s magical Songstress sweeps in when most needed. Perhaps this sad display of a bedroom has scared her away before she could sing a note, “Bippity, bobbity, boo!”

To be continued…

metaphorish

2011-02-03T22:23:00.000-08:00

Live as if you were living a second time, and as though you had acted wrongly the first time.                 (Viktor Frankl)

i love this thought.
when the boys and i color, draw, create together, part of the activity is the creating-
and part of the activity is to create the opportunity to 'mess up'.
In my eyes their art is anything but 'messed up' when they see something go awry on a page. Noah with his detailed, intricate drawings... Luke with his painting large scenes and lettering...
But when they see something happen on that page that they didn't plan on, the natural tendency is to criticize themselves and impulsive push to crinkle the paper and toss it in the trash.
this is when i try to use my calm-ish voice and encourage them to put the pencil or paint-brush down and take a minute to look at their work, take a deep breath, and chill for a minute.
After which i pour into the philosophy i've inadvertently adopted since 2007 and the Valley Hope experience that indeed led to living a second time so to speak
and that is-- "don't throw the picture away because you think it's messed up, turn the mistake into something even more surprisingly beautiful or clever or surprising."
metaphor. life.
sometimes the boys receive the philosophical sound bite with a non-verbal affirmation: pick up pencil or paint-brush again, and turn the perceived snafu into some lovely piece of curio (which 9 times out of 10 ends up on a wall somewhere in the house)
sometimes there is a slight non-verbal rejection of sound bite including a rolling of the eyes and setting aside of perceived snafu, picking up of blank slate and second try...
either way, i hope we all can learn to not disdain our mistakes, our tries, our attempts to throw color on a page of our lives
but to learn how to try again, using the knowledge, mix colors, lighten up with lighter tones, or charcoal the whole page and begin again drawing with an eraser rather than pencil on a white page.
sometimes i roll my eyes in spite of myself, try to throw away the old page,
only to find i usually run into the same frustrating snag again, and with the choice again to re-learn how to re-write, re-draw, re-work the problem...

Artistry is in all of us, whenever we think our ability to paint or draw or what have you is lacking in luster, it is simply untrue. Artistry is involved in facing new days, new learnings from old mistakes, new thoughts from old brain frames, creating new memories as moments proceed one to the next.

as i say to the boys and now they say back to me often when i need it--
relax, enjoy the process, a mistake is an opportunity to make something even more beautiful...
it just depends on the way you look at it.

quiet the brain noise

2011-01-17T22:02:00.000-08:00

when not tended to, brain noise gets so loud i can't find the volume button.
when not tended to, i start to think i'll never think quietly.
i know i'm not special or unique in this predicament, i'm simply saying
how does one shush the brain noise enough, on a rather regular basis, to hear the present moment,
to hear feeling and heart rather than extraneous thought?

i don't want to think about what i'm going to say. i want to say it.
i don't want to think how i'm going to love. i want to love.
i don't want to think about how to do this or that (or incessantly google it). i want to do this or that.
i don't want to think about making mistakes, routinely rehearsing risk vs reward, always noise noisy noise.
and little action. lots of worry about an outcome. little movement.
before i head into a heap of 'i should's' let me retract this downward spiraling rant...

Inaction & worry: is not true of all things. many things- check. but not all.
there's this one thing i don't have brain noise about.
one thing reverberates essence and personal peace, inner ethereal feeling: calm.

'my' boys (though i have no ownership only the privilege of the present),
the moments i've seen my boys- who they are and are becoming as fascinating individuals, hilarious humans, out of the box thinkers... the moments i hear them and learn from them being...
being in the present as their mom, as their temporary field guide, co-climbing the mountains and fielding through woods, letting them adventure farther ahead, them pulling away at different points in the road-- bit by bit-- they are writing their own narrative.

I remember when i carried them on my back when their legs couldn't carry them yet, when they needed to nap on the journey and eat frequently, and couldn't yet make their own peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
I remember when my co-adventure guide (H) and i were told many things about leading this expedition called life with wee ones.
And when we couldn't understand these manuals others kept trying to hand us, we decided to write our own, to not be afraid of the things our hearts said about adventuring with the boys.

Even if that meant making gaping mistakes along the way.
Even if that meant all of us staying up late giggling and making up for the colic and tears during the day.

Even if that meant being poor but learning not to care what that looked like because we knew we could snuggle at the end of the day. And cuddles and snuggles we could do, that we were consistent with. that was the blessing of being unable to afford a nursery suite or smooshy crib bedding. wherever we all tired out at the end of the day, pacifiers swishy sounds, pudgy feet, bellies with marker from brother drawn all over, blankies half covering their busy toddler bodies smelling like outdoors where they played and dragged that blankie behind... my arm around their head, swiping the baby fine hair away from finally sleeping face, after whatever chaos (inner or outer) occurred that day, i lay there reciting thanks thank and more thanks. for these mysterious little miracles called N and L. i lay there forgetting the unknowns and knowing we were all right there breathing deep, alright, right where we needed to be for that moment.
They were tiny for oh such a short time.

And oh my i tend to have moments of regret-many decisions i made that landed me in places i never thought i'd be like treatment for various sundries or like college at 34 or like grown-up-ish responsibilities that i shirked for way too long...

but one thing i never regret, one thing i never look back on and feel a twinge of negativity. That thing is having spent oodles of time looking at my N and L in the face, eye to eye, un-rushed, too poor (thank heavens) to go anywhere or do much else, without frills or bells or whistles, connecting, contented, napping if we were tired, running in the rain if we felt like it, painting on huge paper with finger paints in essence paint ending up everywhere but paper, diapers and cowboy boots, john wayne movies at 3 and 2, talking (yes even the baby talk years) til way late til our eyelids shut from gratitude that we made it through the day- we did, somehow someway, and managed to extract the joy from it like that sweet pure sip of homemade orange juice.

in a world full of smart phone schedules and goal keeping computers with alarms for what we simply cannot miss tomorrow at two or the next day at six...

i held those boys, sang to those boys, climbed and hiked through the woods called life with those boys. i did it all imperfectly, many times i'm sure selfishly, i lacked discipline and consistency...
but these things don't bother me. These foibles brought me to my knees to plead in the middle of my inadequacy-- "help. please."

to which i found the answer those baby years...
just be. just be. calm now, cuddle these little adventurers before they head out on their own. Stop rushing, slow down, stop fretting about the future this or that, the 'plan', the weight, the wait, the wants.
for now just be. you don't need anything save arms to hug, ears to hear, a heart to feel, eyes to see and then a mouth to say a few words like 'i love you.' 'i'm proud of you.' 'i'm sorry, i made a mistake.'
words that now the boys say back to us, reminding us to keep saying them.

SO long soliloquy short, as the boys grow older and need me much less to lend them my field guide (my ever changing one at that) or help navigate their way,
i need to find a way to eschew others' field guides (when i'm tempted to compare)
and keep writing my own narrative, a changing one, a unique, admittedly often upside down one.
Just like raising the boys the last almost decade: journeying through a daunting forest of trees by finding the moments that mattered, the strengths to draw upon even when liabilities tried to derail.
Shush, shush, just be. just be. calm now...

free

2011-01-16T21:18:00.000-08:00

things i don't understand and sometimes fear:
growing up
eating vegetables
the computer, aka technology
talking out loud
interviews
organizing closets
math, numbers, and logic (as a course)
critical humans who think they pretty much know it all already
crowded places
monotony
misunderstanding/being misunderstood

things i don't understand and fascinate me:
growing up
eating vegetables
the computer, aka technology
talking out loud
interviews
organizing closets
math, numbers, and logic (as a course)
critical humans who think they pretty much know it all already
crowded places
monotony
misunderstanding/being misunderstood

explanation: this was sort of a free-writing moment. was simply thinking about fears and setbacks and such, and then suddenly a paradox appeared. hmmmm. the things i fear, the things i dislike, are often the things that teach something needed for the next step... love to freewrite. brings out what might otherwise fester, there's some quote about that i think....
"Look sharply after your thoughts. They come unlooked for, like a new bird seen in your trees, and, if you turn to your usual task, disappear."

(Ralph Waldo Emerson)

mind-field.

2010-12-13T09:41:00.000-08:00

Inmate. Convict. Captive. Patient. Resident.

I was a captive of chemicals.

A patient in treatment.

A resident in a white room.

Sober slowly. Sane slower. Searching a way out of

Chronic self pity

Chronic sickness dependent, dependent, I needed,

And needed. Something of substance in form of

Liquid, my liquid courage,

kept blood pulsing, mothering possible,

Held undesirable emotions at bay, away, far away as long as I drank.

The pain I didn’t want to feel, oozing hurts that wouldn’t heal

Hand me a drink, I felt at peace, how could I not pledge undying love allegiance to the only thing that so called kept me sane.

the un-addicted who sit perplexed on the judgment seat

they don’t need or feed…

This need of drug, of something…

To Alter the way we see

The way we plea

The way we achieve

Normal-see like you.

Captive of chemicals.

As it hit my lips it set me free

Caught up with a stream of blood designed to need

And need; keep needing, don’t stop to think…

A drug, a pill, that drive, that thrill, when not had

At will, a crash, a backlash

A pact, I had to make a pact.

When I lost it I would find it, no matter what

You said or begged

I promised my liquid love I’d re-fill that bottomless cup.

Inmates.

I know the pact

How it lures you (us) to act

And do the things you’d (I’d) normally run from

Later picking up the pieces and crumbs

The after-shock your (my) loved ones turn from

Left alone. It’s only you (me).

A sentence—harsh

I deserved it too.

Car drives, nap times,

late nights, blackouts,

we broke the law, we broke the trust

we lied and cheated, made family seams bust

I went home after thirty days,

Valley of Hope arrested my fragmented ways.

No bars, no prison cell held me there

My sentence? This locked up imbalanced brain,

“Don’t feed it, please just don’t feed”

I told myself day after day, I breathed

and complied

And denied feeding that urge.

I walked from one day to the next and learned

A new way to cope with myself

The past and the present, the brain cells

Life began changing color, dim turned to bright,

Un-relenting heat turned to fall

No longer afraid of the night.

One day at a time, and breathing in deep

No longer held captive even if charged,

Heart free, brain clear, blood stream—

clean

Mosaic made now with the broken pieces

Slices of and fractions together fill

Spaces… slices and shards of the past

Brought together mosaic-ly with that broken glass

Women, mothers, we were full of shame

Captive of chemicals, inmate to a reckless game

UNTIL someone believes

There’s more to us than needles and drinks

Than anger and neglect, than confusion and regret

Women, mothers, we were caught

We were locked up, we were found out

We were stopped in our tracks now

We can pause and let go of

The convict inside us. Ironic if convict is

Where they might find us.

The real battle? The mind…

The hating self, the crime

We hungered and thirsted

For affirmation not curses

And drank til we found it

Blurred faces surround us

The real battle? The mind…

Whether or not the time fits the crime

Greatest need—release from thoughts that keep us locked up

Those moments, those days, the ways, we failed and forgot

to be

Mothers

To our sweet babies.

Creator of the Second Chance

please teach us how and set us free.

consistently mutable.

