Thursday, September 18, 2014

To My Daughter

Dearest, darling, child of mine,

I will still call you that, for, at ten, you are still a child, though it’s hard to believe.

You’re growing up. You’re only six inches and two shoe sizes away from my size; I can slip my arm around your narrowing waist without bending over. You suddenly see the point in conditioner for your hair and I can’t shop for you unless you come with me, since you’re developing your own wonderful sense of expression through clothes.

I love you, sweet girl, and there’s something I want to say to you, so listen well.

I’m not a perfect mom. Sometimes I fail you. I try to hard or I ask too much or my demons trip me. I’m sorry.

I know that sometimes you can’t even hear your own growing voice because my figurative voice echoes so loudly, in your thoughts and in our home. I know that you want to pull away and think for yourself—I want you to do that, too.

I know you want to try on most (and I’m very grateful it’s not all) of the voices and behaviors and styles that you see out in the world. Try them! Just always know that I’m that person who loves you enough to say when the jeans make your butt look weird—or when the way you’re acting doesn’t show you for who you are.

I know that I’m the foundation under your feet and you’re getting ready to leap off and soar. I know part of that leap means pushing against your ground—your grounding, your anchor, your mom. I want you to push and I want you to soar! Sweet daughter, I want you to reach heights I can’t even see from here. I only ask that you try to remember, if you can, that I’m also a person who loves you very much and, if you can, don’t make that pushing off too hard.

I love that we share books and music and jokes. I love that, gradually, you’re bringing wonderful new things to me instead of me introducing you to the world. That’s how it should be. And I want that connection of words and sound and humor between us to be our guideline. No matter how far apart we are, in space or feeling, I want us to know that that line exists and love flows along it, even during the times when it must go in disguise.

For go it will, sweet girl. The love will never stop flowing from me to you, in whatever form it must take. Know that now and let it go. Only think of it when you need it, but trust that it will be there. It will.

Now you go, leap, soar, discover—and remember, everyone deserves a chance to fly!

Wednesday, September 3, 2014

Fun for All Ages

Welcome to my first blog by request! As I rambled on about this topic, one of my passions, a friend said, “You should blog about that!” And I said, “Wow. That’d be cool.” So here we go.

When S. had only just started learning new things, I learned something new and very important. You see, I noticed that she wanted to crawl, but she didn’t quite have the whole alternating arms and legs concept. So I tried to show her. I got down on the floor and crawled around.

Well, she couldn’t say what she was thinking, but she sure looked at me like I might be an alien, landing right there in her living room. Not long after that, we started going to our library play group (more about that here). There, S. watched the other, slightly older, kids crawl around and got the hang of it in no time.

This brings me back to something I read in a fiction book (Anne McCaffrey’s Damia, if you’re interested): Each one, teach one.

I can’t begin to list how many times I’ve seen that principle work beautifully in my own childhood, so I’m going to stick to my thoughts as a parent. Children of all ages learn best from slightly older children. That’s why Big A. and I have consistently sought multi-age environments for our children.

Why? Well, my theory is that, as baby S. demonstrated, adults are aliens. Of course, they’re important and all that—no question. But can you remember being a kid? Your parents were gross and old and what—like 30-something? Ewwww. You were never going to be that old. But a kindergartner can imagine being in third grade and a fifth grader can relate to a high schooler.

So children aspire to be “big kids.” Eventually they’ll want to be adults, but not for a while yet. Right now, they just want to be like the older kids—the cool kids.

This gets us to the big win-win of multi-age groups. Take S.’s Girl Scout troop. Adults supervise everything, but the older scouts (middle and high school) do the work of helping the younger girls with skills they haven’t developed. For example, when our group of 5-17 year old girls does a craft that requires accurate cutting, it’s a huge blessing. Let’s count the wins there:
  •  The adults don’t have to help with the scissors…for the thirty-nine millionth time.
  • The younger girls get big-eyed and inspired to be like the big girls. They’re on fire to cut “just like so-and-so did!”
  • The older girls learn the art of teaching. They slow down, organize and articulate steps, give feedback, respond to their pupils. It’s amazing!
  • The younger girls get the benefit of the older girls’ patience and interest (when adults may be frazzled or focused on logistics)
  • The older girls get a healthy and genuine esteem boost from successfully teaching a skill. (Showing them the genuine rewards of growing up can counteract some of the superficial markers they see everywhere—defiance, self-destructive behavior, hypersexuality.)
  • The older girls also get to step back into a simpler life for a minute. Teens vacillate between adulthood and childhood; this gives them a still-satisfying way to leave behind the pressures of growing up for a bit.

