Tag: gift of life

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Reading Cards and Reaching for Rainbows: If I could talk to my child self

 

A tarot-card reader once made me a proposition…

To do a silent reading, for this skeptic on a mission.

The results would be sealed for years, to prove its accuracy,

protecting fate from interruption and yet satisfying my curiosity.

 

I never took her up on it… for fear that I would cheat

and open the envelope for an illegal peek.

I was afraid I might change it, if I knew what my fate held…

Like the tampering with history or a misguided spell.

 

Still I wonder… Was this always the plan?

The choices and happenings, that built this lifespan…

Did they build the person? Or did the person built it?

Was the mold pre-determined? Or the pieces built to fit?

Did my life circumstances come to inspire?

Or was my discontent the fuel to my fire?

 

If I could go back and let that child know,

all that was to come, all she’d have to show…

Would she have slacked off and stopped working so hard?

Or was her life’s journey always in the cards?

 

Nevertheless, I wish I could’ve told her:

That the day would come, that someone would hold her,

someone would love her and treasure her gifts.

That she was the captain, not a piece of wood drift.

 

That intentional choices and decisions that were good,

would eventually bring the life that these things should.

But she’d have to be patient and be willing to roll

with a lot of life’s punches, many she can’t control.

 

That the nights as a child, spent lying awake,

wishing the world had sent some other fate…

Would grow into inspiration, to take a child in

and give them the world- a new chance to begin.

 

Life is not easy, but blessings must not be missed-

every chance, every encouragement, every time the soul’s kissed.

Like jewels in the rough, hidden in the darkest days,

are quiet, kind angels who will help you along the way.

 

They’ll give you small glimpses of how sweet it can be,

if you work hard, choose right and take the time to see

the beauty and blessings in all places- light and dark.

Seek to understand, judgements miss the mark.

 

And in your adolescence, the rebellion, emotions and rage,

the poor choices, screaming and feeling like being caged…

will give you the experience and the wisdom to guide

your own gorgeous kin, navigating life and their delicate, dark side.

 

College and four jobs, eighteen going on thirty-

will teach you how to work hard and not fear getting dirty.

You’ll be jealous of others and think it’s not fair.

But my darling, one day… you’ll reap more than your share.

 

Rich not in money, but in love and compassion,

your journey will be hard but driven by passion.

The world is in need of the talents you hold.

Love is the answer, not a heart that’s turned cold.

 

Many relationships, I’m afraid, will come and go.

And each one, holds a lesson that you will need to know.

And then you will choose to love a man twice your age,

scandal at the time, but a love that becomes a gauge.

 

For when your own children come into their self,

they will hold that marriage up like a treasure on a shelf.

And with their future partners, they will compare

the way they are treated, with the love that you share.

 

The bad break-ups and hard lessons, the mistakes and the losses-

merely sticky plaque, that building character soon flosses.

Boring you’d be, not experiencing these things,

You’d lack meaning and depth, a marionette hanging from strings.

 

And yet it is hard, living a life of hard knocks.

My god how it hurts, when yet another shoe drops;

But hard work pays off and rainbows follow storms.

You’ll make it into happiness and help redefine the “norms”.

 

And when you do, humble as it will be…

You’re job is to reach back and help others see:

That beauty and love forever exist

and the opportunity to help, should never be missed.

 

Pick your head up little girl, you’re stronger than you know,

Your fate lies not in cards but the way your heart grows.

Turn your pain into purpose and tears into dreams,

Now go make them happen, life’s sweeter than it now seems.

 

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10 Things That You Love: Love and Loss … and Foster Care

 

In Foster Parent classes, there’s an exercise that they sometimes do. The instructor leading the class, hands everyone 10 blank cards. Then, they ask everyone to write on those cards, “The 10 things that you love the most”, the 10 things that are the most important to you or that you would want to have in your life. Individual people or pets should not be listed separately but would be grouped on single cards labeled “Family”, “Friends” or “Pets,” for instance. And basic life necessities like food, water, clothing need not be included. I engaged in this activity during one of our final classes…

“Whelp, family, friends and pets, there’s my first 3 cards”… I thought. I’ve got 7 more to fill in.

My “Home” seemed an obvious choice. And oh how I love my “Vacations/Traveling”. I suppose I want my job…and I’d like to have my “Car” too…hmmm this is going to be hard to choose only 10.

The room buzzed as people filled-in the various things that they loved the most. And you overheard people talk about their favorite activities, hobbies, life-focuses and family heirlooms. People started off more concrete, many with the same first three cards as I did; but as we continued, people began to think outside the box. And they began to write things like “Hope” or  “Faith” on their remaining cards. Until finally, everyone had 10 cards filled out in front of them. Our 10 most important things.

The instructor asked us to spread those cards out in front of us and look at them, think about them, imagine them. And she asked us how we felt, looking and thinking about those 10 things. Whatever they might be – our loved ones, our community, our favorite pastime, a sport, our puppy dogs and kitty cats… maybe even something as simple as chocolate – All of these things that bring our life significance and comfort and joy.

A quick glance around the room revealed only smiles. Those 10 little cards signified the 10 things, that we as individuals, held dearest in our lives. Remembering the people and the things that we treasured the most, made everyone feel happy… kind of day-dreamy, almost.

And then the instructor asked us to take away a card. We were shocked.

I mean if you had to narrow down all of the many things that you love/want/need, to only 10… those 10 things are precious! How could we chose which one to eliminate. Not having a car meant I’d be taking the bus to work. No vacations??? I’d be a mess! My hobbies??? But those keep me sane and they bring me so much joy!

One card gone. And the mood of the room completely changed. The smiles were all gone and had been replaced with furrowed brows and looks of concern. They asked us to imagine our life now, without that thing. And it hurt.

And then they asked us to take away another.

“That’s preposterous!” we thought. Another one from the remaining 9 things we held closest to our hearts?! Shaking our heads, we removed another card. Once again, imagining our lives without it.

And then we had to take away another.

And another.

And another.

Each time, being asked to imagine our lives without that thing. And by that point, our initial feelings of concern, had turned to anger and feelings of unfairness and disbelief. In a few short minutes, the entire room’s mood had turned upside-down. How can you ask me, from the 10 things I love the most, to eliminate half?! We felt robbed!

Down to 5 now…and they asked us to take away another.

A room full of adults doing a simple exercise, and at this point, people were half-threatening to get up and leave. Others, said they were refusing to eliminate any more. Some laughed nervously and others sat in saddened silence; everyone finding it impossibly hard to eliminate any one of our top 5 things of importance. And while we continued along with the exercise, knowing full well, that it was just that; when asked to imagine, once again, “How that would feel?”, the fear of those losses began to induce feelings of panic within us. And we began to pray that the forced choices and the losses, while only imagined, would stop.

But the exercise continued until we were down to only one card.

The room was sullen. No more laughs. No more jokes or empty threats. We had been stripped of just about everything that we held dear.

“How do you feel now?” she asked. “Devastated” was the best word we could think of.

They then went around the room and asked everyone to share what their last remaining card was. For most, it was “Family”. And others sacrificed even that, for a virtue like “Hope” or “Faith”.

And after everyone had read their last card out loud, she said….

“Many of our foster children don’t even have that left.”

They’ve lost their homes, their schools, their friends, pets and family. Faith, Hope and Love are on their way out too. However dysfunctional their environment might have been, they have lost everything that was familiar and meaningful to them. And in the amount of time that it took you to complete this exercise, they were told to take whatever they could and throw it in a garbage bag. Then, they were dropped off at a stranger’s doorstep.

“The feelings that you had during this exercise,” she said, “the confusion, the anger, the panic and the sadness… remember those feelings when you get that knock on the door and you open your home to a foster child. And remember, that whatever you have left on that remaining card in front of you…you had a choice in and it’s STILL probably more than what they have left.”