2010-12-01T21:53:00.000-08:00

I am consistent with one thing in life. Profoundly consistent with...

being profoundly inconsistent.
One day is doable. It feels full of promise and my feet stay stuck on the ground with the greatest of ease. It feels so doable in fact that i... (drumroll) make a plan for the next day! (novel concept i know)
Twenty-four hours later (or some random number of days in between), my feet hit the floor after a less than restful slumber, and boom! Doable life is no longer. Creeping
into
the
dark
place...
Just making it through the day well enough to pick up a few things strewn about at home, help boys with whatnots, maybe brush my hair, just maybe.
This non-doable day is when my heart aches for pen and paper, for endless hours to pour thoughts out onto pages, eschewing the computer screen- seeing it as inhibiting...something... creeping...
but then not doing anything.
Because just maneuvering takes all the energy allocated to the day.
until sleep comes... and i drift...
back into the land of possibility!
Waking brings promise, the sun seems to be squeezing out vitamin D all over me with no risk of harmful rays, no way!
I feel optimistic with hope about returning to that list again, though i feel so optimistic i add to the list with more grand goals and inner-cheerleader voices chanting
you
can
do
it!
I haven't made sense yet of this great swinging pendulum ride i seem to be genetically or biochemically or well who knows, seat belted to.
I know the pendulum swings far less than it used to. Far less than when i played engineer to my own nightmarish ride. (cocktail of chemicals aforementioned)
One thing is constant though in all this manic mess. I've learned (am learning) to accept the ebbbbbs
and
flowssssssssss
the ebbs and flows
of the highs and the lows.
I've learned how to lean into and learn from the days i feel energy, even synergy, learning things i never thought i'd learn
and then lay back into, not resent the, slow brain days... when my hand aches for pencil or guitar pick and can't even go near a computer keyboard.
I used to resent this flow of one extreme to another, that seemed so far out of my control, that seemed incongruous with the life i was 'supposed to' lead being a mama, a whatever and a whathaveyou.
But this flow has become a steady theme, as unsteady as it seems.
Why make such a paradoxical claim? For one, i think moods, chemical imbalance, chemical balance, optimism, realism, what-have-you-isms are all often misunderstood. I think we spend a plethora of time in our lives trying not to feel what we feel. Let me rephrase that. I spent a plethora of time in my life trying not to feel what i felt, and then calling the inability to dictate those feelings terribly unforgivable. So with this inner quandary rumbling around inside i decided at some point to medicate. In whatever ways i knew how. To avoid running into myself around each unpredictable bend.
The short of it is this, sometimes i think it is quite good to face the super duper flawed-ness or pained place within us and say, ok, you can come out now. I'm not ashamed of you anymore. Even if you are super strange or
are given a name like
mental illness or some other such reality
and some people get squeamish because they don't
quite
understand. yet...
now i understand much more about how each precious, priceless, unique human being is a being... is being
is becoming
exactly who we are supposed to be, mess or success, and all.
each mess or success
a unique process
never the same as someone before or someone after
or the one you live with or grew up with.
each mess and/or success a lesson
in acceptance.

33 Thanks-givings

2010-11-30T10:05:00.000-08:00

::Thanksgiving without Mimi was like swimming for 24 hours against a strong tide.

The emotion came up like water hitting my face as I tried to keep moving forward through the moments, trying to keep from losing it completely through the making (well, helping) and eating family meal and all the various pleasantries that come with holiday treating. exhausting inner resources fighting the tide.

By the end of that day, when the sun went down and we hugged our hugs and said our “what a wonderful day it was” (as it was), and when we carried our seven and nine year old in our arms from the car and flopped them into bed due to sheer and total blissful exhaustion, when H. went to bed and I intended to too… I started doing the dishes. And then cleaning the living room, then scrubbing away papers and clutter and moving space everywhere I found crowding. I sat and stared at the clock after I couldn’t move clutter. I tried a book but eyes glazed oozing the words of the page together creating nonsense.

Two o’clock a.m. and all I could see was Mimi’s face still, the face I missed feeling and seeing that day. All those 33 Thanksgivings that were spent

With Mimi.

Two o’clock a.m. and tears came. Tears that felt like finding the shore of the stream I’d been swimming against all day, and I sat there and wept. Simply missed… I missed her silver hair, her present-ness, her twinkly alive focused eyes that listened better than any paid therapist can. She who for the last decade had fought breast cancer and won, and primarily on her own with her valiant daughters helping her through in Pawhuska, their home.

As is true of human-ish nature when we don’t see the important things in life until late or too late, I didn’t see and comprehend fully her fighter instinct, her quiet resolve to LIVE WELL no matter her level of pain or challenge. It was simply Mimi being herself.

In retrospect I see oh so much:

To live well meant watching the rambunctious great-grandchildren (and yes Justin, Chris, and I first go round too) with sheer delight instead of annoyance, loud voices clamoring to be heard above the others, playing their music and near-forcing their entertaining dance moves on us sometimes non-consenting adults thinking our own NPR-like conversations should take precedence. It’s like Mimi didn’t compartmentalize these moments, she wore a smile easily watching and giggling at the great-grandchildren and their theatrical biddings as well as swiveling around in her chair and looking one of us other grown-ups in the face ready to have a rather serious catch up conversation.

…And then Tears still streaming, I felt my body relax into the grief on that newfound shore remembering the last Thanksgiving with her. The above description the same, and yet after one brother’s family had gone home to sleep and my family following suit, near eleven o’clock at night and Mimi walked slowly, painfully to the back room and laid down, health issues she had been wrestling with due to damage done some years before from radiation (but she beat that cancer yes she did).

It was the first time I’d seen her lay down because of hitting that wall of limitation. I’m sure she had many times before – on her own. But she kept the smile as long as family was lollygagging around, eager to visit or entertain. She would always wait. Last year she said simply “I’m so sorry but I’m going to have to lay down” and her pained face revealed the turmoil affecting her insides from that dang radiation.

Remembering this, remembering her frail body last year—that was smaller in her clothes and walked a little slower—well, as grief does, remembering flooded into knowing, reality is she is healthy again, she is whole, she is with the love of her life who she hadn’t seen since her 50’s and achingly missed even through every smile at every get-together that followed her husband’s death. She is not present here at the table or laying resting in the back room. She is present though in essence, she is present in the way her eyes still look at me with a proud grin when I appreciate nature (especially birds and their kind) as she did, or when I find a garment on the floor of a store and I pick it up so it doesn’t stay for someone else to pick up later, the way she taught me from little girl on up. Her essence. As Noah and Luke simply said on Thanksgiving: “I miss Mimi because there is no one like her, I miss her smile.” Her smile said it all. She smiled at life whether happy or whether she knew it was the best way to respond to it’s blasted fight at times.

Her essence is her history, her story, infused in each of her family members—all of us who were the blessed of the blessed to encounter her quietly fascinating way of moving SO WELL through life, without complaint, so grateful for the simple things, so content, so well, her essence- her core, her spirit is still infectious. she listened well, she believed strongly but lived stronger what she believed, she loved in action more than words because words can be so cumbersome and un-comforting sometimes, she took care daily of the ‘little things’ and didn’t spend a bunch of time of wanderlust-ing after other things. When she felt older and weaker she noticed even more so the older and weaker folks than her and decided resolutely to take them meals as long as she could. She didn’t balk when her granddaughter who should’ve known better than to ‘drink and ~~drive~~ live’ ended up in a less than desirable home away from home for a while and she chose to write her letters packed with identifiable Mimi grace/ fierce encouragement to “lick this thing now and forever” so I could enjoy life, the boys, the moments. Those letters are treasures I tell you. Treasures.

As I lay on the shore after the wave of grief settled on the sand beside me, my memories-mind quieted, my memories-heart subsided into a deep (albeit short) sleep.

Loss is a part of life. Resenting the fact only makes resting more unattainable. Resting on the shore allowing the recall, the re-memberings to flood over the heart and wash through ever neuron of the mind, resting for a bit to strangely learn to take a breath instead of busy busy our bodies in an attempt to forget the pain of remembering the lost one…

Sometimes this is the only way to rest. To feel the loss, but then sense the scent- the essence of a life well-lived infused into—well, all the rest. And then rest. Knowing life is precious and dear and a smile can come with a tear, and the shore of grief is just a rest-stop, so opposite what we learn often to push away the pain. And resting gives way to a more productive next day and next day, the essence of such a loved one alive and awake--

a peculiar correspondence

2010-11-10T09:47:00.000-08:00

a dear friend and i were chatting the other night about what our erudite 80+ year old self might want to pass along to our present self.
Wheels started turning. hmmmmm, yes, interesting idea. what perspective might it bring? what might i see needs attention in order to maintain healthier more fulfilling
relationships
health
goals
peace of mind
mental or emotional health
etc.
Hence

Dear Ali,
Let me introduce myself. I'm you but down the time-line a bit. People still call me Ali but i foreworn you gently that people who once might converse with you in a check-out line or coffee shop, don't tend to notice you are there. I suppose this is a part of life at the end, slowly disappearing that is. If I'd known this fact at your age, I would have struck up as many conversations with the magnificently wise and weathered ones that were all around you and you were too busy to notice or too cool to see. Now the invisible, unapproachable-y one is me. Being on the other side of invisibility but being still so fully alive internally (even though the external might be growing less so) is a lonely day to wake up to each morning.
So with that, I'd advise: Notice folks you might not notice if you are ardently looking to be seen and heard because you might be in the prime of your life or career. These are the ones who have the fascinating stories and lives, even if appearing less than exciting on the surface. Listen. Hear. Observe. Give. Collect wisdom of others who've lived through far more of the tsunami of changing seasons, decades, trends, what have you. Because it could give you the perspective and hope you need to know the sky is not falling, you'll make it through what may seem an impossible phase with husband or teenagers or a job or well, you get the picture.
I still don't know much Ali, but I know you spent way too much time being afraid of way too much. I know, I'm still quite ambiguous in my rhetoric. I've worked on directness in communication but usually what still comes out is (sometimes unhelpful) philosophical metaphors to try to explain what i want to say.
You'll get over this frustration, you'll embrace your quirky you-ish ways of saying things, even if you still get quizzical looks from your sons and your husband. You'll learn to laugh and express yourself in the midst of the quizzical moment instead of withdraw and feel unable to use words well, unable to connect well. So you might as well get over this sooner than later.
Life in the awkward, flawed critter moments can be some of the best opportunities to laugh at oneself rather than disdain oneself.
Oh, and back to the fear. Please stop being afraid. Please stop focusing on all those things you think you lack as a grown-up, a mother, a wife, a whatever. Please stop berating yourself with harsh judgments of 'shoulds'. It does not one iota of good. In fact it steals exuberance from too many hours of too many days of too many years, trust me. Don't waste those many's with fretting over what you should be. Just enjoy the gifts around you, the passage of life up to the point that is today, the things you've learned (from successes and failures both) that have brought you to present moment.
Kids need love, support, belief, honesty, and to be let go of. They need a present parent who admits when they are wrong and says they are sorry rather than clamoring through life trying to convince their kids they have all the answers. They need a parent who attempts to be open and honest and committed to a team oriented process rather than a hostile takeover to produce a perfect product...when it comes to being a family and growing up together. Kids need to know how to fail and succeed with resilience and grace by watching and getting to ask questions along the way, rather than handed a manual of 'how to succeed in life' with a heavy emphasis on monetary material. Kids need to know you don't have all the answers, you are weak sometimes, you are egotistical sometimes, you are imbalanced, you are balanced, you feel sad, you feel happy, but its what we do in response to all those 'you-are's' that matter. The responses to all those things are what affect the future or contribute to the health of body, or relationship with loved ones, or mind, or what have you.
So, let yourself off the hook 34-year-old-ali. Work on the things that matter. They don't cost you any money, and they bring quite a lot of nice connected feelings between yourself and your boys. Let go a little bit at a time and stop fretting about the future of who and how they will be and how you don't want to 'mess up' or mess them up.
In fact, today my white haired wisdom comes from a little tattered book they gave me (you) in treatment some 60 years ago:

132. Risk
To laugh is to risk appearing the fool.
To weep is to risk being called sentimental.
To reach out to another is to risk involvement.
To expose feeling is to risk showing your true self.
To place your ideas and dreams before the crowd is to risk being called naive.
To love is to risk not being loved in return.
To live is to risk dying.
To hope is to risk despair.
To try is to risk failure.
But risks must be taken,
Because the greatest risk in life is to risk nothing.
The people who risk nothing do nothing,
become nothing...
They may avoid suffering and sorrow,
But they simply cannot learn to feel,
and change, and grow, and love, and live.
Chained by their servitude, they are slaves;
they have forfeited their freedom.
Only the people who risk are truly free.

So dear Ali, throw off the cumbersome coat of avoidance and fear,
and laugh, weep, reach out, expose feeling, dream, love, live, hope, try... risk.
And don't forget to work out every once in a while...
oh and one last thing, lay off the bread pudding just a little bit.