 As I said, some of my best experiences as a child came from being taught by—or just playing with—older kids. Some of my most satisfying moments as a teen came from working with younger children. Some of my most successful activities as a camp counselor came from setting up peer-led activities.

As a parent, I’ve seen my children’s biggest, happiest leaps come in a dynamic, healthy group of young people of all ages. In schools, in scouting, and in martial arts, they grow without even realizing it. They think they’re just having fun!

And if you’re interested in some cool additional reading, click these links:

Friday, August 29, 2014


This post may seem like that most insidious of things, a humble brag, but it’s not. For one thing, I take no credit. For another thing, the writing served two purposes—it reminds me of what really matters at the end of the parenting day and it leads into my next blog. Naturally.

It’s been a summer marked by change. Of course, children change most of all. And, when I think of their milestones at age nine-turning-ten and six, at first I think of all their achievements at school, celebrated so thoroughly in May and June.

More recently, I remember how startled I've been when we sit together at a meal and I think, How tall they look! Then comes the second, heart-bursting and stomach-dropping thought: They’re not sitting on their feet. It’s amazing when they grow like that. I look over, startled, and then just admire what they’ve done. Getting taller. All on their own. Wow.

But this summer, like seashells, I’ve been collecting other little markers that, in the end, mean more to me. It all began when we went to our favorite Italian place for a meal. As the hostess turned to collect menus and lead us to the table, she knocked her notebook onto the floor. Faster than I could think, Little A. leapt forward, picked it up, and cheerfully said, “Here you go.”

Something inside me said, This is important.

My heart nearly burst with pride. I realized that this act of kindness truly meant more to me than his report card. I filed that reminder away for the future, for the times when I need to choose parenting priorities.

And then we’ve also had an abundance of small ones in our lives this summer. Dear friends had a beautiful baby girl in the spring and other babies have crossed our path. One sweet girl, about a year old, played with us for nearly an hour at the beach one day. I say “us”—she really played with S. and Little A.

As soon as we arrived, S. laid out a beautiful and elaborate sand project. As she sculpted away, the little one toddled up. Right away, S. saw that the baby and her pudgy fists of destruction were heading for her sand city.  

Calmly, sweetly, cheerfully, our tween started making quick sand castles between the baby and her project. She built tower after tower for that baby to smash, moving on to tunnels and buried feet when the baby’s interest waned. Little A. joined in at times. They had a blast, even though S. never did finish her beautiful sand-sculpting project that day.

Again, the voice inside told me to pay attention.

The remarkable thing about both these incidents—and other sweet moments I’ve stored away this summer—is that I did nothing. Neither did their dad.

On vacation, Little A., bundle of energy, runner-into-walls, thrower of things, hurdler of obstacles, never-say-die, all-around tough kid, played with another toddler in the baby pool. He gently, sweetly, and patiently tossed a beach ball over and over, responding to the baby’s cues. Later that night, Big A. asked me how the kid learned to do that.

I stumbled around, looking for an answer, but in the end, I had to say, “I guess he learned it from the way he was treated when he was little.”

I thought about the wonderful teens who have stayed with the kids when we couldn’t, the teens and big kids who’ve shown delight in our kids—at school, at church, in scouting, at the do jang—and I thought what a wonderful gift they’ve given us.

They’ve shown our kids that big people have fun taking care of little people.

More on that in my next post, which will be my first blog by request!

Wednesday, August 27, 2014


I've started composing blogs in my mind, but I can't go on until I take time to acknowledge that our family has changed profoundly in the last few weeks.

My husband's father, the children's beloved Papa and the best father-in-law a girl could ask for, passed away peacefully on August 15.

With the help of a wonderful community of family and friends, we said farewell with a funeral Mass and Celebration of Life on Saturday, then--again, thanks to some wonderful, generous new friends--said a final farewell at sea.

Words seldom fail me, but, now, even a picture's proverbial thousand words seem inadequate. How could I pick one? Or ten? Papa lived life so fully, so vividly, and with so much love that his going leaves a huge hole in this world, not to be patched by words or pictures.