 

Life is a series of circumstances, actions and reactions. We don’t get to choose to whom we are born and we don’t get a say in our genetic make-up. But we do have choices. What will you do with your choices? If you were born with a hand above others, will you choose to reach back and give someone else a lift? Or will you selfishly climb ahead and not look back? If you are at the bottom of the line, will you give-up and let your family’s history be your predetermined future? Or will you push harder to grasp whatever edge, whatever foothold can withstand the weight and pull yourself to the top? We can’t always control what obstacles, what loose rocks, come crumbling and spiraling towards us… but we can choose how we react and who we opt to continue our journey with. Life is a journey and an adventure! Take it! And make it a good one!

Interested in fostering? An internet search of the process in your state and county will yield a schedule of available classes-times and locations, as well as requirements. You’ll start with the info session and go from there. It’s not for the faint of heart but I do believe it is one of the greatest acts of love.

Keep loving. Keep growing. Keep striving to be the best damn person you can be. Life is short… May your blessings be bountiful and your regrets few.

 

 

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This not so random day in October

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Her wrinkled hands hold back the curtains and she stands and stares as the colored leaves once again begin to fall…and she remembers his face, on this not so random day in October.

She takes her morning walk, like she does every morning. But today, in the crisp air, her gaze is distracted and her pace is a little slower. She still stops for coffee at Betty Lou’s, but today, she’s a little quieter. “You look tired, my dear,” her friend takes note. A nod and a small, forced smile is her only reply. She finishes her walk home and notices the middle-aged man helping his elderly parent out of the car. The old mother once again feels that dull ache, on this chilly, not so random day in October.

Clearing out her office, before the winter weather begins again, before she’s too old to enjoy living, before time robs her of what is left, she begins to fill her empty box. The pictures and the diplomas that once hung on busy walls, leave lonely nails in their place. In her perfectly manicured hands, she holds the frame of a photo that makes her pause. It wasn’t the employee of the year award or the doctorate degree, but a single photo with a silent sign that only she could see. She strokes her silver hair and is lost in thought as she stops to reflect. 30 years at the same office, and no one ever noticed that she always requested vacation, every year, on this not so random day in October.

What a beautiful wedding! Bright orange and yellow mums and sweet little acorns on the tables, the sign of new beginnings. The band plays and the people dance and young love fills the air. And as happy as she is for the perfect match…when the beaming groom takes his mother’s hand….the music seems to quiet and the twinkling lights stop. In her world, time stands still and a small tear sneaks past the tiny wrinkles around her eye. With a smile on her face, her heart still longs for him, on this festive, not so random day in October.

Raking the leaves, it’s best to keep busy.  There’s too much to do, to sit and wait. But her mind is full and she wonders when this day will stop being hard. A butterfly lands on the bush beside her, a rare sight this time of year. The orange and black wings beat ever so slowly and her efforts to be productive are paused. “You’d be a senior this year…” she says… and she stops to imagine how his dark hair would’ve come in. I wonder if he had my brown eyes or his Dad’s blues…Would he be a football star? Or a science geek? Homecoming, Prom and Graduation are daunting days ahead that she dreads. And once again, she feels robbed, on this chilly, not so random day in October.

Readying the decorations, she plops two new mums on the front porch and dusts off the old wreath. This is never her favorite time of year, but deception is easier than explaining. Despite her pain, she tries to make the house look welcoming. Halloween will be coming and the kids will be in costume. She wonders what he would’ve wanted to be… A super hero perhaps, or maybe a fire fighter? She can’t decide if the trick or treaters and the bowl of candy she reluctantly empties into their pillow cases is soothing reassurance or a stabbing betrayal. She turns off the phone and sits alone, hot cider in hand, wondering if it will ever get easier… this painful, not so random day in October.

Today she wants to be alone. The little energy she has, she reserves for self care and reflection-there is none left for small talk or busy work. The house is too quiet, so she goes to the trees to be one with her thoughts. Somewhere along the paved path, the painstaking sound of pittering feet come running towards her. Two little red shoes chase a round blue ball and she wants so badly to look and smile; but the reality of her loss averts her eyes. Quickly she runs to the car and back to the house. She buries her head in her pillow and then reaches for his box. Tonight, she’ll lay with his blanket and her heart’s exhaustion will lull her to sleep, on this sorrowful, not so random day in October.

The empty crib was the worst…or was it the look on the doctor’s face when she did the ultrasound? No…no those weren’t the worst…It was the quiet of the room. Yes! That awful, awful quiet when he was born, that, was the worst…the deafening silence when all of her hopes and dreams came crashing into a lifeless little lump wrapped in a blue blanket…and her wails filled the space that his cries should have. Breathing is hard right now. Living is hard right now. Mothering is hard right now. As night falls, her exhausted body collapses into a restless slumber and she is sure that she will never, ever recover, from this horrible, nightmare of a day in October.

It’s the lifetime achievements, the milestones and the memories that she’ll never get. It’s the love that she gave, the laughter that she missed and the heartache that is never ending. It’s the name that no one will say for fear of upsetting her and the name that she whispers every night in her dreams. It’s the face only she stroked and the feet only she kissed. The tears that she cries alone and the story that she hates that she knows.

And it’s the lessons that she’s learned and the hands that she’s held…the tears that she has wiped and the ways that she has understood…it’s the tiny gowns that she has sewn and the meals that she has made…it’s the presence that she is and the changes she has made, for every parent who shares her pain…All done in her son’s name.

Opening the box once more, her wrinkled hands carry the tattered blue blanket back to her chair. And she rubs the soft threads between her smooth finger tips as she nods off into a peaceful slumber. And another leaf falls.

“Momma,” she hears…

Dark brown hair and his father’s crystal blue eyes meet hers…and right away, she knows. She whispers his name and he smiles a smile that she has waited a lifetime to see. “I have so much to tell you….,” he says. And tears of joy stream down her face. Hand in hand they walk into the light, mother and son, together again, on this beautiful, not at all random, day in October.

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Guest blog: “I may be Asian, but I’m not your Christmas Chinaware” By Abbie Pfau

It is with great honor that I post my first guest blog. The writer is both talented and intelligent, witty and kind. She is gorgeous and current and she just so happens to be my little cousin. I give you Abbie Pfau:

My mom always said that when I was a girl, my joy was infectious, but as a woman my wit has become deadly. Through 9 surgeries, a month of paralysis, and 23 years as an adopted, differently-abled individual, I’ve learned that I don’t have to be so dichotomous. Instead, I’ve set out to try and use both the wit and the joy to share a point-of-view as someone who’s just trying to make it through every open door in life, without having to press the “handicap accessible” button. After all, who has the patience for that?

I never do.

Always be graceful, but don’t be afraid to be reckless…

Abbie

Photo credits: http://images.huffingtonpost.com/2015-09-23-1443029669-9258368-Dollarphotoclub_75515307.jpg

I May be Asian, but I’m Not Your Christmas Chinaware

            “Abbie Pfau, get over here right now and give me a hug. You’re not actually crippled.” The moment those words left my friend’s mouth and traveled across the high school piazza, a couple hundred confused faces turned to stare in horror. I picked up my crutches and traversed through a sea of people, hopping over bodies and laughing with her as we enjoyed the uproar she had just caused. All of those poor bystanders had thought they had just witnessed the biggest display of rudeness against a disabled woman, but what they don’t know is that it was actually a great compliment. On the contrary, it was their horrified faces that conveyed the unintentional insult. They all actually thought I was crippled.

I have crutches, so I must be broken. I am broken, so I must need help with everything.