Best regards.

a little something to munch on

2010-11-10T05:32:00.000-08:00

For the meaning of life differs from man to man, from day to day and from hour to hour. What matters, therefore, is not the meaning of life in general but rather the specific meaning of a person's life at a given moment.

Viktor Frankl (1905 - 1997)

2010-11-09T16:48:00.000-08:00

So... yesterday was ol' birthday day. I have to say, it was above all peaceful.
That would have seemed entirely and pathetically boring at most points in my life.
2010:The day from beginning to end evoked this grand canyon-ish experience of tranquil contentment, thankful beyond belief that i wasn't navigating my way out of the fog of a blackout raked with nebulous guilt of well, who knows what.
or desperately hoping for a new car to suddenly appear with a big bow atop in the driveway
or bemoaning the fact the i am-- yes-- shock of shocks!-- another year older which must mean something depressing and socially unacceptable... i mean getting along in years
Oh the places the mind will go if allowed!
Not yesterday. Not today. Not allowed.
Fact is, too many times i've not said thank you for life, especially on those crazy days that marks annually our planet birth entrance.
I've not celebrated life, quite opposite often I've wanted to be younger, thinner, happier, in general and defiantly different than who i find myself to be at that time.
If it took a few near overdoses and being in a room full of crazy strung out knuckleheads (self-included in description) for 30 days to knock some sense into this
often-off-kilter-brain-o-mine
and realize LIFE IS A GIFT. (goofy blunder-y bits and all...) then thank heavens some sense got knocked.
There's so much choice in receiving a gift or not. I didn't realize i had such a choice in that recognition of life as a gift.
Treasuring life today feels peaceful. Peaceful feels like sanity. Pockets of peaceful here and there add up to a bigger sea of joy than i ever could have imagined when i used to choose to swim in pain. It's not a 'everything is super awesome birds singing tweety sings overhead', it's a calm acceptance of what
is.
and finding the what is as
tres bien.
i still have goofy blunder-y moments in most days... but a different kind than blackout sort of blunders.
A kind like forgetting to say simply thank you and and forgetting to recline back into a deep smooshy comfy pillowy easy chair of peace because i've stopped looking at what i'm not and what is not,
and started looking at well, how gosh darn grateful i am. even to still... be. Still so amazed that somehow the darkness didn't totally envelop
and i get to see the sea of love around me.
still somehow embracing me, blunders and all.
(thank you precious sea of love)

Mother-Daughter Duet Continued...

2010-10-17T15:36:00.000-07:00

So it's been about 8 months since we saw our combined effort, combined sleep deprivation, tears, unexpected laughter and co-therapy (for the sake of finishing said effort), in print for the first time. Mother Daughter Duet. A feat that at points in certain chapters almost defeated us. But alas, finito!

Since then we've tried to figure out all this social media jive, learn online "presence" as social media gurus and publishers tout around the web.

We’ve both had quite a time with the process, frustrated with what we don’t understand of the how-to’s, overly high expectations of ourselves swarming above our heads, our perpetual to-do lists that are impossibly impossible to conquer through the course of one day… wait, did I just say ‘we’? Have we just stumbled upon significant commonalities from which to connect in some new and creative way?

Ironic that for all those years we struggled most relationally due to our differences we have found such a similar chord.

I have to say I'm glad we get to go on this next phase, this learning curve TOGETHER and I don't have to go it alone.

I don't remember the last time I acknowledged that or said it “out loud”. Not sure why I've always acted fiercely independent; when, in fact most of the time I’ve been quite scared.

Or why for so long I collected much of my cynicism toward the world, organized religion, and issues with my weight, struggle through school, postpartum depression, etc etc…

…in a bottle and every once in a while shook that bottle up, pointed it at you (why oh why), twisted off the bottle cap, and sprayed the carbonated contents on you—of all people?! The one who probably cared the most for my welfare? The one who raised me?

Without diving too deep into the psychological pool of my maladaptive daughter behaviors (oh did I say I was sorry by the way?)

My question to you is this-- What was the major lesson or value or skill (or what-have-you) that you felt most gut-level, unyielding, resolutely determined to impart or give me; even when I opened the bottle top and let the contents fly? Even in those stages when I most gave you the “you’re supposed to read my mind” looks or the “you don't understand me” tirades or well, you remember.

Oh, did I say I was sorry by the way?

Eagerly anticipating your response,

Ali

aka, your daughter.

(anticipated) response found on

Percipient Satire... a breath of fresh air

2010-10-01T08:45:00.000-07:00

You can never underestimate the power of satire...
"Laughter is the tonic, the relief, the surcease for pain."-Charlie Chaplin

So funny how themes seem to emerge through the course of a day, a week, etc.

When i wrote the last blog post, i was responding to a 'chill in the air' kind of feeling, a pessimistic overtone flying overhead--

and then i realized the sentiment over negative press, fear based rhetoric, and the like

reached farther than i at first perceived...

Been doing some reading, wanting to understand more of why we do what we do, especially in particularly less-civil-than-usual-times and stumbled upon a great read--

On Hyperpartisanship, Hypermoralism, and the Supernormal Stimuli of Modern Politics

http://www.civilpolitics.org/blog/2010/07/on-hyperpartisanship-hypermoralism-and-the-supernormal-stimuli-of-modern-politics/

Also- Amartya Sen had some super insightful things to say in Development as Freedom:

(talking about freedom) "We should ask ourselves whether it nourishes us or deprives us, whether it makes us mobile or hems us in, whether it enhances self-respect or diminishes it, and whether it enables us to participate in our communities or prevents us from doing so..."

So in considering our freedoms which we claim as our cornerstone, our foundation-- the banality of pandering to fear as a method of wooing people to one's 'side' whether politically or otherwise is so very sadly contradictory to our original intent as a nation.

Personal responsibility, searching and researching, thinking our own detective thoughts (that hopefully evolve over time so as not to get stagnant) AND being willing to find ways to laugh at ourselves in the process, perhaps important things to reconcile with these days?

Here's a few great reads for our thinks...

http://www.sciencemag.org/cgi/content/full/316/5827/998?ijkey=9S1Vi6nUWCqY.&keytype=ref&siteid=sci

and loads of thought-provoking what nots to rummage through here:

http://www.civilpolitics.org/civpol-resources.html

and a good example (thank goodness!) of the intro bit to this admittedly nebulous post,

A case for Optimism #2.

2010-09-27T08:58:00.000-07:00

After my exit from Valley Hope (the treatment facility that lacking any semblance of comfortable color schemes and cozy ‘bedroom’ décor—nevertheless saved my life) I’ve been ambitiously building an existential case for Optimism.

This may hold significance for a number of reasons.

1. I’ve been a devout pessimist for as long as I can remember save the last three and a half years of which are the ‘recovery years’ referenced often in my scribbleprose as I’m still reeling from this new normal—which includes but is not limited to sanity.

2. Being a new convert, developing the art of optimism takes much: research, reading, thinking, and re-thinking…

3. Opening up to new ideas, listening, feeling new feelings (like for instance hope), mixing the metaphorical stew of life outlook with a different base, seasoning the stew with an assortment of theories, commentaries, historical perspectives, and then

4. Being willing to change my taste viewpoints to that of my own stew rather than someone else’s concoction, my case for optimism builds over the ruins of the ancient past, a town built on pessimism.

With this introduction established, I’ll delve into the observations on life recently prompting yet another stirring of the stew…

I’ve grown increasingly ~~sensitive~~ to aware of comments made by us (well-intending perhaps) grown-ups lollygagging around our critical quips about nearly everything in our society, especially in this here ‘bible belt’. Lollygagging, meaning, regularly spewing series of rants and raves about everything from cell phones to government to the economy to the impending doom of our shame-on-us-society. I hear snip-its of these rants everywhere I go—unfortunately but truthfully adding my own no doubt.

But the more I hear doomsday reports lately, the more I see how we are siphoning oceans of innate innovativeness and hope out of our youngest generations, the future of our adolescent country. And maybe that’s part of the explanation. Because we have so little life experience as a country, maybe we are in the adolescent phase of our collective development, or Bible belt development. I’m not an expert, simply an observer. Here’s a little rabbit trail…

{Adolescent= the process of developing from a child to an adult; “The major task facing adolescents is to create a stable identity and become complete and productive adults. Over time, adolescents develop a sense of themselves that transcends the many changes in their experiences and roles. They find their role in society through active searching which leads to discoveries about themselves.” (Perkins, D., University of Florida 2008)}

Here’s why I think we as a people are in an adolescent phase: we are driven in large part by things like fear, peer pressure, groupthink, bullies, trends, and much more of the like. And like adolescents, we are unaware of our liabilities yet liable to think we know better than anyone else.

If we continue to subscribe to ideas and philosophies based on things like fear (believing everything media tells us about what not and what have you), peer pressure (falling in line with family or friends or community without questioning, searching, sleuthing around to find one’s own thoughts on a what not or what have you), groupthink (discouraging creative thought or personality responsibility), bullies (loud unruly voices declaring they know THE way the country needs to go… OR ELSE!), trends (too many what nots and what have yous to mention)…

Without sounding too soapbox-y, I just think it’s a good time to admit we don’t know much, admit we have a long way to go as a country, region, state, city, town, family, me—and it’s high time to listen to what history’s told us about a whole heck of a lot of things, listen to wise peeps who might not be public figures or opinionated partisan personalities. Wise peeps who might be in everyday life, a teacher, a lady at the grocery store, a dude sitting with you at a smoke break in treatment, a friend, a frenemy, a kid’s comment about how meanie pants we grown ups can be, a stranger, the list proceeds.

Wise peeps are all around and the cool thing is, everyone has a viable viewpoint. A viewpoint that comes from a very real experience and encounter with the world, the society they were born into. Of course we would have different opinions on how we see the past, the present and the future.

It seems the only logical thing to do is to ask ourselves individually and collectively, why are we doing what we are doing? Why are we declaring war on each other politically, verbally, without listening or at least making the ground rules for legitimate debate with the end goal compromise? Why are we spending oodles of money, time, and who knows what else arguing and debating about health care when the fact of the matter is that the system is obliterated, broken to pieces. People are sick. People can’t get well because people who can help are too busy fighting over who owes what to whom. Period. I don’t care if you are on one side or the other of the “issue”, just get innovative minds together, form respectful think tanks and let the little-engine-that could start rolling again. Again, I am no expert. Simply an observer. Having had real experiences and encounters with this world, this society. I don’t have any answers, only questions. So why do so many people these days act like they have answers? The answers I’ve heard touted around town have proven themselves as off the mark as a wrong answer to an algebraic equation. I don’t remember getting any credit for a math problem, no matter how I doodled around it, if the answer was wrong.

Teaching. Schools. What is going on? We are perpetuating the wrong answer to the equation. So what now? Back to the drawing board, listen, move ideas around, change perceptions, be open to new seasonings…

Upside is—I think there are just as many ‘hidden’ heroes championing the cause of improving education as there are lawmakers chained to their chairs by party peer pressure. We just don’t hear as much about the champions who are most likely working tirelessly while most of us moan but don’t move to action.

Back to the case for optimism that might seem ironic at this point in the soliloquy. I don’t mean to be Debbie Downer. In fact quite the opposite:

History observed is full of change, changers, crashes, and Camelot-s. We’ve come back from wars, had families, gone to work, survived—during depression and boom alike. We’ve had brilliant minds come up with miracle medicines, light bulbs, highway systems, and battery operated cars. We’ve hated, forgiven, fought, misunderstood, mended, and changed—sometimes a little bit at a time, sometimes a lot. We’ve made mistakes and will continue to but we’ve moved ahead too, and will continue to. We the people, of the United States, in order to form a more perfect union, need to remember to instill hope in our children (even if we get wrangled by the attachment to texting device) that change for the BETTER is possible, to think for themselves because we don’t know as much as we act like we do and they better get curious about how everything runs and works so they can choose how THEY want to respond, not how WE want them to respond.