So I will leave this. The whole family gathered for Papa's 72nd birthday a few short weeks ago. On his birthday, the quote on our calendar seemed so fitting that I haven't changed it yet.

"The measure of a man's character is not what he gets from his ancestors, but what he leaves his descendants."
Farewell, Papa! You have left us so much--wisdom, memories, adventure, joy, and love. 
We will sail on until we see you again one day!

Thursday, August 14, 2014

The Light

I have felt no desire to add my voice to the discussion of Robin William’s death. Until now. Now I want to say something about the inevitable and seemingly unending comments about how happy he seemed, how much he had, and whether he chose to die or died of a disease. Now I feel like my perspective might add something.

Everything I say comes with a caveat—it is based on my experience and my observation. I’m not a scientist or any sort of expert, just someone who has been severely depressed.

If you are depressed or know someone who is, a great number of resources can be found on this page:

Telling someone who suffers from severe depression that there’s a light at the end of the tunnel—or that there’s help, or love, or that this, too, shall pass—is like telling a person who has lost their vision that it is day.

Maybe they’ve seen day before and maybe they haven’t, but they can’t see it now. Their ability to perceive day is gone. Let me be very clear about this. A person without the ability to see does not choose to look away from light; the mechanism in their body for perceiving light has stopped working. Depressed people do not choose to turn away from hope, help, and love, the mechanism in their body that allows them to perceive those has stopped working.

Maybe you’re right there beside them, telling them about hope, help, and love. They trust you, they know you wouldn’t lie, they know you love them, but they’re still taking your word for it. And, more importantly, they’re holding onto faith that someday they’ll see again, that, in some inexplicable way, someday they’ll be healed. Their vision will return somehow. They must constantly choose to believe that, by some unforeseeable miracle, day will relate to them again.

And so it is with depression. You can say there’s hope and maybe I’ll hear you from my depression, but I can only take your word for it.

Maybe they’ve survived depression before, but not even memory of day can always help. I’ve been depressed before and I know it’s ended, though not exactly how. I know some things that usually go hand-in-hand with healing—slowing down, sleeping, exercise—but sometimes they come first and sometimes they come after. I have knowledge and memory of passing out of depression, but, in my depressions, I cannot perceive it. It doesn’t relate to me.

The sun shines brightly and beautifully, even for those unable to see it. And those who love and care for the depressed do so brightly and beautifully. Believe me when I say that your light is there. But depression takes away our vision.

Holding on through that loss of vision takes faith, courage, and will on the part of the depressed. Yet we are human. Our faith can falter, our courage crumble, our will weaken. We can grow weary. And, because we’re navigating treacherous waters without our sight, we can crash into rocks. Our boat can capsize; our faith, courage, or will can fail for just that second that lets us slip beneath the waves.

Of course we could navigate that river if we could see. Of course we could grab hold of the boat one more time if we were perfect. But we are blinded by depression and we are human.

I stand in awe of everyone who lives with depression. I call you heroes. And I mourn those who have lost their lives to depression. I call you fallen heroes.

Sunday, June 1, 2014

Help, The Playlist

This is my Help playlist. I play it when I need a boost, a way to get through the day, a little grace from the universe. I’m musically eccentric, as you’ll see, but every one of these songs has lifted me up in one way or another.

I threw the playlist together at one point, something else that’s completely obvious. Those of you who remember the heyday of mix tapes will recognize the total lack of artistry when it comes to song order, musical and emotional transitions, variation of intensity, and consistency of genre. It’s rough, in other words. That bothered me at one point, but now I kind of like it that way.

Things don’t need to be perfect to be wonderful.

It’s also…incomplete. Some of you will be shocked to see no Toad the Wet Sprocket on there, but then again, fear constitutes an entire album of help on its own. I might stick the Indigo Girls classic “Galileo” on there and Blur’s “Tender” has been asking for a spot. And my new obsession, Pentatonix, has a great candidate in “Run To You.” That’s another drawback to playlists (as opposed to mix tapes)—there’s no definite end point.

Kind of like life, folks. The to-do list is never done. We just have to love what we’ve got.

