It Goes

I am sneaking in a quick year-end post instead of folding laundry because I suspect I will not have opportunity to do so again today, and I do want at least a note of conclusion to this sweet year.  In no particular order, things I am thinking about at the close of 2010 and the verge of 2011:

1) I got to have so many great adventures this year.  My roadtrip with Katie was a sweet wonderful and the best kind of sisterly connecting.  That space in time feels a bit sacred and I deeply thankful that I got to be with her and spend that week of transition with her.  Our Caldwell Family trip to Tofino that followed - so good.  Several boat trips, including our ten-day excursion - we can do it! We're doing it! We're sailors!  My journey east to visit with Shannon & Shiaheem and then up to Ontario for a retreat with Heidi - again, the kind of gift that makes me think God's favourite thing is making me feel loved. 

2) My kids are getting awesomer all the time.  We are turning into a family I really like and I'm so thankful for that.

3) Scott is a really good man. I'm lucky to be married to him.  We survived the baby years and that feels like a miracle, but mostly it feels like fresh air might be able to be breathed into our little marriage now.  There's some space that wasn't there before.  Praise be.

4) It is ridiculous how many friends I have.  Good friends, the kind of women (some men, but really, they're just the guys who wisely married my clever women friends) who make me a better person just by virtue of knowing them.  To be in this life feeling known is a most wondrous gift. To be allowed to know another, also so. I know, deep in my heart, that this wealth of mine isn't every person's and so I am all the more grateful. 

5) Writing.  I can't tell you how much writing has fed me this year.  This silly little blog full of silly little thoughts dressed up as my biggest ideas... it has fed my soul.  I am very appreciative for those who take the time to read and affirm and participate and bless and respond.  I look forward to deepening this discipline in the year to come.

6) Health.  It sounds so trite to my own self, but as people we love wrestle with bodies that do not what the soul demands, I realize that emerging from the year sound in mind and in body is its own miracle. May we use our strength for what is required as long as it is ours.

7) We have a home.  A house that is big enough with great friends all around in a safe neighbourhood with space to play and live and grow.  We are thankful to Andrew who made our life here possible by sharing this house with us.  So thankful. 

There is so much more, but my sweet girl has awoken all refreshed and ready to fold laundry. Or at least have her mother's divided attention a tiny bit less divided.

My love to each of you.  Especially you.

And So...

We rest.  Two small people tucked in, one big person hopefully also tucked in at a firehall and one contented other full of quiet gratitude for the grace of goodness in these last twenty-four hours.

I forgot the part where the one thing we are really good at, SJ and I, is carving out a space that is only ours. Because of his schedule, the timing changes from year to year, but every year since we were married, we've found a space that is sweetly ours alone, and it girds us for the rest.  This year, it was all of Christmas Eve day.  This day has always been "ours" so it comes full of rebellious freedom sewn into its edges.  Some years have had more space than others though, and this year had extra lovely because there was no work at either end for the boy.

This year it started with a quick trip to the mall for a liquor store run and last minute remembered things at a store or two.  Our children were cute and happy and easy to be with and so of course we had to go out for lunch.  We wandered over to a favourite spot, The Tomahawk where our children remained of the dreamy variety, pleased and happy and cheery with all.  Nate even asked the server for more juice, an accomplished feat for a child who can't speak a language any of us understand.

After long naps for these small people, Uncle Andy came upstairs and we spent the afternoon drinking tea and icing cookies for Santa and watching Christmas movies and then sipping rum & eggnogs and then ordering Chinese food for dinner and then watching more Christmas movies. Once tiny bodies were tucked into bed (an epic endeavour), it was a wrapping extravaganza.  Stockings were stuffed by the chimney with care and even mommy kind of hoped Santa soon would be there.  And then at eleven, mommy taped the last edge and scooted down to St. Agnes, our local Anglican church, and celebrated midnight mass in that lovely space.

To repeat the words of faith, confess with the Body, commune with the saints was what my soul needed to seal the sweetness of the day.  That God provides a collection of people to Be With and taste the wonder of God With Us through their presence - it is a miracle worthy of our celebration.  And my soul was glad to celebrate through the Eucharist, moving in its personal-ness and comforting in its universal anonymity.

Armed by our With Each Other, the fullness of Christmas day was so possible.  A quiet easy morning with Grandma and Poppa was dreamy and light, with Auntie Katie keeping an eye on us thanks to the miracle of Skype.  Over the rest of the day, more family became more of everything else and still, there was a quiet gratitude in my heart that I had already received the Grace.

And now, here we are, mostly tucked in (although at 10:36, someone keeps getting up to check on the fish - thanks Grandma C.) and mostly tidied and mostly still at rest. 

It really is Good News.

My Bad

I have some recurring issues.  You don't have to speak with me for too long to figure out what they are, and you might even get bored of hearing about them, given my intense pleasure in relating them, over and over and over again.

Tonight I decided to do a little research to see if there is a cure for what currently ails me.  So of course, I looked up the ailment.  And as I read about the best ways to fix this, I was forced to admit that the only cure is a cure of me, not a cure of The Other Involved. And in fact, probably no cure is available, maybe just some maintenance treatments that take the edge off.  I hate that.