The past, though patchy, helps build the case for optimism. The fact that we can learn from what worked and what didn’t work along our nation’s history is brilliantly hopeful. We can decide to listen to someone else’s opinion without feeling threatened if it differs from ours. And we can decide to encourage young minds around us to think for themselves because the world is a great big wonderfully mysterious place and they ought to do all the sleuthing around they can, turning over this rock and that, putting puzzle pieces together from the past and fitting them somehow into the present and future. Innovate, think, create, HOPE for heaven’s sake HOPE. We don’t have to keep subscribing to fear-driven rants. Fear inhibits learning, inhibits change, and inhibits growth. Why would we let fear of what not and what have you (oh so much of it these days) replace courage when our grandparents and their parents, etc. found courage so that we could do the same.

Even if I fret today over things like Oklahoma being the highest, yes number one, state of incarcerated mothers (hence upwards of 20,000+ children affected), I have a choice what I do with that fret. If I can, I will do something. If I can’t do something right now, I will believe that through my lifetime I will see change, there are people that care, change for the better is possible and my message to N and L will be seasoned with ‘yes, you can make a difference for the better even if people say it can’t be done. It can. You can do whatever you set your mind to… look at Abraham Lincoln, George Washington Carver, your teachers, your grandmas, (the list could go on and on)’

The admission that I’m not sure how we are going to improve certain precarious societal issues may be the invitation N and L need to start asking questions, sleuthing through history, thinking on their own, inventing new possible solutions to not so impossible problems we fret over. Maybe we can come up with things together, maybe we can write letters to Congress men and women, maybe we can invent something, maybe we can learn something from someone else.

As many folks are trying to help as are trying to hurt. As many folks are following their instinct and dreams as are perpetuating frenetic pace. As many want to encourage creative, innovative thought as want to brainwash or control. As many want to give as want to take. As many hope as do fear. As many love as hate.

So rather than rant today especially with young ears near, deliberately affirm the world they (we) can mold if they (we) so choose to activate our taste buds, stir in our own seasonings, see the possibilities rather than focus on the limitations we perceive.

The case still builds…

attitude vs. mental fugue

2010-09-13T10:59:00.000-07:00

Our attitude towards what has happened to us in life is the important thing to recognize. Once hopeless, my life is now hope-full, but it did not happen overnight. The last of human freedoms, to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, is to choose one's own way.

- Victor Frankl, "Man's Search for Meaning"

"In September of 1942, a young doctor, his new bride, his mother, father, and brother, were arrested in Vienna and taken to a concentration camp in Bohemia. It was events that occurred there and at three other camps that led the young doctor - prisoner 119,104 - to realize the significance of meaningfulness in life."(Dr. C. George Boeree)

The doctor was Victor Frankl. He had an established career as psychologist, author, researcher, a brilliant bloke- when everything was snatched from his grip and he was forced into a hellish existence apart from his wife and family. He was given a number to replace his name, his dignity stripped away. And yet he survived.

Frankl's theories and writings are far too complex to encapsulate in this small space, but something I've learned from studying bits and pieces is this:

Restoration of the body and mind takes time- but believing that the 'little' daily decisions to change our perspective or attitude about what has happened to us in life restores that broken place in us.

Whether the broken place came from someone or something else, or was or is self-inflicted- the hope remains that we are free to respond however we choose to respond.

This freedom doesn't sound all that remarkable perhaps.

But in the case of Frankl's forced separation from loved ones, it makes all the difference.

And a few years ago, i learned how remarkable this freedom is. In the case of addiction, the deep depression i would sink into, followed by untamed highs- these things aren't the easiest things to reconcile with. For years my memories and experiences of life were clouded by the back and forth of self-medicating and mental fugue. And now, daily, ever so minute-ly, i learn a different way of looking back or of not looking back rather.

"Once hopeless, my life is now hope-full... the last of the human freedoms, to choose one's attitudes in any given set of circumstances, is to choose one's own way."

i don't look back on any of the past anymore with shame or regret or any other banal afterthought.

i don't feel the sting i once did over loss and grief that once overtook me.

Because i've recognized (with the help of others) that i have a choice today in how i walk forward. Will i see the purpose of today and the meaning in the small things?

Will i let hope increase rather than decrease because i'm free to choose to hope- even if life external doesn't appear 'hopeful'?

One last Frankl quote to munch on...

"What matters, therefore, is not the meaning of life in general, but rather the specific meaning of a person's life at a given moment."
this minute holds abundant meaning because it connects hope to my heart and hopefully to yours too...
we are not nebulously alone, we are connected by our freedom to choose hope, regardless of life or the news or the blues...

Once upon a time...

2010-09-12T22:21:00.000-07:00

In a land long ago (like uh, 18ish years long ago) there lived a little girl who loved to go downtown to Stage Center to hear the storytellers hum, whisper, folk sing their way through their well crafted tales. She was captivated by these storytellers and the voice inflections, the painting a scene more vivid than the concrete version could be- and with words. One person. On a stage. telling a story.
Simplicity and genius at its finest. She was amazed by the courage these storytellers would have- to speak so eloquently, remember so much, words falling off their tongues with ease. Practiced and poised, almost always ending the tale with a universally important point.
The memories of WinterTales- the annual storytelling festival are vivid and sharp.
I was fortunate to be around the folk-y ancient art form when I was little. Once in your system, i don't think the love of hearing stories and tales told can subside.
Hans took me to a night of storytelling just the other night. It had been such a long time since i'd last heard the stories, captivated and calmed by the lulling narrative. But just like when i was little, captivated and calmed i was still.
With all the crazy-ness of life plugged in, online, relating human to human on quicktime, compressing information into smaller sound bytes, using fewer out loud words while crowding our screens with multiple windows at once,
instead-
listening to one person tell one story with skill and creativity...
i can't explain what the experience of listening again to storytellers
did to my brain. it slowed down, felt light and peaceful
such an ancient way of passing down wisdom, humor, history
changed me, just like it did when i went to Winter Tales and heard the likes of Garrison Keillor.
It's so much of who i am and how i see and hear the world everyday- this love of hearing and sharing stories.
More on telling stories to come...

2010-07-12T08:29:00.000-07:00

“Patience is a kind of love. A love that is its own explanation in bewildered circumstance. It is an old, old woman placing a wrinkled-parchment hand against the cheek of a reckless child. Because her heart is too wise to make room for reproach. Too full to find place for offense. ”
—Pavithra Mehta

I remember my grandma Mimi silently listening to my angst-ridden soliloquies from teen through treatment. She never once looked rattled or offended or surprised. She only ever looked patient with me, seeing through my restless complaints and wanderlust. Patience provided more motivation than i realized- to believe i would grow out of chronic cynicism and even eventually get sober and responsible because she believed it, because she had lived through her own recklessness at one point and offered her silent patience- aware she could not change, protect, nor convince me otherwise- that time had to be my teacher.
Today i am grateful beyond words that Grace taught some big lessons and Time took a huge chunk of the cynicism away before Mimi passed away. I was able to be with her and somehow, someway, as Grace would have it and touch her face, fix her silver white hair, and thank her for her unconditionally kind, patient eyes and heart that saw through my disquieted years, years i wish i could erase and replace with gratitude so i could have spent so much more time listening to her rather than talking.
But even then, her love was bigger than my regret because she loved me as i was, knowing something about how time works that i didn't.
Her essence was patience, and i have endeavored with everything in me to adopt the same pace. One day at a time, putting all expectations aside, knowing I cannot know someone else's journey, but also knowing Grace and Time teach more than any words or wisdom can or will.
Thanks Mimi for your patience still. Your calm presence continues to infuse my days... grace.

What's your story morning glory?

2010-07-11T23:44:00.000-07:00

"You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view."
(from the character Atticus Finch)
~Harper Lee

A fortuitous conversation with a friend today brought a new awareness.

We are all born to be storytellers. We all have stories. We have sad, happy, crazy, shameful, divine, sublime, mysterious, simple, courageous, and afraid stories. And everything in between.

We learn so massively much when we stop long enough here and there to hear and tell stories. I heard a story today that un-blurred my metaphorical lenses. I heard a story of intense perseverance through abandonment and uncertainty. I didn't watch a movie or read a 300 page heavily edited autobiography. I had a conversation.

A dialogue, a telling of a story. Just the fact alone that this tale was being told- with insight, forgiveness, and humor- was evidence of modern day miracles.

This interaction brought to mind a daily battle of mine, stemming from my own story, the life awaiting me from the day I was born.

I fear loss. Unbelievably, invariably, ceaselessly.

This fear sounds dreary at the very best. The awareness of loss and the unrelenting hold it has on its prey has driven me to question lots and lots through the last 3 decades.

When I was born, a family, my family already existed. They had bedtime rituals, Saturday breakfasts, and slews of pacifiers, baby bottles and a previously inhabited crib. They had pictures hanging on the walls of cute, chubby first and second born, wedding photos, and diplomas. They had baby books containing birth certificates that mine slipped right into. Time had already been kind and unkind to this family. 1st steps were taken and laughs were to be had over first words from baby 1 and 2. The house I was born into was already a haven of memories inviting me to take part in. These memories have always been mysteries to me, the ones before I was invited in.

One mystery came from a time that had been unkind. My mother's tears over a baby that grew in her belly, stretching it as my brothers’ and I had. Her belly grew and the baby grew too. The sweet baby that grew couldn't catch his breath when he left my mama's womb and he went to heaven the day he was born. Her tears came off and on when she lost her own mama and I was so young yet wanted to take the pain and loss away from her orphaned heart. I couldn’t. So I feared someone or something else being taken away.

I was born into this painful paradox of life at its most blissful, and loss at its most unthinkable. I blame no one, and I don't resent life for introducing loss so soon. It was simply reality, and one that inhabited my home, as did the full-of-life photos already mounted on the walls when I came.

Only in recent years have I connected the hopeful, miraculous, fortuitous side of the story.

It goes like this: awareness of the brevity of life has brought Gratitude that envelops my soul, blissful calm settles into my core when a simple moment reveals 'life'. Life meaning: sensing breath warmth closeness, absence of fear, presence of peace, revealed through the simplest seconds life may bring… in an instant.

Example: quiet bedtime snuggles with babies, and then growing boys, prayers uttered, affirmation rolling easily off the tongue aware of the fertile heart ground these words fall on. “I love you forever, I like you for always, as long as I’m living my baby you’ll be.” Closeness. Maternal instinct. This miraculous life. Closing of a day. So lucky to have played. So lucky to have stayed when my inner demons almost tore it-away. Grace. Sigh. And moving on.

Before i knew this strong power of gratitude in the present,
I had fought and fought and feared and feared til the fears of possibly losing the ones I loved almost won.

I’m re-learning how to take the part of my story, the one where my sweet mama's tears revealed a broken heart mixed with unconditional instinctive mother love for her living brood.

Now I understand why she would spend so many nights reading Uncle Wiggly stories or lulling me to sleep with that subdued end-of-the-day lullaby voice, when she herself was exhausted. And why she cherished the most mundane of activities with her children. Now I understand why she prayed and prays, to plug the drain with faith rather than tears over losses sustained through the unkind-er years.

Of course during most of my childhood and adolescence I didn't understand. I couldn't understand. I do now, I understand that every waking moment I have a choice to fear loss or relish life- in the moment. I have a choice to engage in the ambiguity of living life on life’s terms, or sit it out- so afraid of what the future brings based on my original observations of life.

Back to the story I heard today: The choice this friend and fellow life survivor made was to connect with people and life rather than sink into the pity of a past riddled with loss. To choose love rather than isolation.

I went away from his-story changed.
The story is that I was born into love and possibility. My early observations of loss and life and everything in between doesn't have to be my ever-present reality. Overwhelming gratitude in the moments that beg wholehearted attention replace the avoidance of such times due to fear of losing something or someone.

The fear of loss tries to peek its way into my viewfinder now and then.

Even through grateful times, courageous times, snuggle times, connecting times- sometimes palpable- fear will not, cannot win. Life is too precious and powerful and profound to stay afraid.

I'll eschew the fear today and embrace the other side of the story. The side that welcomes simple times as the divinest of times, never to be taken for granted, hurried through, or feared.

A simple story told by someone else- someone who chooses to be awake and connected to life in the face of early abandonment and detachment-

revealed a new view into my own story, which I hope may do the same in yours. Your story will no doubt do the same in someone else’s story.

And so it goes.

bleeding.scabbed.scarred.