It’s a very common misconception, so please, don’t feel bad if you’ve made this mistake. I understand the logic; everyone’s trying to make life easier, and truthfully, my condition does make certain things like carrying heavy objects and bending over to pick my clothes off the floor a bit of a struggle. If I’m being honest, I’m in some degree of pain every day, even when I go to sleep. But nothing hurts more than people’s (un)conscious discrimination against my ability. Most of the time, able-bodied people don’t realize they do it, because to them it feels like they’re being considerate and inclusive. However, there’s nothing that feels more exclusive than when someone tells my boyfriend he shouldn’t make me go on a hike with him. There’s nothing kind or helpful about scowling at my family for expecting me to wash my own dishes. Someone isn’t doing me any favors or any justice by sneering at my friends for laughing with me after I’ve gloriously “McFallen” in a McDonalds. There is this overpowering belief that my family, friends, and significant-other should never “make me” work. They should never “make me” get up to let the dog in. They should never “make me” go out and have adventures that would require any physical activity…because it might hurt. My fragile self might break, just like Humpty Dumpty.

There’s an important lesson to be learned from Humpty Dumpty though. He spent most of his story just sitting on a wall…and he still broke. I spent a month of my life paralyzed from the waist down, unable to do anything for myself. I couldn’t get up to go to the restroom by myself. I couldn’t take a shower by myself. I couldn’t even roll over in bed while I slept without someone’s help. Nevertheless, with determination and resilience, I worked through the pain and regained my physical independence. That would have been nearly impossible without the help of people I love; they always pushed me to work harder, to be better, and to live life fully – and living fully doesn’t mean needing someone to do everything for me.

After my back surgery and paralysis, I wasn’t allowed to bend my spine, which created a great deal of difficulty in my daily life. My parents have a very deep top-loading washer; nevertheless, they still expected me to do my own laundry, so I figured it out. My loved ones are all very active; they love to be adventurous and go hiking, skiing, boating, swimming, traveling, biking, etc. Never intending to watch them from the sidelines, I’ve learned to adapt. Sure, it might take me longer to bike the trails or climb the hills, but it certainly won’t stop me. My bones might ache when I stand up to answer the door or bring in the groceries, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be expected to do it. My body might be in pain, but that doesn’t mean my life has to suffer. I may be disabled, but that doesn’t mean I’m dead. I’ve been given a life to experience, live, and love. I refuse to spend my days sitting on a wall waiting to break and expecting all of the King’s men to put me back together again.

I know I look like an innocent, dainty piece of china that you have to protect and lock away in your cabinet. However, the truth is, I – and the multitude of other differently-abled individuals around the world – am stronger than you know. Our fragile, eggshell bodies have held the weight of an adversity that most cannot fathom, but they never break under the weight. So please, don’t be afraid for us. Don’t make excuses for us. Don’t expect less from us. Don’t lock us away and do everything for us. Help us be the best we can by pushing us to be more than we seem, because the only disability in life is being enabled to the point of not experiencing all it has to offer – even, and perhaps most importantly, the challenges it holds. If we didn’t want the challenge, we would’ve let you know.

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Finding fulfillment in the life you’ve been given, not the life you dreamed of…

I always thought I’d be a mother….

I figured I’d be married by now….

I thought he was the man of my dreams….

I never thought I’d end up a single parent….

I wish I had gone to medical school….

I should have followed my dreams, not the money….

My relationship with my parent(s) is toxic….

I’m the only one left in my family….

I’ve never owned my own home….

It was the house of our dreams, and then we lost it….

The diagnosis changed everything….

I don’t like my kid….

When I held my little baby, I never thought she would end up like this….

The stories of regret and broken hearts and a life that is very much not what you dreamed it would be, are as rampant as the perfectly projected ones that wallpaper social media. Scrolling down the endless pages of people’s lifetime posts, we allow ourselves to believe that everyone else’s life is just how they dreamed it would be. Chubby happy faces, world travels, solid marriages, beautiful homes, work and life accomplishments abound…and while we stand there and hold our bag of regrets and disappointments, we fool ourselves into thinking that everyone else has gotten everything that they ever dreamed of. And no matter how many gratitude lists we make, when someone else is living a reality that we wish we had, we carry some level of grief or jealousy or longing.

I know, because I carry quite a heavy bag myself.

I wrote a post two nurses’ weeks ago called the Blessing of Nursing:

The Blessing of Nursing

And in that post, I talked about taking the opportunity to hear people’s stories. I’ve made a habit of this. And I’ve also tried to develop a relationship of trust amongst other humans and to allow myself to be a safe place for people to come to, without fear of judgment or betrayal. Through them, I’ve heard even more stories. And what I have learned in all of these stories, is that despite what we all seem to believe, hardly anyone is living the life they dreamed of and no one is immune to struggle. There is always some sort of caveat, something that didn’t go the way they planned; and no matter how grateful you are for what you have, those losses are still a thorn in our side. And when we see them in others, we are reminded of what we don’t have.

You’re 40 and still single. You thought for sure you’d be married by now. And you don’t know where you went wrong or why you haven’t found your mate. She has a husband she adores and just the cutest kids. It’s the life you always dreamed of. But behind closed doors, finances are so tight, their debt is only rising. Your apartment if perfectly adorned with treasures you’ve collected from around the globe and she wishes she could just take a summer vacation. She’s never even been outside the country and the stress of their finances is a constant strain on their marriage. While she wouldn’t trade her family for the world, the pictures of everyone else’s travels make her itch for adventure and  wonder what would have happened if she had waited a little bit to settle down.

Your grays are coming in heavy and you’re not even sure you own a single piece of clothing that doesn’t have a stain or a hole. Sometimes taking a shower and getting dressed is your greatest accomplishment. Sticky hand prints and spilled drinks surround you and its a daily prayer for just 5 minutes of quiet from the chaos that constantly surrounds you. Being a Mom is sooo much harder than you thought it would be! Her hair is always perfectly colored and her nails are always done. Her house is always clean and the décor is impeccable. And when people ask her if she’s going to have kids, she gives a smile that fools them all into thinking that she’s perfectly content in her quiet and organized life. But silently, she’s been living a 5 year nightmare with infertility. And she’d give it all away … the highlights, the manicures and the cookie-cutter cottage just to hold a child of her own.

Your marriage is constant work and whether its because your husband is tired or works a lot or simply isn’t interested in taking walks, you see the movie-star couple who always do everything together and you wish that just one afternoon, he’d get off the couch or come home early and sit on the porch or take a stroll with you. But that confident and forever hand-holding couple have a secret. Despite her rockstar figure, she struggles with a poor self-image and he’s already strayed from the marriage. Their apparent closeness is really insecurity, fear and an attempt to control, all put under a public guise for perfection.

You’re 35 and wonder if you and your Mom will ever be close. Whether it was because of addiction, abuse, her controlling and difficult personality, or your own feeling that you could never measure up, when you hear other women say, “I don’t know what I’d do without my Mom”, you can’t relate. “There’s nothing like Momma’s cooking!” has never applied to your life and you have always had to hire a babysitter. But other women have come into your life to at least give you some motherly advice and support. And maybe, your girlfriend’s mother who is so wonderfully supportive and takes the kids and cooks, does so because her son or daughter-in-law is unreliable. And her apparent doting is compensation for fear of neglect of her grandchildren.

You were the basketball star growing up and the day your son/daughter was born, you dreamed of teaching him to shoot hoops. And then he stopped meeting his milestones and a lifelong disability presented itself that would inhibit him from ever walking much less running the court. And when your friend comes bitching about running the kids around to practice 3 days a week, your heart aches for the opportunity. But their kid has a paralyzing mental illness that they hide from the world because it doesn’t look good when a jockey has a therapist. And 20 years from now, when all of that comes crashing to an end, you’re wheelchair bound rockstar is gonna be changing the world with his inspirational speeches or formulas for NASA.

Maybe their perfect house, isn’t a happy home….

Maybe one’s world travels are a distraction from the pain….

Maybe that new car was bought with a loved one’s life insurance…

Maybe her perfect kid is fighting a battle even you’d run away from….