I only want solutions that let TOI know that they are Wrong and I am Right.  Ideally TOI would confess their Wrongness publicly and then be transformed into another person who relishes my Rightness and enjoys only telling others about said Rightness. 

But even as I type this, I realize that this solution would not be sufficient for a cure.  Because I would still be me and would still need to be Righter Than Her.  I would find another object for my scorn and derision and at the end of the day, would still have to face my black heart with all its Wrongness.

I think Paul said something about a thorn in his side, right? He asked God to deal with it, but God said back, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”   And then Paul said, "Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong."

I don't know what I think of Paul really, but I suspect that probably this thorn in my side (namely, my mean-ness and impatience and Need To Be Right) won't go away anytime soon, so maybe I could consider a more pauline nature and trying to delight in this weakness and difficulty, knowing that it is probably True that God's power is made perfect in weakness.  I mean, I think I would like to know what it's like to have Christ's power rest on me.  I think.

Oh Life.  So full of goodness, even in the darkness.

Touching Sadness

Today Paul Carson died.

Just a few hours ago actually, just down the street from me in our little hospital.

I don't know him from Adam.  Probably saw him on TV sometime in the '80s, certainly listen to his radio station often enough. But in no way can I say that I know him.

And yet, all afternoon, driving around, I listened to the various broadcasters on the Team1040 processing their own grief, knowing as they did that he was dying. Grown-up, successful, sports-all-day-thinking men crying on the radio because a friend, the man who had launched many of their careers, a guy they knew... he was dying and it was sad and I was so sad too.  Even though I didn't know him.

So tonight when I see on my facebook page that indeed he has died and I know that there is this anonymous, not-mine grief out there, I wonder about why I want to creep so close to it, taste it a bit and maybe sit under it for a while. 

I think that my grief lives in one of the many rooms in my brain (remember all those empty rooms from a few months ago? down the hall from there...) and when I hear these stories, it's like knocking on the door of the room, maybe even cracking the door a bit, and trying all the different griefs I've left lying around in there. And maybe it has a hint of innoculation about it too - if I let myself enjoy this lovely anonymous-not-mine grief, it will somehow protect me from having to face some kind of future HOLY SHIT I CAN'T DO THIS grief later on.

I don't know.  I do know that tonight a family is sad, and a bunch of sports guys are sad and while I'm not truly sad, the part of me that is sad for the sad is a bit sad too.  I guess that's how it works.

A Curiosity

So all has been well lately and simultaneously, there is less blogging.

Chicken or egg?

Nate!

My sweet boy is two.

He is relentlessly handsome, a face that makes me double-take at its cuteness often. 

He is strong and takes great pleasure in moving and lifting big things.

He is clever and quick with moving pieces and enjoys figuring out how things work.  He likes to pull things apart and put them together.  Buttons, plugs, screws and caps - these are a few of his favourite things.

He is funny and has a laugh worth hearing. He likes fooling and hiding and pretending.  He likes tickles and being thrown about and tossed like a sack of potatoes around the house. 

He has big hands, wide across the knuckles, as he's had since birth and they are just like his dad's. They make me love him, just like his dad's hands make me glad. 

He is easy-going and mellow, a word I used to describe him in utero. Not prone to big moments in any direction, he is steady and I think will be someone's rock, just like his dad.  But he is also sure and committed to his own self and glad to persist in the way he should go.  Perhaps a quality in a 21-year-old man, less appealing in a 2-year-old.

He is most often kind and happy with his sister, sweet and playful together they are.  Although each other's greatest frustration, they are also each other's favourite playmate and spend many happy hours together through the course of a week. 

He is a cuddler and hugger, famous for his pats on the back as he's cuddled up.  He likes to sing and is a fine dancer! He runs to daddy whenever he sees him, and likes mummy best in a crowd.  He doesn't speak too clearly yet, but he speaks a lot and has found ways to be a clear communicator nonetheless.

We love this boy so much and go to bed most nights exchanging stories of wonder at our good fortune to have him with us.  Before he arrived, we couldn't imagine how we'd have a second wonder-full one, a second one to thrill at as we had with our first.  And yet, two years in and we are still surprised to discover that we really, truly got the two best ones.  Gift from God indeed.

Why?

I was reading Luci Shaw's entry for this week in God With Us, and realized that it's not my fault that my Advent has had more than an acceptable level of Not Well. 

She had written about the waiting we are asked to do through Advent and through Lent and how they echo each other.  As I read, I realized that in the blending of Christian lore and pagan ritual, a terrible error had been made. How is it that with all the birth and life that comes with Spring, we Christians wait for the Death (yes, and resurrection, but Death, first there is the Death) and in the dark of winter, when all is dark and dead, we wait for the Birth?

You see the crazy, right?

I mean, I can see how someone thought it would work - the resurrection bit really does make it complicated, and I can see the appeal of focusing on Life in the midst of the lifeless winter.  But my soul, my soul has to work too hard to accommodate this one. 

The worry, the sadness, the pain and the ick of December and "celebrating" Christmas seem much more suited to the melancholy of preparing for that sad sacrifice, that great grief when the Father and the Son were inexplicably not One in those dark hours on the cross.  To live in that for a few days, and then be reminded that Life! is the victor just three days later would be a lovely exercise in the middle of this long winter.