2010-07-01T21:09:00.000-07:00

Pardon the crude title, but a writing teacher I heard once said no one wants to hear a sad story unless you've already bled, scabbed, and scarred from it before writing about it.
She wrote a book about her life that was tragic in many ways, an expert in how to write without depressing people. I valued her insight and it stuck with me ever since. That said, I'm still learning. Hopeful that this bit won't depress;
I feel I have scarred from the trauma of losing my closest childhood friend when I was 12. I see 12 year olds now... and the first thing I see is how real their feelings are, how they aren't just a pre-accumulation of adolescent hormones and potential between kid and teen awkwardness. They are capable of great joy and great, immense, paralysis-of-heart-kind of grief.
~~ The 12-year-old part of me has scarred since the paralysis-of-heart-kind of grief hit.
But even then, the reality of losing someone in early years is that every once in a blue moon, some random event has potential to feel exactly as it did as a kid. There are times I see the boys play that watching them actually turns into reliving a memory of play. Amy and I turning a tape on her brother's 'boom box' when he wasn't watching and lip syncing and dancing pretending we were famous. This was pre-so-you-think-you-can-dance-american-idol era. But we were definitely in our own famed world.
Moments like these make me grateful for the experience of the once 'tiny' moments that turn into museum of memory.
I happenstance sauntered into the memory museum when the TV came on today and Rattle and Hum...

…U2’s Rattle and Hum... mom took Amy and I to the movie theater, we had told her we were going to a different movie because both our moms had shot down our plea for the documentary due to our ages. At the time, we were in different schools, we were growing up at different speeds, I was 12 going on 10 and she was 12 going on 16. I was late bloomer; she had turned into a tall teenager with flow-y red hair rather than chaotic half-washed little kid hair like mine.
So we went rather defiantly, without remorse- we simply HAD to see U2, no one would stop us... it was MUSIC for heaven's sake.
Sat there in the theater feeling independent, feeling the imperative and urgent need of seeing Bono, Edge, Adam, Larry... up close and personal-on a stage-on a screen. It was like my first real music experience, I felt the rhythms and experienced the lyrics in an inexpressible way. Amy was moved similarly by music. As kindergartners we loved to sing and dance, as middle school-ers we were moved by Rattle and Hum. So little had changed in our decade as friends.

back to present: Here I am today watching the same documentary with my 7 year old commenting on wanting to grow his hair out like Bono and asking why Edge is named that. Involuntarily tears come and go. down my cheeks and then stop, harmonica strikes classic Bono moment, emotion seeps out of Edge's guitar, Adam's silver classic spectacles and swagger, and Larry Mullen Jr.- drumming his way into my heart, becoming my first musician crush at age 10. I don't know if my U2 nostalgia and passion is wrapped up entirely in the music or their mid-80's hotness, or their passionate political soliloquies, or Sunday Bloody Sunday ringing in my ears through math and Latin, tapping my pencil to the metronome in my brain.

memory: A huge part of U2 is wedged in my heart somewhere between my seat and Amy's in a movie theater that doesn't exist anymore. We sat through Rattle and Hum like it was a solstice between childhood and grownup hood. We sat through Rattle and Hum getting a high off Rock songs that read to us like lullabies and made momentary sense of the coming angst of teenage-hood.
We said little, we melted, we promised each other when the credits rolled we would start a band, and write our own songs, and play them and change the world. And even more so- because we were girls. We were unstoppable. We listened to the chorus, "In the name of Love"... MLK... shot rang out in a Memphis sky... drums and mass of voices singing Bono's part in unison...
She went home that day to her growing up quickly world that awaited her, she went home from Rattle and Hum humming the songs, waving goodbye to me, she was waving goodbye to the comforting simplicity of kid-ness. I was still Alice in Wonderland humming those same tunes as we parted ways. I didn't know how to grow up yet, I didn't know how to feel anything but the pulsing pushing melodies of a song, didn't know the real life lure of first love or lust or whatever it's called then...
I waved goodbye with memory in tow and feeling happily rebellious for the first time, with a secret my family wouldn't know until Amy and I would form our band and change the world just like U2, but even more since we were girls... the future felt like it might just be bright-
The shot rang out in an Oklahoma sky and Amy's breath disappeared as quickly as the credits to the documentary rolled. Amy was gone. She didn't get to grow up, and her melodies went with her to the grave. I bled, and scabbed, and then bled again. I was 19 when I decided not to feel guilty anymore for living through my teens and my firsts and my dances and even brief cheerleading stint to KLF, a song I know Amy would have danced to much better, she was a natural born performer.

Today I watched and hummed and answered Luke's questions about U2, and let quiet tears fall when i felt the sting for the first time in a really long time of the empty seat next to me in that AMC Theater.
And then the songs ended and the credits rolled, as they had 21 years ago and I felt a satisfied sense of gratitude. The passion brought on by a simple documentary and a friend has shaped the way I teach my boys about the inspiring and complex nature of music to move the soul. The memory has shaped the way I encourage tears to roll down their faces rather than hide them when they remember my grandmother whom they miss.
The memory has shaped the way I encourage them to do whatever the cuss they want to do because they CAN and life is too short to not live it fully and appreciate things, the good the bad and the ugly.
The memory has shaped the way I see many things, ways I mother, ways I grieve, ways I let music take me to places of bliss when the moment hits, ways I let moments usher in feeling a past memory for the sake of healing and hopefully helping someone else know that loss doesn't last forever, and that moments made with loved ones can becoming the motivating force behind a dream. We won't always bleed when someone or something's been taken away. We won't always scab and worry something might rip it off when we least expect it. We'll scar and scar profoundly because there will be a story behind it that changes the way we see the world if we let it-
This is not a sad song I’m singing today;
as I close this and turn off the documentary, I hear Luke in the other room making up his own song with C G Am and D, just like Bono and B.B. King's-- i hear him, he's singing lyrics he remembers from an Emmylou Harris song, a seven year old with the heart of storyteller allowing himself the freedom of feeling the connection between chord and pulsing beats and lyrical words...

Beauty out of ashes, that's what my mom always taught me.
I knew I could believe in God, if She could make something beautiful, as beautiful as a moving melody, out of something as awful as death, I could believe.

2010-06-28T23:03:00.000-07:00

just so happens this what a brain's neural pathway looks like. Now i am most DEFINITELY not any sort of anything close to a brain expert, except for the fact that i have one, and I'm learning how to be a somewhat expert on my own brain cause i'm pretty sure no one else can be.
   As in, if i don't learn how to understand, be kind to, get to know this brain, it could really be quite a predicament later on.
    Here's the thing, I've been thinking quite a lot about how different we people are in every way, shape, form, internal, external, up, down, you name it- we are all so very unique. No one runs the same way or the same speed. No one sings the same way with the same vibrato. No one twitches the same way or winks or holds their pencil or... well, no one anythings the same.
     So, all that being said, i've been wondering about the uniqueness of the most detailed, complex, fascinating part of what makes us "us". And that is what is happening in this mass called brain.
     Again, no expert here, in fact quite the opposite- but curiosity comes from the brain's neural pathways just as memory and 'facts' do. So, i suppose curiosity and questions are quite as valid as the information learned from books and computers called research and answers.
      Just as speed varies among us, the speed by which a neuron travels from one dendrite destination to another varies as well. Unique in ways we can only barely begin to understand due to technology and brain imaging, the speed of the electrical waves' journey not only varies from person to person but varies according to
time of day
hormonal reactions
stress and adrenaline
dna
what color our walls are painted
the cake we ate at a wedding
the kiss we initiated
the sweat we broke running
ad infinitum...
Maybe i'm hanging out in cuckoo's nest again today, but this huge bunch of questions begs a case:
    might the knowledge that our minds (that affects every single part of us- emotional, physical, etc.) are so different due to many different factors build empathy and the desire to understand the world around us rather than judge it or criticize it or fear it? Might we offer a little more patience to someone with the foreknowledge that someone's neurons might be moving at a totally different speed than ours (faster or slower) or a totally different series of life moments that happen to affect the journey those neurons take to avoid perhaps a dangerous looking pathway, or being incited by a certain pathway, or... well, maybe that's all i've got on that. A little left field, but gist is this:
be patient, be kind, be curious, be alive
in the uniqueness that makes up you and the ones you encounter from this minute to that.
and honestly, as always, Mr. Fred Rogers (who i dearly miss on PBS both for my boys and myself)
said it best...
"What matters isn’t how a person’s inner life finally puts together the alphabet and numbers of his outer life. What really matters is whether he uses the alphabet for the declaration of a war or the description of a sunrise-his numbers for the final count at Buchenwald or the specifics of a brand-new bridge."
what is essential is indeed invisible to the eye as The Little Prince uttered knowingly to the grown-up pilot who crashed on his little planet. "What is essential is invisible to the eye."
maybe we react far too much from what we see with our external eye, maybe we can slow down, consider the path one out of a billion neurons might be on, and have a little grace- both for others and also for ourselves.
be gentle today.
and as always, be curious.

remembering mimi-she kept it simple beautifully

2010-06-21T22:48:00.000-07:00

missed last monday, but here's another go-to moment to munch on...

2010-06-21T22:22:00.000-07:00

go-to mondays have not exactly gone the way i had planned.

Which leads me to this question of how to keep on keeping on-

when you have a problem with time management and sticking to a plan.

I happen to be chief amongst this tribe.

A few days ago, Noah declared to me in a moment of self-pity over my overextended, full of deadlines life--

"Mom, you need to learn how to say no sometimes."

I've heard of this method of dealing with stress for a long time from grown-up-time-management-gurus, most who just happen to be genetically inclined to enjoy goal-setting and life-planning and then sticking to the plan. they are usually the ones that enjoy handing out the information that has worked so well for them. this joy of sticking to stress-relief plans alludes me.
i know not why except for the fact that i dislike structure and feel cramped by too much planning. it feels like such an inhibitor to creativity. but you see, this is one of my flawed critter components, not one of my assets (unless i was the second coming of picasso and was paid to be flamboyantly messy, introspective, and disruptive in order to create some genius work of art. well picasso i am not. i'm not sure of much, but this fact i'm certain of.)
So when your 8 year old son says with old soul resoluteness- like "mom, i know the problem, i see you everyday, i know you, so i see the problem better than you do, just listen to me."

Hence, i hear the child. and the child is right, oh so right.
But truth be told, I don't know how to say no, when i've only recently, since age 30, learned how to say yes...

yes to life, yes to challenges out of my comfort zone (they are oh so scary, but oh so good to learn to conquer), yes to working hard, yes to trying new things and finally making income, yes to singing or recording or playing music whenever i can, in any capacity i can, yes to writing whenever an opportunity comes up,

and yes to school even. even though it is difficult on a level i can't even use words to explain.

all that to say... now i need to take noah up on his challenge and insight-

and say yes to saying no sometimes.

to make and keep making room for the things that matter most- through everything...

family, relationships, down-time (re-boot), connection, not just introspection between this deadline and that.

So this go-to moment monday is a lesson i've learned from a wise 8 year old.

the gist of it is this-- if you talk about being overwhelmed and stressed, or complain about being tired all the time, then even in the midst of opportunities

there is a more important opportunity available- personal freedom to say no:

in the moment of 'i can't take anymore, i've reached my limit.'

So logical this theory. which as it would have it, is the chip i missed when ali brain was being fused together long ago- logic.

working on developing a makeshift chip.

til next time, this go-to mom is not the go-to person on keeping on keeping on when the overwhelmed stick hits you upside the head. but a little red head is the go-to person on it.
his philosophy-- just say no if you need to.
keep it simple. that's what they told me about life in recovery. keep it simple.

thanks noah for the reminder.

Where art thou courage?

2010-06-09T06:22:00.000-07:00

(From Merriam-Webster) COURAGE:

Pronunciation: \ˈkər-ij, ˈkə-rij\

Function: noun

Etymology: Middle English corage, from Anglo-French curage, from quer, coer heart, from Latin cor — more at heart

Date: 14th century

: mental or moral strength to venture, persevere, and withstand danger, fear, or difficulty

I'm wondering if courage isn't only defined by what difficulty we overcome or persevere through, but also by the strength to know when the danger or fear is to 'rest' in the face of harried life nearing burn out.