Maybe their money came with a price you’re not willing to pay….

Maybe she smiles so that she doesn’t cry.

Sitting on the beds of drug addicts and prisoners has allowed me a gained perspective and empathy and an ability to shed the judgment that I once carried. But learning the struggles of the everyday people I know, who seem to have the most perfectly put-together lives has allowed me to realize that I’m not the only one living with disappointment. And oftentimes, those who have what I am mourning the most, are themselves, lacking the thing I hold dearest. And watching the ebbs and flows of other people’s lives has reminded me that like the tides of the ocean, nothing is promised for forever, and I must hold tight to the things I cherish and be willing to let go of the dreams that were never mine to hold.

I’m sure you’ve all seen the inspirational quote: “Be kind, everyone is fighting a battle you know nothing about.” But what if we took that a step further and in addition to being kind to others, we develop an introspective view and be kind to ourselves.

We all make choices. And with every choice, there are consequences. But sometimes in life, things happen that are completely out of our control. And when those things rip our dreams out of our arms, after we grieve their loss, we must pick our heads back up and regain control of our life, however that life is going to be. A life that is void of the things we once dreamed of, can still be fulfilling. But we must find a way to make it so. If we never take our blinders off, we’ll never see all the other paths around us and the wonders that they can lead us to. If we never let go of the loss, we can never learn to love again. And if we never accept alterations in our plans, we will never relish the new opportunities of our current life.

So the next time you get frustrated that things haven’t quite worked out of the way you would’ve liked, wipe your tears and tell yourself that there is a wonderful life ahead of you, full of surprises and hope and laughter. And after you’ve stroked your grief for a bit, take it out back, put it in the ground and plant it. Let it grow into what it will. And then lift your head and look out to what lies ahead and accept that while this may not exactly be the life you wrote, you were never the author to start out with. Turn the page, there’s another adventure waiting for you. And it will be wonderful, I’m sure of it!

If you like this you might also like:

Giving a voice to disappointment … “Would you do it again?”

The Warrior

“I didn’t want it to be me.”

Cold Soup

Remembering Tiny Feet

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Strawberry Wine

“I was caught somewhere between a woman and a child   

When one restless summer, we found love growing wild   

On the banks of the river on a well beaten path  

It’s funny how those memories they last 

Like strawberry wine and seventeen …

I still remember when thirty was old … “

Deana Carter’s “Strawberry Wine,” was a country favorite of mine when I was a teenager. Back then, it was the love story attached to it that I enjoyed. I remember belting out the lyrics in my room, in my mother’s home. I remember wondering if Boone’s Farm counted as strawberry wine. And I remember thinking “Well, thirty IS old.”

And then I got caught up in college. My musical tastes changed a bit. I no longer lived with my mother. And my free time for singing in my room, was taken up with four jobs and 18 credits/semester and boyfriends who distracted me. Love was less of ‘a fantasy’ and more ‘real life’ than it had ever been before. And strawberry wine wasn’t even a thought. Beer pong, shots and rum and coke were the tastes of my college days.

But before I could graduate, before I could even make-up my mind about life and love, I found myself, quite surprisingly, a “Momma” at twenty-one. Love was complicated and so was life. Walking the stage with a one-year-old, working nights, I was too exhausted to drink or sing or even think about how old I was or what music I liked, or what anything I liked. I liked sleep-something I never got enough of.

By my mid-twenties, life and love were starting to make a little more sense and we added number two to the brood. Within two months of becoming a family of four, we bought a house and got married. And then we got a puppy. I was chasing two tots now, plus a pup and still working nights. I was painting the new house and signing up for preschool. The only music that played back then was nursery rhymes and Nickelodeon tunes and the screams of my two small children. Every night I flopped into bed, again exhausted. And wine and age still didn’t matter.

At twenty nine, I started to find myself again. My husband and I had our first getaway, eight years after becoming parents, to Chile, to meet his family. Everyone told me how “young” I was, surprised I guess, at how settled I was for my age. And in the country where wine is cheaper than water, I fell in love with the fermented fruit beverage. We even found a winery in our home state that made wonderfully sweet fruit wine. Our favorite, was of course, Strawberry.

And now, in the later half of my thirties, somewhere amongst the busyness of career and family building, I passed that mile marker that I so often sang about. I passed thirty. And I know I’m not old. Yet, somehow I’m the mother of a high-schooler and a middle-schooler. And gray hair is beginning to replace my mousey brown. I’m back to four jobs again; but this time, each one addresses a talent or identifies a component of myself, instead of just serving monetary means-though that certainly matters as well! My body is slightly less tired than when my children were tots but my mind is overwhelmingly so. I like many genres of music. I have a few close friends. My family means the world to me. I don’t have time for bull shit and I don’t apologize for who I am. Fighting for the greater good is always important to me. And my vacations are just as fulfilling as my careers.

Love and life, I’ve learned is never mastered, ’cause it changes as we age; but I’m thankful that I have both lived and loved well.

I love wine, but I’m more of a Cabernet girl now-dark and bold and just dry enough to make you smack your mouth without tasting oaky. But sometimes my husband sweetens it up by adding diced strawberries and a sprinkle of sugar and turning it into Chilean Borgoñia (recipe post below).

A lot has changed in the last 20+ years, since I first sang those words. Life, love and motherhood have taken many twists and turns. Most of which, I could have never predicted. No longer a child in my mother’s home, but a mother myself in a home that is my own, with a husband that sustains me, the meaning of the words hold a different weight now. And the love story is less significant than the theme of loss and remembrance.

My husband will hear the tune come on and say “Go ahead babe, take it away….” He’ll turn up the volume and the kids will roll their eyes. And I will once again belt out the lyrics of “Strawberry Wine.” For those few minutes, I’ll remember what it was like when I was seventeen, “caught between a woman and a child.” I’ll remember those “restless summers” and the ‘bittersweet taste’ of life and love and the ‘loss of innocence’. And I can never decide if I feel closer to seventeen or thirty or eighty.

Whatever your stage of life, love, or motherhood, I hope you find yourself on your journey. I hope you take time to belt out lyrics. And I hope, just once, you taste the sweetness of Strawberry Wine.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Strawberry Wine Fizz

  • 2 cups strawberries
  • 2 cups lemonade
  • 1 TBS sugar
  • white wine, chilled
  • sprite, seltzer or tonic water for fizz

Blend strawberries, lemonade and sugar in a blender and pour the mixture into ice-cube trays. Freeze. Once frozen add a few ice cubes to a glass, top with wine and a splash of your choice of sprite/seltzer/tonic for fizz. Drink as is, or blend. I used tonic and I blended it.

This is light and easy for anyone to drink. What’s even better, is that ice cubes are non-alcoholic, so kids and non-drinkers can easily make the virgin version by simply leaving out the wine.

And as referenced above, a Chilean version of borgoñia using fresh strawberries and wine:

It’s Strawberry Season! Let’s drink!

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Worth living for…. My gratitude list and a response to the play “Every Brilliant Thing,” an essential conversation on suicide awareness and mental health

writing-1317009-640x480I recently attended a performance of the play, “Every Brilliant Thing,” written by Duncan MacMillan and Johnny Donahoe and performed by Alexander Strain. The play is and further yields a worthy conversation on suicide awareness and the importance of an individual’s mental health. And in the play, the conversation is held in the form of a one man cast who begins as a 7-year-old boy who is trying to understand and navigate the suicide attempt of his mother. The primary way he does this and the ongoing theme of the play is a gratitude list, or as he so britishly calls it, a “A list of Every Brilliant Thing”. And he leaves it on the pillow of his mother when she returns home as a reminder of all the things worth living for.