1.       Elohai N’Tzor (Pink Martini)—I’ve mentioned this before. It’s a beautiful prayer arranged into what may be the most gorgeous music I’ve ever heard. If I just have time for this song, I’m already soothed, calmed, uplifted, inspired, and much happier.
2.       Hallelujah (John Cale)—Everyone has their Hallelujah. This has been mine since college.
3.       Vincent (Don McLean)—Of course, this story doesn’t have a happy ending, but I like to think that the depth of our struggles might relate to the depth of our love for the beauty of this world and its people.
4.       Down to the River to Pray (Alison Krauss)—I love the music, the voices, the lyrical repetition, and also the more metaphorical repetition. Spirituals connect me to generations of people who’ve needed to be lifted up—and that feels much better than going it alone.
5.       Come Unto Me (Sweet Honey In The Rock)—First of all, these women named their group superbly. All the smooth, delicious shades of amber liquid pour through their voices. And then, this song is my promise. For years, I’ve looked forward to resting when my time comes.
6.       Pushing the Needle Too Far (Indigo Girls)—Well, kind of a no-brainer here. I first thought of the main image here in a shooting-up sense, but my husband pointed out that it probably refers to a speedometer or pressure gauge. And isn't that what’s wrong with the world today?
7.       This Is Not Goodbye (Melissa Etheridge)—Because “everything will be all right in the end. If it is not all right, it is not yet the end.”
8.       Running Through Fields (Sister Hazel)—This song connects my heartstrings not to history and many people, but to one person’s heartbreak and ability to make art of it. It also takes me back to when I first heard it, a time when I found much goodness in my life.
9.       The Girl With The Weight Of The World In Her Hands (Indigo Girls)—If “Come Unto Me” is my idea of heaven, this song describes my struggles on this earth. I can see what this girl gets wrong and yet, still, I sometimes slip into it. I’m constantly working to leave this girl behind.
10.   You Don’t Have To Walk Alone (Roger Day)—Because we don’t. We don’t have to walk alone. And this song reminds me of the miraculous time when my husband taught me that.
11.   Sometimes You Can’t Make It On Your Own (U2)—U2 has been such an integral part of my life that their music sometimes simply becomes a soundtrack, a background. Then I’ll listen to some lyrics for the first time all over again (if you know what I mean) and I’ll want to run around and show them to people. “See how awesome this is? Look at the poetry! See what they did there?” So, yes, Bono, you can take some of the punches for me any night. You rock.
12.   How Can I Keep From Singing? (Enya)—Well, Enya. Plus history! I love the ecumenical lyrics, connecting the singer—and the listener—with all people who’ve fought the good fight.
13.   Angel (Sarah McLachlan)—The beautiful madness and comfort of angels—just what I need on those days. And a gorgeous voice!
14.   Prayer of St. Francis (Sarah McLachlan)—We said this prayer at our wedding. It still offers the best guidance I know of for living with each other on this earth.
15.   Yes It Was (Sweet Honey In The Rock)—Well, the voices in this group produce a physical sensation of peace in me every time. And then the refrain “Was it all for the army of love? Yes, it was.” That’s the good fight, folks.
16.   This Is Love (Mary Chapin Carpenter)—This song goes with an incredible memory. One night our newborn daughter simply would not stop crying. Her daddy held her so I could escape to the shower for twenty minutes. I returned to find him rocking her as this song played on repeat. And every time it came on, she calmed a little more. Could there be a better song for family?
17.   Lightning Crashes (Live)—This song grabbed me the first time I heard it. It pulls my spirit outside my body for some reason. Debate about the lyrical story rages, but I like the poetry. Life comes and goes. And it has the word “placenta” in it—how many Top 40 artists can pull that off?
18.   I Run For Life (Melissa Etheridge)—I know Ms. Etheridge wrote this as an anthem for breast cancer survivors, but it works beautifully for other illnesses, including depression. And when I’m running errands, running the kids to school, running the vacuum, etc, I feel MUCH more like a badass if I’m singing at the top of my lungs, “I run for life!”
19.   Finale B (Rent)—Okay, intensely horrendous emotional, musical, and genre transition here. But I’ve always loved musicals and Rent takes me back to three years when I hung out with an amazing found family and we made art. And every time I hear the words of this song, I learn from them. “I can’t control/My destiny/ I trust my soul/My only goal/Is just to be…”
20.   Amen (Sweet Honey In The Rock)—One of my favorite series of books features a wise man who prays the ultimate prayer. In the end, we find out that the prayer is “Yes.” Amen is another way of praying that prayer.

Yes, Amen, Let It Be. Oops—that’d be another great song on here.