The quandary is when to say when and figure out not just a way to plow through but perhaps a way to refuel. Possibly refuel for the sake of mental and physical health. Or is courage trudging through, in hopes the fuel in the tank (though red light indicates low) takes me to the destination.

Courage is a very strange thing. I've been told it took courage to leave everything behind and take myself to treatment, to get help, to come clean. I've been told it takes courage to tell the truth, to be honest with oneself and others. I've been told it takes courage to be the wife of a police officer and then courage to take care of a sick spouse. I've been told it takes courage to go back to school when all the other responsibilities of parenting and random jobs to make ends meet vie for every inch of the hours of the day.

I've not been a courageous person through most of my life, mostly because I didn't know how to be, i knew how to hold back or fear failure or even feel like a failure before attempting something. I was well versed at numbing, sabotaging, and running away- actions which i would not call courageous.

Soliloquy aside, might courage be also found in choosing to rest and refuel?

How does one know when to say when and take a halftime break- listen to the coach, remember the plays one is supposed to implement on the field to avoid getting tackled on the way to the finish line? And when to trudge through, all energy expended but knowing there is more, there can always be more than we think inside us?

Relating more to "One Flew Over Cuckoo's Nest" than a protagonist tale like "Field of Dreams" or some such seeker-ish movie to describe one's life through film- I know i don't want to go 'there' again. Perhaps part of courage is knowing one's limitations. Perhaps there is a language to letting go of expectations of self- as much as others. Perhaps I'm still learning that language, learning how to be courageous enough to pause, regroup, hear a pep talk or two, and carry on...

nicely said...

2010-06-07T13:16:00.000-07:00

http://zenhabits.net/6-practical-and-powerful-ways-to-overcome-depression/

some gosh darn good ideas...

In the moment: the Big Sad

2010-06-07T12:47:00.000-07:00

Perhaps one of the most common words in our vernacular these days is
Depression
Boo. I don't even like the word. Let me define it as Webster sees it:

Main Entry: de·pres·sion

Pronunciation: \di-ˈpre-shən, dē-\

Function: noun

Date: 14th century

1 a : the angular distance of a celestial object below the horizon b : the size of an angle of depression
2 : an act of depressing or a state of being depressed: as a : a pressing down : lowering b (1) : a state of feeling sad : dejection (2) : a psychoneurotic or psychotic disorder marked especially by sadness, inactivity, difficulty in thinking and concentration, a significant increase or decrease in appetite and time spent sleeping, feelings of dejection and hopelessness, and sometimes suicidal tendencies c (1) : a reduction in activity, amount, quality, or force (2) : a lowering of vitality or functional activity
3 : a depressed place or part : hollow
4 : low 1b
5 : a period of low general economic activity marked especially by rising levels of unemployment

So, even the definitions a bit of a downer. But the truth is, sadness is real, especially when our life feels like we're in quicksand holding on to a branch that happens to talk and keeps saying like in Princess Bride, "Life is pain, princess".

Does any of this sound familiar? Circumstances can cause the quicksand feeling. Chronic pain can cause the quicksand. Financial scary-ness can cause quicksand. Loss of people, job, sanity, home, stability, can all cause the quicksand feeling.

So lets officially decide here and now, not to avoid the fact that sadness is not a label on us nor defines us. Sadness or depression doesn't make us second class citizens or outcasts of a 'happy world' (we are all in the same boat, just paddling and resting at different points). Sadness or depression won't last forever unless we give into it, isolate, and give up. Sadness or depression can in fact become a pivotal moment in our life- helping open us up to more joy (ironically), closer relationships, "Aha!" moments, health, and freedom.

I go to these meetings every once in a while that include a whole lot of coffee, a lot of random people who would otherwise be strangers, and introductions that go something like this: My name is Ali and I'm an alcoholic.

These meeting consist of business dudes, out of work peeps, millionaires, mothers, mentally sick, mentally stable, brilliant, not-so-brilliant, all shades of skin, teeny bopper who's into Biebur, aged wise observant elder, conservative, liberal, and everything in between. But one thing we all happen to have in common is the fact that at one point we were so sad we drank to be happy, drugged to be happy, loved to be happy, but couldn't get happy with any of those things- we just got sadder. Life became un-liveable because it was simply too hard to get un-depressed. We couldn't do it any more alone, we couldn't try to save face or fake happy or pretend anymore. I couldn't do those things anymore so i came into these meetings to try to stay alive inside after I gave up my pacifier- the bottle of whatever alcohol or pill of whatever whatnot- before it killed me and my family.

My sadness grew, somehow, as if when i wasn't looking, from the time i was 11 until I was 30. These were the depressed years. I defined myself as a depressed person because i didn't have the tools to think of myself as anything other than.

When i was 11, my closest childhood friend was killed in a fluke gun accident. When i was 11, I didn't know that rage and anger should be expressed and dealt to avoid depression. When i was 11, I didn't know how to talk about feelings with the men in my life- my brothers and dad- but desperately needed them to envelop me with their big arms and closeness. When i was 11, i'd already lost 2 grandparents and seen my parents very sad from losing parents. So as it would go, at 11 i knew i was 'supposed' to be happy, but everything freaking seemed so sad. So i buried the rage about the boy who let the gun go off and barrel into Amy's brain, and i buried the sadness about my heroes (mom and dad) losing their heroes and then having to still go on and bury their sadness. Ah, the cycle ensued at a young age. I didn't want to make anyone else sad with my sadness...

This lasted until a little after my 30th birthday when i decided i just could not do this anymore. This feeling i had felt for too long, that was too much my identity, had grown too strong to hold down or suppress. Even alcohol failed me as my medication for 'the big sad'. For years, a drink would fix the pain, fix the feeling. For years, when i had a few drinks in me, or a few more than a few, i felt like i could join the 'happy' world and be a part of something other than what was nesting inside my brain for 2 decades.

I had become the mother who faked happiness for others but went home to drink to an oblivion. Become the wife who acted connected but raged inside. The woman who said she was independent and strong but was scared and desperately codependent. The human who professed to believe in Jesus but resolutely internally doubted the message of hope and peace and joy and UNCONDITIONAL love. The duplicitous life i had led for such a long long time buried any hope of my deserving anything remotely lovely or unconditional. But i yearned for all the above, yearned. So i sought it wherever and whenever i could.

I felt ugly inside and out. Detached from who I was meant to be YET

at the same time having responsibilities as a mother of 2 amazing, incredible, (not enough similes), boys that required me to stay in the game somehow.

To deal with the Big Sad (alternative way of saying depression) I used self-medicating methods that only increased the feeling, once worn off or once i'd try to 'dry out' to prove i could live without a drink or a this or a that.

Obviously these methods would have driven me quickly straight into the ground versus into happy. These methods almost did.

But one day i woke up with the strongest hangover/ drug-induced anxiety and shakes i'd experienced yet but i also woke up with the strongest "I can't live this way anymore or i will die" thought i'd ever thought before. I knew my next binge would take me away from my precious toddler sons- i'd lose them because i could not keep being their caretaker in the state of mind or i'd lose my life.

The fog created by chemicals run riot in my brain ironically became my saving grace the day i was too hungover, shaky, and weak to fight going to treatment- to get clean and sober and finally deal with the Big Sad.

So i stopped fighting feeling and learned (with the help of some amazing counselors and ragtag group of other addicts) how to embrace all the rainbow of feelings that come from being humans living on planet earth.

Don't get me wrong, some of the feelings on the rainbow scale still totally suck to feel. But actually feeling them rather than hate or drink at them can create a needed jolt of life synergy and the feelings can somehow, often mysteriously, morph into other entities- some tangible like creating piece of artwork, or a chapter in a book, or getting outside my head and helping someone else in a practical way, or taking a nap and allowing rest to quiet the storm for a few minutes (a novel concept in our world), or play on the playground with the boys for the specific purpose of... playing, or simply laying in a bunch of cozy covers with favorite music in earphones and letting the tears fall if they want to wash out the eyes.

Some experience, strength, and hope I've found in moments of the Big Sad:

Be ever so gentle and graceful with yourself

Let others hug you or ask for hugs if you need one

Ask for space if you need space, but stay open for comfort along the way

find a way to express your feelings

-start an art journal (we'll dedicate a whole Monday to the therapy of art in everyday life)

-listen to your favorite music with earphones laying on a blanket in the back yard or comfy

couch

-write, write, write, free~flowing words of any and all kinds, without censorship, just write

-do what feeds your soul, with permission to turn off your phone for a day or break from the
computer screen

-play on the floor with your kids or tape paper all over your floor and get out markers and

crayons and just freaking go for it- draw pictures or write words or color...

There are many other ways, many other ways that i would LOVE to hear-from your own stories when the Big Sad knocked on your door and you let it in or tried to keep it out or whatever your response was or is.

We'll revisit this moment and how to not just deal, but live in and out of the moment of depression or sadness, knowing that even at the lowest, there's hope, there's a way to feel without getting utterly consumed. There's a way to get help if the feeling won't go away. There's a way to laugh even in the middle of the pain. There's hope for rest and release even in a fast-forward culture that swarms around us.
We can find places of rest, expression, hope, peace no matter what's going on around us.

Know that you are not alone, and if you are watching someone you know or love fighting (possibly losing) the battle against the Big Sad,
be gentle with them, be patient, be simple with your approach in relating to them. Hug or sit in silence or take coffee or a meal. Lower your expectations of them and also you- you can't rescue someone, but you can love and pray, you can live your own life well and care for them by not getting engulfed by the Big Sad, take care of yourself, and don't deny or despise the Big Sad either. Remember it's part of life, being human, each having our own response and language of how we feel sadness (and all the other feelings too).

Be gentle to yourself and others today. Who knows what we or someone else is dealing with today. But we do know that a smile, a hug, a kindness can go a long way. These things certainly have in my life.

As does giving these things away.

"Reduce the Big Sad. Reuse Kindness. Recycle Hope."

"Go-to mom in the moment" Monday...

2010-06-07T10:59:00.000-07:00

In my observation (totally unprofessional) human beings (especially us moms) have some consistent and real needs. Here's how i might (unprofessionally) break down the main societal and personal needs i find present in my life and from what i see or hear- others as well...

the need for 'how to' books, manuals, or ideas for all the new this that and the others (which change at the speed of light)

for instance: social media and networking if one is a stay at home mom or working mom or any other kind of humanoid who is trying to keep up with an exciting but often overwhelming world
parenting in the moment for varied ages of kids, circumstances, styles, opinions, lifestyles, well just parenting 'in the moment issues' in general
how-to keep going in one's relationships and daily life when life kicks you in the behind. For example: dealing with hormonal or chemical issues, depression, addiction, crazy-luny feelings, marital irks and pains, postpartum yuck state-of-mind, loss of loved one, irrational fears, being broke, being uber wealthy but not wanting your kids to be jerky spoiled, oh well you get the picture: when life happens and you have to figure out a way to look at your toes first thing in the morning and say "Toes, wiggle. Now feet, move. Now legs, get me out of this bed. Now body, walk into the day..."

the need for more time to play, rest one's brain, and laugh
the need for community and connectedness in a world that moves more into isolation and 'frady catness' cause of all the negative debbie downer news that tickers through the screens we watch through the day or night
the need for storytelling- hearing others stories and telling our own; helping us make more sense of each other (helping relationships), make more sense of ourselves (so we don't stay stuck in the muck), make more sense of the world (build empathy and understanding rather than judgment and close-mindedness)