And then to Advent, to prepare our hearts for the arrival of Hope, Joy, Peace and Love in the weeks that bring us new green tendrils and the nosing out of what in a few short months will be our daily bread - who didn't see that? Hint of life at every turn, pointing to the Life Eternal that is about to be birthed into our broken world - to know that our own souls will be thawed by that First Birth even as the soul beneath our feet is thawed; the symbolism is so comfortingly clear, isn't it?

This seems glaringly obvious to me. I'm not sure how it could have been missed. I wonder who I write to request a change to the church calendar...

What Was Missing!

I figured it out! What was missing from my Advent, why it was so depressing and bleak and difficult...

Holiday Romatic Comedies!!

I am currently eating Scott's cheesecake while watching Four Christmases with Reese Witherspoon & Vince Vaughn. I feel all jolly and hopeful and ... willing.

Good grief. I hardly dare hope what could happen next.

An Easing

By about 10am this morning, I think we conceded that we had officially let everyone down.  There was not a single person in our immediate world who had not had an expectation dashed, a hope thwarted by the 14th Street Johnsons. 

We both felt badly for a while. Kind of sick-to-our-stomach, hopeless, maybe-we-should-just-quit terrible. That we were exhausted and cranky having been up all night with a food-poisoned second born did us little good. We sipped our coffee and wondered about any others we should crush or disappoint while on this hot streak but realized we had been pretty thorough.

We fed our children a terrible lunch and put them to bed, and then climbed into bed ourselves for our own nap.  I don't know how long my beloved slept for but an hour-and-a-half later I made myself get up, knowing that our home was bereft of dinner-making options.  I didn't notice it right away in my post-nap groggery, but somewhere along the freeway on my way home from the grocery store, I realized that I hadn't been clenching my jaw.  I noticed that my stomach seemed a tincy bit less knotted.  I was actually paying attention to the voices on the radio instead of the voices in my head.

I have lived with my own self long enough to know that the ebb and flow of crazy is unpredictable, yet certain.  It may return with tomorrow's oatmeal, but on the other hand, it may continue to dissolve away, making room for Light and Hope. 

It's possible that our letting down of The World is unrelated to the easing in my heart, but I suspect that there is some rest that comes when you realize you have spread your dis-ease as far and wide as is possible for the moment.

Whatever the recipe, I am tired but thankful at night's end.  That I have shared the last 24 hours with that sweet boy I married who is chosen by his ailing children over their mother in their own dis-ease, who cleans up vomit and does all the laundry and is kind to the one who has kept him awake all night... well, that I have eyes and heart to be thankful for him too seems like a separate and wonderful grace.

We may yet get back to the Box O' Advent! After all, tomorrow is Christmas with the Crawfords!

I'm a People Person!

Sometimes I forget the basics.

According to just about every who-are-you test known to man, I am an Extrovert.  I am one who derives energy from connecting with people.  I know many (most?) of my favourite people are Introverts who oddly, derive most of their energy from alone-time.  How we manage to find each other is one of life's great mysteries, but what this means is that I get all better being with them, while managing to wear them out. Weird huh?

So, not surprisingly, the last 10 days or so have worn me out.  I was in fairly full-blown depression and anxiety and could not figure out how I could have plummeted so quickly and without any obvious trigger, you know, like a bad thing happening.

Then tonight I got the invitation to JOh's for some mom talk and tea and my soul leapt! and off I went to sit and be with people! And I was healed. How did I forget that part? Where being home with just my people for almost seven days straight is really, really bad for me? Lord, that sounds terrible.  But it is just terribly true - my self needs other selves.  Oh bliss! Oh wonder! Oh... people.

I should be honest, and confess that I am not all the way healed.  There is much anxiety still lingering but it feels appropriate and probably necessary given what life is bringing.  But I remembered that part of the cure is connecting and that reminded me of the other things that help and so tonight, there is Light.

Praise be. Again.

I Like

Popcorn with butter and salt.
Scott.
Talia's fake laugh.
Email.
Meeting neighbours at the park.
Andrew coming upstairs for tea.
Nice pens.
Nate's run.
Saying grace at dinner, holding hands around the table.
Hope.

Being able to come up with 10 things in the middle of December.  I want Light.

Nothing

I am really struggling for a post tonight. I feel kind of funny and light and keep thinking I'm going to trip across a lighthearted tale full of hilarity but I got nothin'.  Nuh-Thin.

Maybe it's just wise to make note of the fact that Advent and Christmas and angst were not the focus of my day today.

Making the children and their neighbour friend dance with me to the soundtrack from The Preacher's Wife was perhaps the highlight, and now it's me and Glee.

All is well in the world. Tonight and always.

Dutch Christmas!

If you search through the archives, you'll find a photo of Talia playing with her first Dutch Christmas gift, a set of wooden stacking rings.  The next year, it was a hand-made, wooden fish puzzle.  Last year, a wooden dog on wooden wheels on a leash for her, and a wooden, rolling sports car for Nate.  This year, a wooden airplane for the boy and a top for T, also wooden and all hand-made.

Every year, I forget to expect this and every year, on December 6th one of us will open the door to go somewhere and trip across our Dutch Christmas wonderment.  Every year, I am humbled by the generosity of the gift, knowing as I do the maker, and the heart and time that goes into the making of each one. Every year, I am reminded that there is a miracle in being the receiver that makes us better givers somehow.