The list grows and unfolds over a lifetime and using light-hearted humor and audience participation, it reminds us of the many good things in life. It also brings to light, the fact that when our lives are going well and we have much to live for, the list grows quickly and easily. But on our difficult days, on the days when life has handed you a royally shitty hand, it can be a painful and nearly impossible task to think of things to be grateful for … or even to look at the list at all, for that matter.

Through this presentation, as a model for life itself, we are given the therapeutic task of replacing sorrow with gratitude, a worthy and effective exercise. And yet the play makes it clear, that this isn’t a cure for mental illness. Gratitude lists help us to establish a more positive outlook on life. They create a healthier, more uplifting viewpoint on the everyday, which improves our quality of life and self-satisfaction; but they don’t usually save lives and they certainly don’t cure chemical imbalances. It explains how grief and our attempts to process it, change as we age. And it makes the feelings that suicide survivors have, relatable. The guilt, the frustration and the fear of inheriting the same illness are all very real feelings for those affected by suicide; and it is self-affirming when someone else echoes the things you speak of only in your mind.

But the most important aspect of the play entirely, in my opinion, is the conversation that the play both is and creates. The conversation that mental illness is real and serious and that it deserves immediate and respectful attention. And yet in order to be effective, we must create some sense of normalcy and a comfortable place for people to come. In order to treat the illness, we must first end the stigma. Suicide is the 10th leading cause of death in the U.S and 1:5 Americans and Canadians suffer from some form of mental illness. The majority, not the minority, of people have been affected by suicide and the cascade of mental illness. And yet, we sabotage our own needs by labeling people, distancing ourselves, avoiding the topic or becoming uncomfortably solemn and unrelatable when we talk to those who are experiencing symptoms. It’s almost like we’re afraid of getting their “cooties.” Or perhaps we’re afraid of getting hurt or feeling responsible if things go awry. And yet, the name calling, ostracization and lack of relatability is exactly what perpetuates bad outcomes.

While there is still much work to do, and my experience is biased by living in a progressive part of the country, I do believe that we have made great strides in ending the hurtful exclusion and name calling of homosexuals and mentally retarded individuals. My children have grown to accept these people as they are and are blessed to have never heard the word “Fag” or “Retard” from their peers. And yet they know very well the term “Psycho.” And even worse, they know that quiet and cold feeling that comes when someone “has problems.”

As a medical professional and an advocate for mental health services, I can assure you of the suffocating nature that that stigma carries. Rarely to my face … but most often in small conversation, when the people talking don’t know my story, that’s when I hear it. That’s when, like my children, I feel it. The tone gets quiet and serious and suddenly, everyone involved in the gossip is “better” than the subject they are referring to.

And I do believe that the root of this reaction is out of self-preservation and not of mal intent. It is however, just as damaging. When people don’t have full regulatory control over their emotions or psyche, it makes people feel uncomfortable and afraid. And those people usually respond in 1 of 3 ways.

  1. They isolate that person. They stop hanging out with them, stop answering their texts and avoid them. They might be afraid of being manipulated by them or maybe they are just uncomfortable around them now. Maybe they don’t know what to say. It’s an immature response, but a common one. When one is afraid, they often run away. Still the affected person is left alone and learns by default not to confide in others. And because of this rejection, by default, the isolated person is labeled as an “outsider” or “different”.
  2. An even more immature response to feeling uncomfortable is to laugh and poke fun. This is not rooted in self-preservation. It is simply mean-spirited. And it happens all the time. The homeless guy that’s mumbling nonsense, the kid that comes to school dressed bizarrely or the jokes about voices in your head … all seem like viable subjects of seemingly innocent banter and yet to the victim and their families, it’s another assault. And even more so, to the bystander, whom you think is perfectly “normal”, those jokes are another rejection, another statement that “if you tell your secret, we won’t accept you”.
  3. And lastly, when they don’t ostracize or bully and tease, they judge. They judge them for “not really having a chemical imbalance,” without having any knowledge of that person’s medical records. They accuse them of “doing it for attention,” without ever wondering why. They judge them for “putting chemicals into their bodies”, for not being strong enough to handle life, for being dramatic, for always being “so negative”, for being “too lazy to get out of bed” or “too ____” … whatever.

So this week’s post is both a hand extended and a plea to all of those who have ended relationships because of a diagnosis … Who have refused to acknowledge or talk about the mental health of a person to their face and instead gossiped behind their back … To those who have labeled someone as “crazy,” a “head-case”, or a “nut job,” knowing full-well there was an underlying condition responsible for that person’s actions … For those who believe that simply “picking yourself up by your bootstraps” is an effective treatment … and for those who publicly demean mental health services in the form of therapy or medication … You are killing us!

Please educated yourself. Please try to understand someone else’s perspective. Please be compassionate and kind and patient. Please be a safe place. And if you can’t, at least shut up and give them a number to call. The worst place to be, is alone. And people who suffer from mental illness or have loved ones who are suffering, always feel alone. Please help me to change that!

Mental illness is so frustrating. And those affected can be incredibly draining and manipulative. And confronting mental illness most certainly can induce a grief response. But just the way we have changed the way we talk about mental retardation and homosexuality, a change in the way we respond to mental illness is also greatly warranted. It is not a new problem. It’s not a rich or a poor problem. It’s not an educated versus non-educated problem. It’s not a race problem. It’s not a strong versus weak problem. It is everyone’s problem. And people’s lives literally depend on it.

I am the mother, sister, daughter, granddaughter and niece of those affected by mental illness and there is not a single documented diagnosis in my family. Stigma and self-righteousness prevented diagnosis and treatment in our past. It led to many tortured lives and two untimely deaths in my beautiful, “normal”, middle-class, white, educated, god-loving, family.

That shit is changing with me.

So in the spirit of the play, I’ll end with my own “Brilliant List” and I’ll encourage you all to do the same, to seek out goodness and positivity. The National Alliance for Mental Illness reports that when you actively seek out ‘reasons to be thankful’ for 21 days, you will start to involuntarily think more positively. We could all use that. And then I’ll remind you that sometimes that list won’t be enough. And there are people and services that can help. Please let them help.

My favorite line in the play is :

“Life may not ever become Brilliant but it does get better. It always gets better.”

Amanda’s Brilliant List

  1. Hearing my children say, “Good job Mommy”
  2. Letting my husband love me in all his glorious ways
  3. Dancing in the kitchen
  4. Belting out Disney tunes with my 2-year-old niece
  5. Dark chocolate and red wine paired together, in the evening, when the house is quiet
  6. Finishing a photo book and reminiscing on that trip
  7. Planning a new road trip and anticipating the discovery of a new place
  8. The first unseasonably warm day of the year
  9. Talk therapy with my best friend, just the two of us … and wine
  10. Being assigned the patient that no one else wanted, and then connecting with her
  11. Having an opportunity to sleep in and actually being able to sleep
  12. Cooking delicious food with my siblings – we are like top chefs…well one is anyway!
  13. Going to a rock concert with my Dad and never sitting down
  14. Getting rid of old things and making space in the house without feeling wasteful
  15. Using up all the odds and ends in the fridge and creating something delicious with them
  16. Pedicures, with a really good leg massage
  17. A blog post that blows up, in a good way 🙂
  18. The smell and feel of a fresh haircut and highlights, good-bye grays and split ends
  19. Long conversation with deep thinkers over good wine
  20. Knowing that I’ve helped someone
  21. People who understand
  22. Extra time when I need it
  23. Thematic parties
  24. Outdoor summer family parties that start with food, lead to dancing and end with quiet conversation and star-gazing late into the night
  25. Feeling like despite all my failures and heartache, somewhere, somehow, I’m doing something right and maybe I’ll leave this world just a little better than I found it.