Many other needs are no doubt in existence, but this is a list that struck in me a need to do these things, share ideas, tell others stories and ideas, tell my own story, bring women and moms together to feel more connected and less stressed and isolated, help us laugh at ourselves more-- well, you get the picture.
So I'll be your 'go-to' mom in the moment you might need to have a lighter load, or fresh idea, or not feel so alone in your world.
As Mondays come and go, I would like to share with you a story- one I know well because it is my own. Its not that I'm super smart, its that i've lived a lot in a short time, just like you. But I'm a writer and human who happens to love stories and learn from stories, real life ones. "why are we the way we are?" "what in the world am i here for?" "how can we be nicer to each other, build peace and love into real life" These are the questions that roll around my brain from sun up to sun down, while walking through daily routine like mothering, work, and trying to be at least slightly healthy physically, emotionally, and spiritually.
i will share pieces of the puzzle that i find sometimes 'fit' and sometimes don't 'fit' into life as a human, a woman, a mother, and the other bunch of things that make up me. Just like there are oodles of things that make up you- more than you probably realize. All of which bring more joy and fulfillment and possible whole person health when found and tried to fit into your puzzle.
Lets try to make some sense of some of the questions or perplex-tions that rattle in our brains.
Ideas to make life more
liveable, laughable, and loveable
even in the middle of the potential muck.
First Monday Moment will be...
How to keep living and mothering in the midst of-
depression...

mother lode on motherhood: a confession

2010-06-05T09:24:00.000-07:00

I started a full time job this week. Outside the home.
(Warning: this post may contain subject matter contrary to author's former perception of self as 'free spirited' and highly evolved parentally)
I thought i knew myself as a woman, as a parent. I thought since I got back from treatment i'd learned the fine and rare art of 'letting others go' and becoming immensely free of enmeshment or future enmeshment with my sons.
I thought many things about how life was ho-humming along that were simply off the mark reality-wise. In fact, all the while considering my parenting above par because of getting clean, sober, and healthy (supposedly, as if my fairy godmother arrived at the treatment center and with one tap of her wand and a little song shook the unhealthy out of me, forever) I was actually diving farther and farther into the rabbit hole of denial.
I am an emotionally over-involved mother.
I thought I was letting go as my kids grow. I was not. I was in denial about this fact. I swore i was not the mother who fretted about the little things and tried to control the outcome. I swore i was not the mother who had trouble letting her kids go on a trip without her. I swore i was not the mother who made her kids her identity because she hadn't learned otherwise after they entered her life.
I am that mother. And only realized that daunting shocking truth last week during my first full-time job since N and L entered planet earth. Last week Hans and i flip flopped roles. It was a veritable shock to my system to say the least.
This confession isn't easy for me. I had always touted such an opposite tale. I THOUGHT i believed i wanted freedom, adventure, independence, within and without the home. I THOUGHT i believed my identity wasn't wrapped up in being mother.
Its strange to wake up to the fact that one's thoughts of one's beliefs could be in direct opposition to the reality of one's existence.
Its strange to wake up to the fact that one is not who one thought one was.
Maybe this is sounding nauseatingly esoteric. My apologies.
This confession, this realization is new and fresh and i wonder how many women (and of course men too, ok- the human race) are instinctively 'other than' what they feel cerebrally.
This experience of coming home from my first 5 days-- of not being THE ONE in the boys lives who know the little and big details, who follows the gauge on the emotional tank of "full" or "empty", and hence attempts to fill up the tank when waning. Sure, Hans has been very present, very much an involved father since day 1. But he has been the scrappy breadwinner up to date. In rudimentary terms, he was the one who went out into the wild to bring back the necessary means for life for his family, while i manned the fort, protected the kids on our little piece of earth called home, watched out for bad guys, and told bedtime stories and prayers nightly to "ensure" safe sleep. In pioneer days, i would have been the wind-blown woman who forgot how to take care of herself the second her children cried their first cry indicating "Feed me!" Her job was to feed, water, protect. Full-time. No balance, just feed, keep alive, protect...
In modern day, I was the same. Joined at the hip, many years out of necessity and/or poverty, my identity was inextricably that of caretaker and raiser of sons. Everything i was and did pointed back and was related to that identification. And i was unaware of the impact of this 8 year identity that had become more a part of me than anything i'd ever been, done, or dreamed of doing before becoming their mom.
I had no idea.
I thought until last week that I could bravely switch roles with Hans at any point in the game and without apology. I thought i could proudly show the boys what an independent and not-needy mother they were so lucky to have (confession time) who is able to do life apart from them with ease and effortlessly 'cut those ties'. I thought i was going to be braver out in the big wide world than I was.
The truth is simply:
I have not let go gradually as I thought. My identity has been that of mother and mother only for 8 years. I fear branching out of the little piece of earth called home- and tote around irrational misconceptions about being able to protect the boys anymore- from bad guys, from sadness, from fear, from nightmares.
I am not independent like i thought because i do not know what or who i am apart from raising sons. {Lump in throat, this is a tough one to swallow.}
This is a huge, massive realization that will no doubt take time to undo and re-learn how to live in a multi-facetted way of "being" ali.
The other side of this confessionary, cautionary tale is that I am grateful for this wake up call.
I could have ho-hummed my way through the next 20, 30, maybe 40 years thinking i was doing some magnificent job of letting my offspring fly out of the nest with ease, meanwhile having absolutely no idea that i had lost myself long ago, imbedding in the boys an unfair message that ultimately they must include me in their life or i will fall apart.
nauseous realization i tell you. blinders on to the fact that i've thought myself selfless when in fact selfish in terms of holding on too tightly to human beings in need of room to grow, make mistakes, thrive, build relationships off of the little piece of earth i've called home. They will continue to grow- into men.
The reality has been reality all the while. I've simply been in denial about my place in the puzzle. That i could go through the rest of my life with one identity- mother- and silently shrink away from responsibility, dreams, occupation, my own relationships for heaven's sake.
I've judged women like my mother and other mothers harshly- totally unaware. I've lessened the value of their maternal journey by assuming i had my journey figured out in a more healthy, fashion-forward sort of way.
I've judged women who find an identity outside of their kids, and i've judged women who find their identity only in their kids.
I am sorry for every atom of judgement i've sent out into relationships with other women in my life.
I am sorry for thinking i had something so instinctively ancient in nature- so very figured out.
I'm sorry for thinking i was letting go of the boys when in reality i was not, and I was so wrapped up in the fear of losing them that i couldn't sleep at night sometimes, or would fear in general about the future that i stopped living my life in the here and now.
This is the stuff of being human on planet earth. this is the stuff that once confessed, can bring a cry along with a laugh along with a choice to steer oneself in a different direction, hopefully healthier for oneself and one's loved ones. this is the stuff that brings one out of the turtle shell back into the world of friendship, goal setting, dream having, living- not in avoidance of the potential pains of letting go, but working through the daily ups and downs of having human beings in the house who are destined to grow into men, their own persons, thriving apart from mother, figuring things out with their own meticulously designed-by-their-Creator brains and heart. I did not create them, I do not know their future. I am not supernatural seer into their inner psyche and healer of their past, present, or future wounds.
I am one flawed little critter named ali. Someone who existed and lived somehow before N and L came into my life. Someone I will have to get to know a little bit day by day. Someone who is scared to leave her little piece of earth called home. But someone who wants to live and breathe reality
rather than denial, rather than sickness, rather than depression over losing or letting go of my boys.
I want to live in the joy and pain both, rather than avoid pain and hence avoid joy in the process without realizing it.
I want to celebrate the varied journeys women take into and out of motherhood- stories of women from all walks of life mothering all in diverse unique ways, instinctive to them.
One day at a time.
And now, to get ready for work. As Hans and the boys hold down the fort- the little piece of earth that- even as i venture off- is still very much home.

2010-05-12T21:06:00.000-07:00

Any BODY home?

2010-05-12T11:45:00.000-07:00

I asked Noah, "What do you think I should write about today buddy?"
"Definitely the body."
"The body? What do you mean?"
"You know, like the bones, muscles, blood, arteries, stuff like that."
(as if i already knew what his brain was thinking.)
With surprise I said, "Ok then, I'll write something about the body."
"That's good, because sometimes you don't write about real stuff."
I giggled back and said 'thank you for the suggestion, i never would have thought of that.'
He giggled back with a look like, 'duh mom, you know i always have the best ideas...'
and he ran off to play basketball.
As I sat there, i pondered his line of thinking. I do need to write about the body. Not just about feelings, or internal process, or motivation, or 'why do we do what we do'. Our body is a tangible, visible, artistic phenomenon. And I don't mean in a Victoria's Secret or David Beckham sort of phenomenon.
I mean like Noah said-- the bones, muscles, blood, arteries, stuff like that.
The fact that we have bones that know what to do when we come out of the womb, that know to grow and develop and get strong to carry us through years of a life... its quite amazing when you stop to think about it.
The fact that our muscles have memory and can be taught, trained, loved on, abused, neglected, transformed... its quite amazing when you stop to think about it.
It suddenly occurred to me that if our muscles and other bodily family systems can have memory, and can be taught, trained, loved on, abused, neglected, and transformed... aha! we have all kinds of relationships going on inside us that will either lead to healthy relating or unhealthy relationship stuff- in which case our body ends up needed to take us to the 'therapist'.
The thoughts started flowing as soon as i started typing. The metaphor Noah had inadvertently fed me. I needed to hear it.
Often my head is so lost in the clouds, my imagination running amok, all for the good reason of 'well, you see, i'm a writer, that's what i do to brainstorm new projects.' The boys see, they notice that i might be trying to 'work' and be creative, but they also notice i don't take time to stick on my running shoes and walk Murphy while listening to This American Life on headphones. They notice by the end of the day when i'm worn slick- instead of building a meal in the kitchen that helps the blood, muscles, bones, etc. feel nurtured that now i'm back to the old 'i don't have time to cook, you boys just want sandwiches?' They notice the excuses and i haven't noticed how often excuses have taken the place of nurturing the relationship.
Balance. Its all comes back to balance.
I've been out of balance. Too much in my head, too much running amok. Too many excuses about why i don't have time to take care of the body. What i put in it, how much i move it, how much attention i give it. No wonder its running empty. The relationship is on the rocks. But today I'm re-grateful for it's uniqueness, its kindness to me, even with the faux pas and quirks that have developed through the years or gifted to me at birth. I'm thankful that my feet are nice to me whether or not i stick running shoes on them. They are so kind. I think i'll do my part and nurture them again with walks and Murphy and This American Life. Thanks Ira Glass. And Thanks Noah.
Out of the mouth of babes. Just about every time.

monday=gratitude list day

2010-05-10T13:51:00.000-07:00

Monday's are challenging on a few levels:
1. simply on the basis of being monday. it is not the weekend anymore. the world, once i walk outside, is generally in the same monday mood. brace self...
2. Monday means school day. a scrambling, research, mom-aka-student-multitask-day. finish school paper (most likely having procrastinated through the weekend).
3. again- school. late night. come home to a sleeping house, tuesday staring me in the face with a hefty "no rest for the weary" look on its face.
These 3 factors combine to create certain feelings...
~stressed about school- understanding my current class assignment is posing a problem to already noisy brain.
~wanting to clean and get organized while boys are at school; but knowing domestic tranquility goals will roll into the next few days. this fact furthering the frustration of my domestically challenged self.
~missing the boys while they are at school; strange and perplexing sounding i know, but especially after being with them all weekend and the fact that they are such enjoyable humans to be around missing them is a regular mood visitor.
~a host of other random"uncomfortable in skin" feelings...
I'm far too impulsive to endure a full day's worth of Monday Moods. Far too fidgety and bent towards chronic frustration... Far too much of a self-medicate-r to sit back and just feel without feeding the feeling with something.
thus, Monday's are known as my Gratitude List Day. It consists of simply stopping in the middle of the mood and listing things i'm grateful for in that moment, no filter, just list.
I learned about making gratitude lists in treatment. Sounds ridiculously simplistic. I balked and poo-pooed the idea when my substance abuse counselor suggested the age-old remedy. BUT....
mystery of mysteries- it worked, works every time.
For the sake of sanity and the pursuit of peace, today's Gratitude List Day begins*:
-a roof over head
-Noah, Luke, Hans, Murphy
-trees that clean air, breathing
-green

-change
-prayers from my recovery book
-the boys' teachers at school
-a brain that thinks and remembers and learns, even after angry neurotransmitters won many biochemical battles in the past
-a body that is healthy today, even with ailments or mishaps, it is alive and kicking today
-friends who instill hope, laughter, peace, memories, fun, support, lessons, and miracles into daily life
-a back yard
-2nd chances (and 3rd, 4th, 5th, etc.)
-quotes and books
-imagination, thought, innovation
-good movies and fascinating stories
-nice people
-a full tank of gas
-coffee, coffee shops, wi-fi

-hearing from Marumi after 2 years accompanied by her graduation picture
*this list obviously can become quite lengthy, thus i will continue throughout the day at small slips of paper and doodle pads here and there when the mood requires it...

mom day.