This year, obviously Advent has not been the roaring Today's Parent Magazine cover success I had planned for our little family.  We have used the box twice in six days, but have yet somehow managed to have a Christmas-almost-here moment each day. Despite my best efforts to defy history and family systems theory, I have managed to fall right into the deepest despair and bleakness that all my planning was meant to protect me (and my children!) from.  Nearby, friends' lives are falling apart in very un-merry ways and Heidi's words that Christmas is mostly a remembering of pain, heartbreak and loneliness feel all the more True, and required.

I pulled out our Advent book, "God With Us" and read up on Dutch Christmas tonight.  The feast is in fact a celebration of Saint Nicholas, about whom much is rumored, but very little is known.  In one story, Nicholas, having inherited much, hears of a family who has so little that the daughters will have to sell their own selves.  Under the cover of night, he throws three bags of gold through their window (or down their chimney?), saving them from all manner of evil.  In contrasting this giving with that of the saint's namesake, the author writes, "While Santa has his bundle of toys, the gift that Saint Nicholas gives is nothing short of freedom from poverty and desperation."

The gifts we received today were handmade in a shed about 8 blocks away.  No child was sold by her starving parents to a factory and forced to work 16 hour days in its making.  No child-poisoning toxins were disguised as colourful friends.  But mostly, a gift was given freely with great love and was received with greater delight and we got the best part of Christmas giving.  This has a hint of "freedom from poverty and desperation" about it for me, and I'll take it.

If you have read here for any length of time, you will realize that Christmas is no less fraught for me than any other time of year - my fraughtness just becomes more focused.  And every year I find myself believing that this will be the year I get it right and make Jesus proud. And every year, I learn again, one way or another, that that's not the point.  I merely get to do some receiving of the grace offered and then pass it on, just like the rest of the year.

Day Five

I don't have a lot to say tonight. I'm a bit wrung out: the Canucks' game with Karen ended in a loss that I can only assume was my fault, and I had to undo the Crap Theology/Family of Origin Shitmix that had taken over my life. Or at least part of it. 


This is where the wisdom of collecting good friends pays off.  One, Karen took me to a hockey game which is amazing and wonderful and proof that The Lord Loves Me Best. Well, that and the awesome Christmas sweaters she bought for the kids. Two, Heidi sent the following and now I'm going to post it and call it a blog entry.  I may tape it to my bathroom mirror for the rest of the year to remember Truth.  And maybe even live there.

I really know in my heart that Christmas isn't about love! joy! cheery! peace! etc.  It really is about a baby, born in a barn to backwoods parents.  Some smelly animals, some dirty, lewd and drunk shepherds show up, some weirdo astrologers show up, angels sing - but who really saw or heard them?  Christmas isn't about choirs, carolling, snow and good feelings.  It's just about remembering  - mostly remembering pain, loneliness and heartache.  A mother who raised her baby and then watched him be murdered, without really understanding what it was all for.  She just had some faith and kept going.  God-with-us is exactly that.  With us in family pain, in our all- too-real sense that things are not as they should be, in our railing against reality.  That's why he came.

I know, right?

I Need a Saviour

I don't know why I don't know to avoid the blog jinx effect.  Or to at least consider it more thoroughly before posting something.

Last post I allowed myself to believe that maybe this Christmas I would be able to let a person's best love feel like Christmas.

Today I decided someone's best love was a shitpile and that it could only make me feel angry and ugly. And even this evening as I try to process it and find the truth and get to good and mostly just get over it, it all feels impossible and I wonder why Jesus even bothered to come and do what was done if He can't even cure me of this.  It's not like he hasn't had several years to work on this particular problem.

Writing that, I realize that I might sound a tiny bit self-involved, a bit selfishly convinced that the blood that was shed was merely to help me get over a petty rage. And I know that there were bigger fish to fry: you know, that whole Lost Humanity Loved By the Father. The poor, the lost, the last, the least - those are the ones the Saviour came to redeem. The Kingdom is for such as these.

But in the tiny, dark corners of my heart, there is a secret hope that maybe the redemption would also work for petty rage.

I think I have to quit before I annoy myself even more. But know that this Advent, I am aware that my best efforts are falling short. Crap theology though it may be, I know how badly I need the gift that I wish was being offered. 

My Best

My favourite thing about Advent is being allowed to play the Holiday Playlist. All day.  Christmas songs make my heart glad.  Really, really glad.

I have so many favourites, I can hardly stand it. And on the list (long list) of favourites, are most of the songs from A Muppet's Christmas Carol (my favourite Christmas movie).  And my favourite tonight was this one:

IT FEELS LIKE CHRISTMAS
From the Muppet Christmas Carol


It's in the singing of a street corner choir
It's going home and getting warm by the fire
It's true, wherever you find love it feels like Christmas

A cup of kindess that we share with another
A sweet reunion with a friend or a brother
In all the places you find love it feels like Christmas

It is the season of the heart
A special time of caring
The ways of love made clear
It is the season of the sprit
The message if we hear it
Is make it last all year

It's in the giving of a gift to another
A pair of mittens that were made by your mother
It's all the ways that we show love that feel like Christmas

A part of childhood we'll always remember
It is the summer of the soul in December
Yes, when you do your best for love it feels like Christmas

It is the season of the heart
A special time of caring
The ways of love made clear
It is the season of the sprit
The message if we hear it
Is make it last all year

It's in the singing of a street corner choir
It's going home and getting warm by the fire
It's true, wherever you find love it feels like Christmas
It's true, wherever you find love it feels like Christmas
It feels like Christmas
It feels like Christmas
It feels like Christmas

I think I like the idea that if we're doing our best for love, it feels like Christmas. 