 

For those who need a phone number for help: 1-800-273-TALK, 1-800-SUICIDE, or text NAMI or TALK to 741-741

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Life is a Circus … A Life Inspired and Lessons Learned from the Magician, Johnny Fox

I was a kid when I first saw his act  – A wry, smart-mouthed magician with a knack for sleight of hand and sword swallowing (amongst other freakish sideshow skills) and the uncanny ability to do it with such ease he’d tell the audience “anyone can learn to do it”. He’d explain exactly what he was doing … and yet still manage to surprise his onlookers. The little red ball would turn to an orange and the orange to a glass of wine. He’d swallow a bigger sword than you thought was humanly possible and stuff a balloon down his throat and then pop it with a smaller blade – leaving the audience in stitches as his throat echoed the squeaking balloon’s deflation inside his body. He was handsome and funny and infectious and he called himself “Johnny Fox”. “Johnny Fox”, he’d say “is my stage name. My real name is John Fox.” And it was.

It worked out that I married a man who loved the faire as much as I did. And so as we built our life together and our family, the Maryland Renaissance Festival became an autumn-time staple for our family, a continuation from my childhood. And Johnny Fox stood at the heart of it. For years my son wanted “to grow up to be Johnny Fox” and he was constantly asking for new magic kits and wands … and forever disappointing himself that he wasn’t as good as Johnny. And even though we could practically recite half his jokes by heart and the outcomes of many of his tricks became predictable as the years passed… we couldn’t not see him. Because his jokes just never got old, his skill never got sloppy and his act never stopped amazing and entertaining us. Every year, when we’d walk through the gates of the festival with our entertainment schedule in hand and I’d say “Ok guys, who do you want to see?” Someone would always say, “Well you know we HAVE to see Johnny Fox!”

And so when the year came that I checked the entertainment schedule in advance and I saw that Johnny wasn’t on it, I panicked. He had been performing there forever! Nearly, forty years in fact. He was the longest running performer at the festival and we weren’t the only family who had come to love his entertainment for generations. Quickly scanning the site, I discovered that Johnny had been having some health problems and his performances were uncertain. We attended the festival regardless and were thrilled when we discovered that he’d still be performing. It wasn’t his usual three or four shows a day, there was only one that day; but it was the “must-do” for the day.

So when the time approached, we purchased “sweet nuts” from his signature booth and arrived early to get good seats. With beer and nuts in hand, my husband and I sat on the blue wooden benches like we had every fall. And the kids ran down the hill to the front, to sit at the Royal Stage’s edge (now the Royal Fox Stage) – just as they always had; because they already knew that when Johnny’s act started, the first thing he’d do was invite the kids down. They didn’t seem to realize that they were getting too big to use that accommodation anymore, but I didn’t stop them. For years, my son would gaze up at the magician like a god. And my daughter would soak in every second … until he grabbed the sword. Then she’d divert her eyes and squirm like the little girl that she was … only not so little now. As for my husband and I, every year we’d think this would be the year we would catch him in his sleight of hand. We never did.

As we sat on the benches, waiting for the show to start, I wondered and worried about what would have kept Johnny from posting certain performances.

And then Johnny appeared.

And the nurse inside of me knew exactly why his performances were uncertain. One look at him and I knew that he was dying. The look of end stage cancer is a look any seasoned medical professional can spot. The crowd cheered and welcomed him with a standing ovation and tears welled in my eyes. Oh, the difference a year can make. Standing on the same stage that I’d seen him perform for decades, his strong, fit body suddenly looked so frail. His clothes hung off of him and his cheek bones jutted under his thin, pale skin. I knew in that second that the great magician’s body was betraying him in the greatest of ways. And yet, stretched across his face was the biggest smile one could produce and his eyes were on fire.

Without missing a beat, he jumped right into his same jokes, the same ridiculously good sleight of hand and the same good-humored freak acts. With the same smooth confidence he held in his shoulders and the same mischievous sparkle in his eyes, he carried his audience from laughter to jaw drop, in a comfortable and entertaining act that was always second to none. And despite his obvious health concerns, he still ended the show with a sword swallow. I was astounded that he had the strength and energy to do what he did. He was a performer that we’d come to expect year after year and this time, while I watched, along with my laughter and smiles, my heart felt heavy because I knew that this was Johnny’s last show for us. And I soaked in every delicious second of it. He ended the show as he always did, by saying, “It is a privilege to make people laugh for a living…”

After the show, he confirmed to the audience that this past spring he had been given a grim diagnosis and had been undergoing alternative treatment. “They told me I only had a few weeks to live,” he said, “And I told them, you don’t know who you’re talking to.” He didn’t call his journey with cancer a “battle” though, he called it a “dance”. He spoke about his love for life and people and his drive to “keep getting better”. If death was on his mind, you never would’ve known it by his words or his performance. He called the Maryland Renn Fest his “home” and thanked everyone for making it that. He informed us of a Facebook page that he had opened for people to follow him on, “Friends of Johnny Fox”. And while he needed to clear the stage for the next act, he’d be in the back to take photos and sign autographs.

The kids and I were at the front of the line. He sat on a stool while a line formed behind us. I could see how tired he was and yet he was still so full of life. Before even acknowledging the adult that was trying to talk to him, he spotted my son and held out an autograph for him and shot him a sweet, inviting smile. And after we snapped our picture with the legend, I bent down and planted a kiss on his cheek, which he welcomed with a “muah”. “I just wanted to tell you that we love you,” I said.” You have brought us back to the festival year after year and have brought us so much joy. You taught my children to believe in magic. Thank you!” “I’m just dancing”, he said with a smile and I walked away just as the tears started to roll.

When I left the festival, I sent my request to “Friends of Johnny Fox” and from that day on I followed his page. With every updated picture and post that was made of him, it became clearer to me that he was getting sicker, and yet, he was always doing something fabulous! He was attending concerts (we share a favorite artist-Bob Dylan), putting his feet in the ocean, soaking in a hot tub with friends. As a health care professional, I know first hand what end-of-life looks like. Some people deny it and some people accept it. Many people submit to it and some people fight it. Johnny rocked it! He really did dance, right up until the very end.

And when the inevitable post came through that Johnny had drawn his last breath, I hung my head. “He died with a smile on his face and was surrounded by friends”- who gave him his final standing ovation-the post explained. When I turned to tell my family, my voice shook and I cried. I’m a nurse – I know death. This man wasn’t my family or even a friend. He was a festival performer. “I’m crying over a sword swallower”, I told my husband as I laughed through the tears. “Yeah but it was Johnny Fox”, he said. ” And he was just such a cool guy.” My children cried too.

His whole presence and journey had such a profound effect on myself and my family that we continued to follow his page and it wasn’t until after his death that we realized just what a legend Johnny was. We aren’t carnies or performers ourselves, we only knew the Maryland Renn Fest. And we thought Johnny Fox only belonged to us ( silly, I know!). It wasn’t until the various newspaper articles and NPR coverage surfaced that we began to learn the depth of his extraordinary ability and larger than life persona, whose influence spanned the nation. A true “sideshow virtuoso,” one article explained. All those years, we thought he was just our favorite festival act … when in actuality, he was a nation-wide legend.

We also learned more about the journey that he had been on and his drive to keep living and performing, right up until the end. His friends shared that one of the goals he had set for himself when he was diagnosed was to perform for the MD Renn fest for one more season. Friends drove him to doctors and even across the country to receive alternative treatment. He fought from Spring to Fall and there were weeks that he spent the weekdays in the hospital, but would be determined to get out in time to perform for the weekend. He was from Connecticut and performed in festivals all over the country. But somehow, Maryland Renn Fest won his heart, and we were all the luckier for it.

It was a family decision to attend his Celebration of Life ceremony. And we were so glad that we did! The man we knew only from the stage came even more to life when his friends told stories about him and his years of antics and performing. People traveled from all over the country to be there and to honor him. The stage was perfectly anointed with his props and posters and regalia. And the program his friends designed with quirky acts, comedy, eclectic people and musical minstrels was so suited to him that it was life-alteringly inspiring. They even performed a “Twenty-one sword swallow” as a salute to the great entertainer. I don’t know whether I felt more like an unworthy intruder or a privileged guest, to witness the tremendous love for a man I only knew as an audience member.