2010-05-09T19:01:00.000-07:00

Wonderful mother's day. breakfast with boys and mom. reflexology on feet. crazy windy soccer game. movie 'BABIES'[fascinating] with mom. barnes and noble stop before heading home. calm feelings. about to dive into a research paper for school.
quiet. the boys are at movie with dad. overwhelming gratitude for... all.
missing Mimi. aching. grief so part of life. the sad so part of the gratitude. both vivid colors on the feeling wheel.
grace feels so tangible when i stay in the moment, even if uncomfortable or paradoxical.
i want to become more and more an intrepid mother and women.
not necessarily because of great things being accomplished. not necessarily because of achieving great physical strength.
because it's hard to sit in the unknowns and not try to squirm away to find comfort in the illusive hopes of financial/ health/ career/ anything security.
Intrepid mothering to me means observing and learning instinctively how to mother my sons. intrepid to me means admitting my faux pas and modeling to the boys how to heal versus how to avoid hurt. intrepid to me means admitting i don't have answers and as a dear and wise friend guided, live moment to moment choosing to see the positive rather than predicting the negative.
intrepid means courage, boldness, and fearless. i don't consider myself any of these things by nature. but motherhood has brought them out. instinct has brought out the intrepid side of me, someone who has struggled with debilitating fear and near toxic brain chemistry. the very thing i've learned in recovery has given strength ultimately.
i.have.no.control.
i.have.a.choice.
this minute matters.
live in the questions, as rilke famously said.
live in the strange, unpredictable place that might involve missing a loved one, or being hit with a momentary wave of remembrance of the past- involving hurting someone you love or loving someone who went away, or being hurt.
but not.getting.stuck.there.
learning from the mistakes, the muck, the mess.
remembering the miracle of making it out alive.
thankful for the grace that whooshes in the minute i admit total and utter powerlessness over anything i thought i was in control of.
open up to more learning in those paradoxical moments of life.
in the giving of love when one is exhausted.
in the trying something new if the old way isn't working.
in the asking for help rather than suffer in silence.
in the gratitude for challenges like school and time management rather than focusing on the feelings of inadequacy.
in the jotting down fresh new ideas and thoughts and swimming in AHA! moments
rather than wallow in defeat of not understanding...
in the mothering moments that come when i least expect it, hence unprepared, rather than carefully crafted advice (that usually doesn't work anyway)...
i could go on and on. for now i'm sitting in the questions and feeling the grace of acceptance and gratitude rather than dwelling on the oh so many what ifs? and whys?
thankful today that i am a daughter to an amazing mother who is human and in recovery too.
thankful today that i am a mother to the 2 most amazing miracles, who've taught my heart how to swim in love rather than fear its loss.
thankful today that somehow, somehow i got a second chance to take all this in, the fog cleared, my addicted sick self somehow waved the flag of surrender in time to take in the life i might have missed.
accepting reprieve when i least deserve it.
the reprieve is available each day...
if simply...chosen.

Filmmaker of 'Babies' discusses making the movie | News for Dallas, Texas | Dallas Morning News | Life/Travel

2010-05-09T18:15:00.001-07:00

Filmmaker of 'Babies' discusses making the movie | News for Dallas, Texas | Dallas Morning News | Life/Travel

Posted using ShareThis

2010-05-09T18:01:00.001-07:00

addendum.

2010-05-03T22:28:00.000-07:00

Recently I wrote a note on facebook called A Case for Optimism.
The case is still building quite a lot of evidence these days.
So much has changed. So much is in the process of changing. I can't quite get my bearings and not being able to get my bearings is about all that is sure at the beginning and end of each day.
Once upon a time in a land not too far away, we the plums had a plan. That plan seemed well thought out, and sure. We thought surely we have learned some vital lessons and now we can be smart. We will get out of debt. We will have retirement one day. We will have security and a paycheck every 2 weeks. Life will finally feel more predictable and we have matured. Now is the time to sit back and enjoy the ride. I got used to hearing stories from Hans' skunk-dog routine. I got used to his buzzing in and out of the front door, wrestling with the boys in between job #1 and job #2 and an occasional job #3. Because that's what police officers do.
I got used to seeing him get all dressed in his crisp uniform with bullet proof vest situated underneath to provide some peace of mind for his 9pm trek to work in the city. I got used to cutting his hair really short every 2 or 3 weeks and without realizing it, got really used to his 9pm pace. He would kiss and hug the boys good night; they would know sleep time was imminent when they'd hear the door quietly close behind him. They would hear dad and mom give a routine hug and 'i love you' before he'd grab his paleo kit and blue insulated lunch box for middle of the night eats. I got used to this pattern, and my place in it. I got used to a finally familiar family way of going about our days and weeks and became proud of our pace, as difficult the 6th, 7th, and 8th day would be anxiously waiting alongside the boys for Hans to have his 6 days off. I got used to those 6 days feeling like vacations, having a little family secret that no one knew- the sheer joy of finally being all together. We'd let the boys stay up a little later those 6 nights, and we'd have vacation room and watch movies- even on a school night. Our norm was slightly abnormal in nature, but one we adapted to and were proud of the important service Hans was a part of.
I didn't realize how used to 'the plan' I had gotten until April 19, 2009. Fear began to replace the sunday night routine when Hans spent it with a fever climbing rapidly, kidney stone pain wreaking havoc, and right shoulder stiffening into one position. He slept that night, and I next to him thinking something didn't feel right. Something wasn't right. The ER doctor had sent him home with morphine and dilaudid for the pain, considering his ailments due only to the kidney stones. Monday morning came with the drop off boys to school routine, but the pit in my stomach persisted. I came home to find Hans' condition worsening and I felt paralyzed with confusion. Should I take him back to the ER?
After his mom saw him, she confirmed my feeling and decision to take him to Mercy Hospital. This particular day marked the beginning of a new norm for our family. Hans' strength had to come from somewhere deep inside beyond muscles and training. He just had to keep breathing. I didn't have the peace of mind that came every time that bullet proof vest was securely fastened in place under uniform. I just had to trust and believe that miracles happen and we needed one. Hans' condition worsened so quickly it was surreal. His shoulder locked in place, the right side of his face swelled and emitted heat and crimson red. His lips were bluish and the medical team who treated him the next six days would leave his bedside baffled and perplexed.
Those six days were an up and down battle with oxygen levels and mobility, pounding heavy antibiotics into his body to try to arrest the infection that had made its way into his blood.
Those six days seemed like a different universe, like a strange tilt the earth had accidentally made. I felt a quiet rage towards this blood invader, each time i held Hans' hand, I saw our lives brought together "then" for "now" and the tilt of the earth taught me something new about love.
From April of last year until now, doctor's visits have become routine. We have a new routine that consists of nothing particularly being consistent from day to day except soccer. Everything else feels like we are in an ocean, in a little dingy boat, saved from the sinking ship but struggling each moment not to panic from the sheer scope of the powerful force of sea and waves around us. Powerless but together, saved in the dingy, life vests around us and the boys snuggled in between us, Hans and I are holding on to the edges watching the swooshing waves around us, waiting expectant hopeful that a little piece of ground will appear soon.
There's far more to be grateful for than losses to be grieved. Lessons learned throughout the year have brought a new sense of peace- even when news might still be bleak or finances bare or former roles and career being grieved.
There seems to be some land ahead, can't really make out how distant or close. But i think its there. The unknowns are always there, now i know that. When we thought we had our cozy little plan, all along, the unknowns were still the ocean surrounding us. Perhaps our boat was bigger, but it was still man-made. The ocean, the waves, the tides, the life inside it-- we cannot control. We must simply be saved, dwell calmly in the lifeboat, snuggle each other for dear life, and wait to see if there's land and footing ahead.
Until then, the days are filled with gratitude and emotion. Grateful Hans is alive and well, that his lungs were the literal lifeboat that sustained him through perilous days in the hospital a year ago. Grateful that despite my nay-saying, he started a business with a dear buddy (who was by his side during the perilous days) and that business has turned into a little of that land ahead... pieces of a puzzle we didn't even know was forming. Grateful that optimism has become our creed through all this change and loss of certain things we'd grown accustomed to - like bullet proof vests, and late night treks to work when all of us would sleep soundly, and plans of retirement and security...
I think of how hard we all work to convince ourselves daily of our secure place we are building in our world. I think of our anxieties over so many future mysteries, so many that occupy our now moments. I think of how much time we invest in investments and forget to invest ourselves in the present moment. I think of how much I've learned about grace- that it's something real, tangible, peaceful, encompassing of entire self- when i stop trying to wiggle my way out of the painful or confusing or uncomfortable feelings- but really feel- there is where i keep finding the grace to let go of the panic and fear of the sea around me.
There are so many things on the horizon. So many ways that Hans has changed- in so many ways into a braver person than the skunk-dog who kept us safer by serving in the night. His optimism and valiant fight for health has become contagious and is catching each day in ways that keep surprising me and the boys. I've been surprised too with my strength- a new feeling, one that I didn't ever want to be familiar with-as long as there was someone there to be stronger than me to fight in my place. I've joined the fight with Hans to stay optimistic and look at the opportunities ahead, not the losses. I've seen him infuse his sons with a resilience and fortitude without realizing it. I've seen him and them grow up so much in the last year.

I don't know where the lifeboat is headed, but each day feels like a miracle, a second chance, a reason to snuggle and celebrate and let go of nitpicky criticism of unfulfilled dreams or dreary days. The dream is today. What if its the last? the case for optimism builds stronger by the day...

introduction.

2010-05-02T22:31:00.000-07:00

“Drag your thoughts away from your troubles… by the ears, by the heels, or any other way you can manage it.” -Mark Twain

not much makes sense to me, even at 33. but I’ve come to peace with a few things:
1. paradox
2. regret is useless unless you decide to learn from it and use it to help someone else.
3. it’s much better for one to finish college when one has not children and mortgage.
4. elusively finding your dream often inhibits living what is life in the moment; which most often ends up being dreamy if you flip the cat and rub it the other way.
5. when i feel like i know something for sure, i don’t. and usually when i admit i don’t know, that something makes more sense.
6. i love to write but I’m lazy so i find it strange that laziness often trumps what i love to do. I’m working on that one…
7. a little crazy can go a long way (and not in a good way) if the crazy stays inside and doesn’t ask for help.
8. as my dear chaplain Kenneth told me at treatment 3 years ago, “everyone’s ability to hear God is the same, because he speaks to each of us in our own language.”
9. i am selfish and want what i want and masterfully manipulative getting what i want when i want it. whether or not i choose to be so each day is up to admitting it is thus; and then proceed through each day doing the opposite of what is instinctive; because that usually works to put the selfishness in remission for a few moments.
10. i don’t always have to have an answer for ‘why do we do what we do?’ the question is the answer. if we knew why we do what we do we wouldn’t do most of what we do.
11. perfection is pointless for us to attempt so why exude the maniacal energy to be perfect when it keeps us from acceptance.
12. grace is most often found in the uncomfortable, messy, dark, crazy, uncontrollable, confusing, unrelenting moments in life. to to avoid these 7 things is often to avoid grace. hmmm, that’s funny. just thought of the ’7 deadly sins’. these could be called the ’7 places of grace’. ok, sorry that’s cheesy. but true.
and one more for now:
13. mind over matter is the optimal mode of making it through days on earth. unless of course one’s mind is a muttled mush of chemicals and neurons gone wild. then matter usually trumps mind, even if one is extending maximum effort towards the other… so for humans to subscribe to mind over matter as law is harsh and feeble. genetics, substances, choices, circumstances, and environment tend to have a heavy influence on the mind over matter attempt. one is much better off focusing on one’s own mind to let other minds matter enough to judge them.
that’s all for now, unless there’s more…