Maybe it lets me remember that some of the Christmas I don't like is still people doing their best for love.

Maybe it reminds me to do my own best to make it feel like Christmas. 

Real Advent

Day One was Putting Up Grandma's Advent Calendar. A chore I have typically done late and with perhaps a bad attitude. But this year, it went up on time and both children hung an ornament on the quilted tree.  Well, Talia hung the ornaments and Nate directed briefly. Before returning to his other, more interesting play. Then Talia wanted to hang all the ornaments and flipped out when said request was denied. She ended up in her room with the dire warning that she could stay there all night if she wasn't willing to speak respectfully and kindly.

It was so beautiful.

Sometimes I have a really vivid picture of the Lord sitting on the edge of the Lord's throne, just looking down and shaking that Lordly head in that amused, really? way the Lord has.

Probably there are deep life lessons here about how we come to the Kingdom like little children, petulant maybe, but enthusiastic too and for some reason, that's the preferred approach. Probably I could think about that and be comforted and feel wise and successful.  Probably I won't do that.

But I will enjoy that the bar for success was so low that I still feel good about our first day of Advent this year. All we had to do was get that wall hanging up.  There were no rules about doing it happily, or deeply, or memorizing a Bible verse.  It just had to get on the wall.

Check.

Wading In

I'm not altogether clear on the why of it yet, but as Advent Advent gives way to Advent, I find myself full of a pleasant, quiet anticipation.  Not a manic, desperate anxiety that has often hovered around the edges of the season, but an easy, here-we-go gladness.

I think partly it's my Box O' Advent.  Tomorrow morning, the kids will wake up and the box will be in the middle of the dining room table. We'll open the first envelope together and read that this morning we hang up Grandma's Advent calendar. In doing this, we have of course, The First: that first action that launches us in to the Adventing. However, we are also setting the tone, establishing the Hope and remembering the point.  We will honour Grandma J. and we will do something we've done before and we will instill tradition and family and anticipation. And some of this we will do in faith.  I will believe that even if the Good is small and dwarfed by the Not-So-Good in my heart, that nonetheless, the Good is what will live.  In me, and in my small people.

And every day there will be one small task to be done together that hopefully reminds me every day that that is True. Good lives.

This becomes a quiet rest because this year there is no having to find a Quiet Time, or Retreat, or Do Something Meaningful to stop hating it all. There is just having to open the envelope in the morning and do that One Small Thing that hints at the Heavens and reminds us Who we're waiting for, this month and always.

I'll let you know how it goes.

Not So Special

You may remember that time I discovered I was A Writer! oh, what a great day that was.  I so enjoyed beind singled out for my unique wonderfulness, a singular talent in a world of dimmer lights.  It was nice while it lasted.

Today, two friends wrote.  Frankly, had I been asked two weeks ago to make a list of my friends in order of their Writerliness, I would not have put either of these two near the top.  Not because I knew them to be bad writers - just because I don't think I had given any thought to their writerliness one way or another.

But today each of these people wrote, and I got the Double Rainbow! Oh My God! A Double Rainbow! writer's moment.*

It was too much goodness in one hour.  The first blog was just delightful in its thoughtful delight in goodness and family. And not incidentally, written by a man-friend. That a male peer has decided to make known his heart in a more public way that Glorifies God (he has not promised to do this, and yet does it every time he types I think) I find terribly moving and hope-making.

And then I open an email from my retarded friend Karen. You know, the slow one who does too much (see below for a reminder)? She has written a story for my sweet girl, based entirely on one random facebook post.  It is long and wondrous (again!) and the kind of story a girl (and her mother) will love forever and it reminds of us that indeed all things DO work for good and if it all doesn't work out in the end, it's not the end yet. It made me weep to know that my daughter gets to be loved not only by her flawed parents, but by her parents' retarded friends who still do too much, but are perhaps understandably addicted to leaving a wake of goodness and grace behind them.

I don't fully understand why I enjoy such an Abundance.  But I remain, as ever, full of Gratitude.  This feels like a pretty ideal ending to Advent Advent, or beginning of Plain Old Advent.

Praise be.

*I will share a link to the blog when/if granted permission by the writer, and will forward the story to those interested, again, when/if granted permission by the writer.

Light

Today is the first Sunday of Advent. Our home is still in Advent Advent, and will switch over to Advent on the first, but I have enjoyed the beginnings of the season as friends begin their own writing and note-making.
 
If I was a candle-lighter, I would know what the candle is for tonight, and would probably have a lot to say about it.  But since we are choosing a flame-free celebration this year and we missed church due to cough and cold, I'm out of the loop. Happily, two friends mentioned Light in blogs and on facebook so I at least have a theme, if not the right candle.