At the end of the ceremony, the host, a friend of Johnny’s and a fellow performer and magician, explained a tradition that started with the death of Houdini. The tradition was to break the magic wand of the late magician; “because a magic wand without the magician is just a stick”. And they followed the tradition with Johnny’s.

 

We don’t always know where our inspiration is going to come from. Nor do we know how the people (or performers) in our lives are going to change us. During the Celebration of Life ceremony, Johnny’s friend and fellow performer, Mark Sieve said “Johnny’s leaving us has affected all of us in ways we have yet to know.” And it already has.

I never would have dreamed that I would gain the inspiration or the lessons that I have as an audience member of a sideshow artist … I never thought I’d find myself in a room full of circus performers and be moved to tears with their tribute. I am changed because I stopped to watch and paused to learn.

Johnny’s example taught me that no amount of “bad news” or challenges can keep you from living, unless you let it. “Life is a choice to sit it out or dance.” Dancing he did, and magic he made. It’s up to me to make magic with the talents that I have.

And like a magician’s wand, things are just things and days are just days, until you use them to create something magical.

His diagnosis taught me not to let the inevitable, rush me to the ending. There’s a journey, a dance to be had. What he accomplished in those months of “dancing” was earth-moving. He taught this nurse, this skeptic, that it’s not over until it’s over.

And yet, he was a return act who reminded me that nothing lasts forever. Life is fragile and even the longest running act must come to an end. Take nothing for granted.

His quirkiness and love for the oddities in life confirmed my love for individual uniqueness. Johnny was a beloved person and character that embodied everything that was weird and unusual. He not only embraced that strangeness, he made it cool and he made it his. He was a perfect example of being yourself and utilizing your unique talents to make the world a more beautiful place.

Johnny reminded me to honor our past. His act, though it always felt fresh and new, always included tidbits of info that credited the forefathers of his art. He educated while he entertained and he honored the performers and talent that came before him. He fought to keep that dying art alive.

Johnny’s story taught me that “family” is whoever stands by your side and “home” is where your heart is. It was obvious from the speeches made, that Johnny was a well-traveled and well-loved man. He seemed to have many homes. I’m honored that Maryland was his favorite. And the turnout at his life celebration made it clear that his family was a wide and diverse one.

And that family reminded me that it’s those relationships that matter most. The people who carried Johnny to the end it seems, would have gone to the ends of the earth for him. And relationships like that, unlike magic, don’t generate from thin air. Johnny invested in people and they too invested in him. We mustn’t ever be too busy to invest in the people we love.

Despite his life threatening illness, Johnny showed up for one last season. Regardless of his fragility, he still performed and made people both laugh and squirm in enjoyment. He didn’t quit or give up. He didn’t lose himself or become bitter. He lived for every second that he was given and turned a death sentence into a beautiful dance. Might we all find the tenacity within us to do the same.

So here’s to the sword swallower who taught this nurse, this mother, this beer-holding, giggling fan … to believe in magic. Life is a Circus …bring your friends, buy the peanuts, sit in the front row, stay for the last act … it’s too damn short not to!

Thanks for sharing yours with us Johnny! Hats off to a life well performed!

 

 

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An Unexpected Snow Day

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Productive non-productivity – it’s something that those of us who have a hard time sitting still need to learn. If you are the coach potato or the gamer, this isn’t for you. If you are the person who can get lost in a book for a whole day, take long walks just to clear your head and do well relaxing and getting lost in deep thought, you don’t need this. This is for the high energy, constant doers, who run themselves ragged and don’t know when to quit. It’s for people like me.

I don’t need someone to teach me how to be more productive. (I have 3 jobs for Christ’s sake). I make photo books, plan parties, decorate cakes, type itineraries for vacations, DYI my home improvement projects and create annual family Halloween costumes. And yet, I can’t sit still through a movie if there’s clutter on the floor, I never watch TV, I don’t sleep enough, I get a haircut once a year, quality time with friends is hard for me to maintain and even my playtime with my family feels like it’s scheduled. I need to learn how to be productively un-productive. I need to be reminded to sit back and take in the natural moments of life, beyond those that I find on a beach vacation.

… And an unexpected snow day gave me the inspiration to do just that …

It was 4 am and I was working my usual night shift at the hospital. Due to low patient census, I was given the opportunity to go home early. On any other day, with only three hours left in the shift, I’d probably decline the offer, as eliminating three hours in an effort to gain time/sleep seems futile at that hour. But on this night, we had an unexpected snow storm blow in. This short but fierce storm would likely delay school openings in the morning – and two-hour delays are a nightmare for working parents. Every time it happens, it’s a juggling act to make it work with my sleep needs and my husband’s obligations to an early morning job. I hated the idea of driving home in the height of the storm. But, when I did the “sleep math” I figured-out that if I left the hospital right then, I could get just enough sleep to get the kids to school and save my husband the shenanigans of trying to get himself to work at a decent hour.

Driving home in the pitch black of the wee morning hours, I began to dread my decision. The roads were freshly iced and the only traffic on them, Mack trucks and snow plows, zoomed past me and pelted me with salt. It was a cautious drive home to say the least … but my husband was flooded by relief when he saw my face in the bed and I told him “I’ll take the kids this morning.”

An hour into my sleep I was gifted with a text from the school. The two-hour delay had been converted to a school closing. I’d be a fool to take a cancel from work and then not take advantage. So instead of my usual 4-5 hours, I greedily slept 8.

When I awoke, the magic of the day began to dawn on me – a cancel from work (even if it was only three hours) AND a surprise snow day?! This day couldn’t go to waste! Youthful energy came bubbling up inside of me and the first thing I decided was that it was the perfect day for a big, hot, afternoon breakfast- eggs and sausage and the whole gamut! While family dinner is a nightly occurrence at our house, we don’t often get the opportunity to enjoy breakfast together. I love breakfast! And so do the kids. So when I called them to the table, they came eagerly. And their enthusiasm for a big breakfast combined with a surprise snow day prompted me not to grab my phone with my plate and coffee and I instead left it in the kitchen. While I sipped my coffee, I  listened to the newest drama my teenager wanted to share and the silly stories that my younger one had to contribute, unplugged. They were quite the chatterboxes and it seemed the magic of the day hadn’t been lost to them either.

After we ate, I watched my daughter slink off to the basement (to turn on the TV for sure) and my son ran to put his snow suit on. The sink was full of dirty dishes. The Christmas decorations needed to be packed up and the newly purchased bins to pack them in were sitting in the middle of the living room. There was laundry to be washed and vacuuming to be had. You see, I’m not the kind of person that needs to be motivated. I’m the kind of person who has a running list of “To-do’s”. And logically, I knew that this time, with the kids occupied, after breakfast and before dinner, with an impending 7pm return to work, could be well spent doing those household chores. But the magic of this unplanned day inspired me and instead, for once, I decided to be un-productive … productively un-productive.

So with the dirty dishes piled even higher now, I called down to my daughter, “Hey, lets paint our nails!” I sensed an unexpected happiness in her voice. It’s not easy to excite or motivate a teenager and I think my enthusiastic suggestion instead of a half-hearted inquiry, excited her. Without complaint she turned off the TV and ran to get her new nail painting kit. While my son played outside, she and I experimented with new paint colors and stencils. While we painted, I realized that I no longer had to paint her nails for her or instruct her to keep still to avoid smudging them. She was old enough to do it on her own now and yet young enough to enjoy doing it with me. Side by side, we played and we enjoyed ourselves. She even let me put the stamp of my choice on her big toe nail. And while my nails looked slightly like an elementary school child with snowflakes on every nail, the fact that I used her kit and kept it on when I went to work that night, made her feel like I valued our time, I think.