I like Light - I like that darkness is only the absence of Light, and yet somehow darkness is required for us to notice Light. I like that Leonard Cohen lyric about how there's a crack, a crack in everything; that's how the Light gets in.

But today I found myself thinking of the other Light that we're promised by Jesus:  the kind of light that means 'not heavy'.

Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is Light.  (Matthew 11:28 - 30)

My friend Karen is retarded.  I mean that in the kindest, most accurate-use-of-word way.  However, somehow her reading about Advent Advent got her doing and planning More.  Even though I know, know, I said the point of Advent Advent was Less. Now, in fairness, she is extremely capable. She does more because she can. But of course, just because you can, doesn't mean you should.  A lesson she has yet to learn. That she's slow to learn.  S-L-O-W.


What I know she does know though, is that the problem with More is that More becomes heavy.  It weighs us down, slows us up - it becomes a burden. Part of the discipline of Less at Advent Advent (and presumably through Regular Advent) is a self-reminder of the promise that this journey is meant to be Light.  The awesomeness of this discovery for me today was that the pain of the holidays is all the More:  more money, more errands, more food, more work, more family. The pain of it though is required I guess, for us to know more deeply how desperate we need the Saviour who arrives with the promise of Less.


As we ease into Advent, I like remembering that the darkness and the more are difficult, but necessary for the Light, the Less to be known.


I guess that means that Karen may be slow, but probably she'll see and feel the Light all the more keenly. Maybe not so slow after all...

TwoFer

Last night I had a whole Thanksgiving post planned, but then life intervened and posting just did not happen. And I was trying to be okay with that, but in my heart, I wasn't. I have like the dailiness of this process and missing a day felt... bad.

But no sense in living in bad feelings, right? I'm so evolved.

I can't really recapture yesterday's thinking, but I do want to make sure this part is written down: I really loved my twenties.  Anytime Scott and I consider feeling discouraged about how little we have to show for ourselves as we creep in on 40, one of us will say, "Well, at least we loved our 20s".  And it's true for both of us - we had a great time being young and took advantage of that decade where the options are endless and the responsibilities few.

That said, me in my 20s isn't my favourite version of me.  And most of the time, I know this is preferred, to look at our own evolution over time and see it moving towards what is hoped for - the alternative would be worse, I'm sure.  But sometimes, when I think about my younger self, I just cringe with embarrassment. I was just so... young.

Okay, so I just wrote a whole long paragraph about my memories of American Thanksgiving and describing how amazing they were, juxtaposed as they were against my awfulness but realized that a) I don't need to post my flaws on the internet - they've been public enough as it is, and b) the stories are only half-true when I write them that way.  Suffice to say, those who were there (GSH, I'm thinking of you and our road trips to Indiana - I always had so much fun, and remember them fondly, but holy cats, you certainly knew my flaws too!) (And to the entire Chicago clan, that you were witness to the early years of my exploration of adult-faith and my lack of diplomacy and grace explaining it - well, there aren't enough sorry's in the world).

I am tempted to delete this whole post, but I really don't want to go two nights with nothing and I don't want to start over, so we'll just have to live with this one. 

It's always good to have a day where that leaves room for improvement available in the day ahead.

Where Does My H(ope) Come From?

Does it come from the mountains? noooo... it comes from You! The Maker of Heaven! The Creator of the Earth!

I don't do a lot of Jesus-ing in my day-to-day. No morning devotions before the kids are up, nor bible verses over breakfast. I am loathe to fast, and chincy about giving. And despite my not-so-secret fondness for Micheal W. Smith praise hits, we hardly ever worship together in the singing kind of way. There was a time in my spiritual life when I would have considered this a sign that my soul was adrift and would have believed that The Lord Was Not Pleased.

Happily for me, that time has passed and I hardly ever worry about these things. I have decided to believe that Jesus thinks I'm awesome and the parts that are less lovely, He's down with and has plans for. And so I keep on in my undisciplined ways, (fairly) certain in my faith (yes, I see the contradiction there) that All Will Be Well regardless.

This said, one discipline I'm rather accomplished at is the Pray Without Ceasing bit. Or maybe I've just relabeled my anxious thoughts and called them prayer.  But whatever.  The point is, when things trouble me, I just assume that the terrible thoughts that rise up are actually my heart reminding Jesus to Do Something! For Christ's Sake! Do Something!

Today I heard two friends' heavy-heartedness and one of them is the kind of friend I can just pray for right there on the phone. The other, not so much, but still, as I'm listening, I feel myself redirecting all the angst heavenward on their behalf.  Because what else can be done? I am useless, most of the time.  But the Creator of Heaven! The Maker of the Earth! that One is listening and has promised to be our Hope and our Help.

This still stops me in my tracks.

And we get to celebrate it all month! Oh, I just love Christmas.

I Need a Writing Group

I like the discipline of blogging daily. It has been a good challenge (thank you NvK) and has at least carved out 3 - 6 (or 10) minutes of reflection every day.  I'm not sure what good it does the world, but exercising my brain in this particular direction does me some good, and given my Passion for Me, this is really all that matters, right?

However, all is not sunshine and light. Because through the course of a day, I think of 17 things I want to write about. Some of them are bloggable, some of them are low-grade pettiness, and from time to time, some of them are worthy of more serious time and investment. The latter are fun to imagine writing about, but aren't necessarily ready for public review a la blog. But the more I blog and enjoy the fruit of pushing meandering thought through to type on the interwebs, the more I dream of space and time to explore these larger wonderings.  But then if these things are not blogged, how and where do I get the feedback that is actually the motivation for continuing on with the discipline (remember the Passion for Me? it is fed by hearing about how great [or at least interesting] Me is)?

So I think I need a writing group. Ideas?

Down Time

One perk to marrying a firefighter is having two nights alone every week. Of course, this means having to feed and bed two children on my own two nights a week, but it also means being able to have the same dinner two nights in a row and sitting in a toque, scarf and puffy slippers watching trashy TV without anyone interupting to you know, relate.

I always think that I will do my deep thinking on these nights.  Catch up on my particularly intense wonderings about the meaning of life. And maybe do my nails.  But here it is, 11pm on night one and I've got nothing done except some extreme facebooking and craigslist browsing (Dear Universe, please let the woman with the trains email me back).

Maybe tomorrow night?

Life Sucking Things

Really, only one thing: criticism.

I was going to write a pretty thoughtful entry about something I think is true about parenting. I think it would have been a great little post, especially for those who parent small people.  Maybe one day I'll write it.

But just as I started to type, SJ asked a question or something that made me want to figure something out. So I figured it out and sent it to him and while he was appreciative, he also asked if there wasn't a better way to figure this thing out.  A reasonable question, particularly since it turned out he was right, but it Set. Me. Off.

Like, I'm so mad I can't even change the TV channel. And it's a pretty terrible hockey game (also making me mad) so that's saying something.

I'd like to think it's my birth order, or maybe just the nature of All Humanity, that makes any questioning or coaching feel like an assault on my character and person.  But I think it's just pansy-ism. And perhaps that pesky Passion for Me that makes any hint of weakness in Me a bit ...passion-wrecking.  Which is understandably upsetting for a person who took so long to trip across a passion.

I'd take hints on how to get over this, but frankly, they'd just make me angrier.

Advent Advent Lives!

And so Day One of Advent Advent was a success.  A boat load of toys was redistributed, a group of mothers compared notes on our heart's desire to find joy and peace in the Christmas season, and facebook (via NvK) delivered a manageable idea for how to do Advent. The real Advent.

A friend wondered if maybe I was creating a bit too much pressure for Jesus to live up to, you know, what with me wanting to have the Best Christmas Ever. And of course, it's true. I do kind of have high expectations on this one, a rare thing for a person who has made a lifestyle out of creating and maintaining low expectations. But on the other hand, I see all this Advent Adventing as an exercise in being mindful and purposeful about Advent and Christmas so that I don't find myself weeping on December 26th, certain yet again that we missed the whole point.

I suppose that I've put a lot of pressure on myself, to lead my children through the season in such a way that they don't get to the other side feeling let down and disappointed. Or angry and resentful. Or just desperate to avoid it at all costs for the rest of their lives. And my current working theory is that one way of doing this is to dissipate the pressure - instead of all of our joy resting on the fulcrum of One Magical Morning!, what if it got built upon over several weeks, weeks in which being together was a tiny bit more intentional, a tiny bit more ...holy? Okay, I see how that is a lot to ask, but it's my hearts desire, and I'm pretty sure that somewhere in the Bible it says that God loves granting our heart's desire.  And don't you think that wanting to celebrate the part where the Father shares his Son with us so that we'll know how much we're loved is a desire that that same Father might be kind of excited about?

I'm counting on it.

Making Space

Tomorrow is the Advent Advent Toy Swap.  I made it up and made other people participate so that my own need for space could be accommodated.  The mom's group at church will gather as they do on Fridays and bring all their Done With 'Em toys.  We'll spread them out over a few tables and then people will be free to grab whatever appeals.  No valuations, no equal trades, no rules.  Just a socialist redistribution of toy wealth.  Whatever is left over will be thrown in the back of my car and dropped off at the local thrift store.

In addition to making up the Toy Swap, I made up the season: Advent Advent.  It is the time after Halloween and before Advent (aka, "November") when I will prepare for Advent.  I realized that I needed this after last year's Christmas left me feeling behind the 8-ball from the very first day.  I had about 16 Santa's up, but not a single nativity scene or other hint of Jesus. I was full of ugliness about gift buying, particularly for ... well, other people. I found it very difficult to find the Joy of the Lord and was getting pretty fearful that I was building a family tradition of Holiday Hate and Despair for my sweet young children.

So this year, it's Advent Advent. A time to make space and plans for Advent, to be mindful about where I want to set my eyes and my heart for the weeks ahead.

The toy purge is making physical space - I can feel less angry about choosing and receiving gifts for my children if I don't feel hateful and overwhelmed by the collection we already have because I've gone through it and eliminated what is no longer useful or pleasure-making. The toy swap eliminates maybe a very thin layer of consuming by replacing buying with sharing.

Next I will hope to figure out how to make heart-space.  Ideas?

Let it Begin

This evening I made a wreath for the front door.  I made it in Sarah's dining room with seven other women, all moms on my block, all glad for a night out, all glad to be creating something, all just glad it seemed like.