We finished up our nails just as my little snow monster came barreling through the back door. And instead of hollering for him to take his wet clothes down to the dryer and fussing about the wet floors, I simply told him “Get some warm clothes on and then we can play your Play Station”. “Huh?” he said. I repeated myself, ” I don’t know how to play. So you’re gonna have to teach me.” I hadn’t played video games since I was a teenager and certainly not since I became a mother. Never have I seen that little boy move so fast to change his clothes! By the time I got downstairs, he had the system on and the game ready to go, with two controllers. The three of us took turns with the two controllers and the kids were in absolute stitches – watching me try to hunt storm troopers with my light saber. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard my teenager laugh so hard at anything other than her friends and my little guy rarely gets the opportunity to teach anyone older than him anything. He’d only had the game system for a week, but I know he felt like a “pro” teaching his inadequate mom how to “jump”, “strike” and “run”.

And despite the fact that I had just started my New Years diet, I knew that I’d somehow be able to accommodate the calories in a cup of hot chocolate and a handful of marshmallows that day. So while we played Star Wars, we all indulged in a beverage that I rarely make for myself and it was delicious! The whole afternoon was delicious!

When my husband got home, the dishes were still piled up, Christmas still standing and the laundry was still dirty. But everyone was so happy that I don’t think he minded at all!

 

It was only a three-hour cancel. But that three hours made all the difference … because I decided to use that time to play with the people I love. I met them where they were at and played the things that they like to play. Rare are the days that they come to me with a request to play anymore. And the days that they will even be willing to comply with my requests are quickly coming to an end. I’m glad that I took this day to cash-in on that. I enjoyed their presence so much more than I would have had I decided to just be “productive”. For once, I was able to ignore the mess, to put down the phone, to stop adulting, and I just enjoyed my children for who they are, with no itinerary or checklist.

An early leave from work is a gift. A snow day is a gift. Time is a gift. Don’t waste it! If you’re like me and you have a hard time ignoring the “To do” list, if you tend to be a relentlessly productive person, I encourage you to try being un-productive for once. But not in the isolated sense of getting sucked into a TV show or playing on your phone. Try being unproductive in a productive way – the way that nurtures relationships and creates lasting memories. The way that shows that people and relationships and life is more important than a list of never-ending chores. The way that uses time the way it should be used, as fleeting and limited and precious.

When I’m old and gray, I assure you, I won’t remember the day I left the dishes in the sink or the Christmas decorations up an extra few, but maybe, if I’m lucky … I’ll remember my children’s laughter as I tried to navigate their newest technology, their marshmallow mustaches from hot chocolate on a snowy day, and their quiet diligence while they focused hard to paint their little nails. But more importantly I hope they remember that some days, despite her list of things to do, their mother took time to play. And she never took time or life for granted … especially on snow days.

 

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Existence

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The statistical probability of you coming into existence is said to sit at around 1:400 trillion. The mere fact that you were born meets the criteria of “a miracle”.

How are you using your miracle?

I’d like to imagine that when our soul is first created, we are handed two things – a box of gifts and a pocket watch.

How many gifts you have contained in your box varies, but every soul has at least one. Most souls have quite a few. The gifts themselves are varied in appearance. Some gifts are shiny and studded with gems while others are plain and simple upon first glance, but all of the gifts carry the same worth to the universe.

Like the variance in the gifts, the watches too, will vary- not in appearance, but in the amount of turns that each is wound. Some are wound just a few turns and will stop ticking just a short while after they start. Others, wound long and tight, will tick for many years to come. The back of the watch is welded and there is no way to know just how far the watch is wound inside. But eventually, every watch stops ticking.

It is our job, as long as our soul roams the earth, to give away each of our gifts before our watch stops ticking. And when our watch stops ticking, our time on earth is over. Some gifts, often the shiny and extravagant looking ones, will be easy to give away. Others, carrying a more humble appearance will have to wait until the right recipient comes along before it can be removed from the box. But each gift carries equal importance no matter how easy it is to give away or how attractive the gift is. It is crucial that they be dispensed because each gift carries a purpose in the universe.

Taking the time to discover the gifts that lie in our box is a challenge. Our souls are born into darkness. Searching for a light source, using our senses of touch, taste, smell, sound, we must first discover what our gifts are… feeling every corner of the box to be sure we haven’t missed any.
Once we are aware of what our gifts are, we must then find willing recipients. Can they even see our gift when we first take it out of the box? Does this person have a use for our gift or am I imposing it on them? Will they treasure it or will they laugh at it and toss it aside? Does it need to be shined or wiped off…or is our receiver ready to accept it just the way it is? Do we have the courage to show our gifts despite the chance of rejection?

The discovery and the release of our gifts are challenges we bear but the greatest challenge lies not in what our gifts are or who they will be presented to. The challenge lies in the watch. Some people will have only hours on their watch, some days, some years, some decades, some, even a century. The fact that we can read and have organized thought means that we are already amongst the fortunate who have received a watch wound longer than many. But none of us know whether our watch has another 20 years of unwinding or if it is running on its last hours. No one knows where they will be when it stops….but when it does, that invisible box will once again reappear and you hope that the box is empty. You hope that you have given everything that you had….lest your arms be full and your heart be heavy with regret.

Despite the fact that we were all handed the same two items and were all given the same instructions to dispense them, each soul will be dropped in a different place and will encounter different challenges on their journey. Some will find themselves in castles. Others, in huts. Some will carry their box up a snow-capped mountain and others while they search for water in the desert. Regardless of the journey, there is equal opportunity to gift. Tragedy lies not in those who have a steeper or more difficult climb but in those who fail to look into their box – Those who fail to see the gifts that they carry on their journey – Those who are so caught up in the distractions of life, be it extravagance or suffering, that they forget the box entirely.

But even worse than that, the biggest tragedy of all, are the souls who, knowing they carry a box full of gifts, plod along with a complete disregard to the ticker in their pocket.

Time is defined as “the indefinite continued progress of existence and events in the past, present and future regarded as a whole.”

“Indefinite” : somewhere a pocket watch will always be always ticking.
“Continued progress” : new watches, new boxes are always landing with new souls to carry them.
“events in the past, present and future regarded as a whole” : the soul’s journey and the gifts to be given are all a part of a bigger picture

But the time on one watch is NOT indefinite. It is very limited. And without the progress of individual souls seeking to share their gifts, the progress of the whole is stalled. Without your gifts, the world is lacking.

1 in 400 trillion…That means if there were 54,794 worlds with the same population as planet earth and every soul from all the worlds put their name in a giant hat….and they drew one name to be the soul who would be dropped off and deliver their gifts, they picked your name.
We get excited about winning a raffle where our odds are 1:100 but not about winning life with odds of 1: 400,000,000,000.

If time were an object that could be carried in your pocket, would you be more aware of its limit?
Would a concrete form of the intangible sense of time allow people to realize just how precious it is?
Why don’t we all wake up in the morning with an immediate sense of making it our best day? Of searching for opportunity to share and discover?
Why do bucket lists take so long to check off?
Why is there a lack of sense of urgency?
How do we become complacent?

If you knew that your watch was on its final rotations, would you be satisfied with how you’ve spent your time?
My dream is that when my watch stops ticking, I’ll be sitting on the beach after sunset ………. laughing.

My head and my heart will be overflowing with memories, discoveries, adventures and accomplishments.

My body scarred and my clothes tattered … I’ll be tired and sore, but the good kind of tired and sore… like the way you feel after you’ve just finished a really big project or ran a really big race and you did it well.

And as the colored sky fades to darkness, I’ll close my eyes and picture where my gifts are sitting.

And in my hands I’ll feel the weightlessness of an empty box.