I think I will love this wreath a lot. Because it is going to remind me of what I am preparing for this Advent - the Joy of Together.  That God was so desperate for Together that sending the Son was suddenly feasible, even desirable.  What a ludicrous Truth we believe (those of us who believe it, I guess).

This helps shape my plans for celebrating Christmas: we will look for Togetherness Times and be mindful that they are hints of what God's Great Love is about.  I think there's even a Bible verse about this, right? That where two or three or gathered, that's what Jesus is like? I may have self-translated a bit, but I like the idea of it.

But for now, the holidays kick-off with mulled wine and greenery plucked from the backyard and meandering conversations about just about anything and at the end of it all, a wreath on the front door that says, there is Joy in Together! Amen!

People are Morons

So this is no surprise. I, of all people, should not be surprised that people are morons. In fact, if nothing else, it can be said that *I* am a moron. Or at least, have been a moron.  And likely will be again. But right this minute, someone else is being a moron.

And I will say this: anyone who shares this person's world view is also a moron.

The world view is not exclusively hers. In fact, I think there may be a whole movie devoted to it; as I understand it, "The Secret" is actually just her world view in film. Namely being The Law of Attraction.  You know, how you get what you focus on? As she put it, if you focus on the bad things, you'll get more bad things and if you focus on life's blessings, you'll get more blessings.

This is crap theology. Or just crap world view if you don't consider this part of your religious-ness.

It is particularly galling when people share this "law" with people who's current lifeload looks a lot like a bag of shit.  You know, fear of a child's cancer relapse coupled with dead grandma coupled with pending surgery for child who may or may not have cancer again. The idea that all of this shit is landing in their lap because they keep focusing on it is... well, moronic, right?

I don't understand how the Universe works. I truly don't. But I have observed this: some people get way more poop than the rest of us, and some people get way more "blessings" than the rest of us and it doesn't ever equal up in some kind of cosmic fairness.  My faith is that Jesus' presence is equally available to all but I know more than one person who would trade the set of footprints in the sand for some fucking relief.

Not understanding these things though, I still know that it is the height of jerky to suggest to people in the midst that Just Thinking Good Things will somehow divert the shitstorm. That the cancer diagnosis could have been avoided if only they had been more... positive.  That Grandma would have lived (or that her dying would have been less sad?) if only they had focused on life's rich blessings.  Oh my, this makes me angry just typing it.

My only Hope is this: Jesus is watching, living next to us in the middle of the shitstorm and all I can do is remind my heart to rest in that Hope. And remind Jesus to remind my friends in a way that they'll notice that they're not alone.  At least not all the way alone.

How The Spirit Works

Today at church there was a nice little learning about ... I'm not actually sure what Mike thought it was about, but what it was about for me was spiritual maturity and what living with The Spirit looks like.  I guess some of us are supposed to say in The Spirit, but I kind of like the idea that we're together, The Spirit and I. Probably it's flawed theology on my part, but Lord knows I've never let that stop me.

The content was particularly grabbing, following as it did on a friend's writing and wondering about (re)capturing relationship with God and what faith looks like from day to day.  It was gratifying to hear my own heart's hopes about what is True in these things affirmed in my own community of faith. Namely, that The Spirit is already ours, our inheritance in fact, sealed and delivered, and ours is only to live in such a way that maximizes our experience of The Spirit.  The text we read was Ephesians 4:17 - 22, and it was kind of great to remember that the Bible actually offers some helpful direction about what living well looks like.  Good ol' Bible... who wudda guessed?

One thing that we do when we live with The Spirit is hear that Spirit's prompting to love the one next to us, to do and say the thing that reminds our neighbours that the Creator has its eyes on them.  We were asked to think of times in the week just passed (past?) when we had worked with The Spirit to love another, to speak encouragement to another, to give generously to another, to lift up the one next to us.  And of course because I love myself so well, I could think of several times I had been particularly awesome and was willing to share some credit with the Divine.  Truly, I had felt lots of God With Me in the week previous, and truly hope that some of that overflowed through my person so that another near my person got a hint of God With Them too. But you know, coming up with a list of experiences of that experience didn't take long - it's just my confidence in these things always worries me.  But I digress...

...then I looked down. I fingered the new charm hanging on some burgandy wool around my neck.  It had been placed there by sweet Brooke just parts of an hour earlier.  As she gave it to me, she told me that she had seen it and bought it for me, recognizing what she thought has been the theme of my year.  And I wept a bit, because of course it is the theme of my year and I had already been searching for a talisman that I could keep near my heart to remind me of Thankfulness, the antidote to just about every bad thing I know.  And now here it was, out of nowhere, but delivered by the one who has already delivered so much Good News to me already over these last years, an affirmation from the Heavens that indeed I am Known, Loved, Beloved and even failing in the right direction*.

So I turned to my heart's friend and said pointing to my new necklace, "This was The Spirit with you this week."  Cause really, truly, that is how The Spirit works.  I just know it.

*If it's not already, "failing in the right direction" should be a trademarked phrase defining a life of faith from the good Dr. Paddy Ducklow.

Back In The Saddle

Last night was Pad Thai at Pearson International in Toronto.  I ate it reading Real Simple magazine in Terminal 1, waiting for my flight home to board.

I am now home after six days of visiting and rest and I truly do feel renewed. I wrote in my journal (long-hand!) on the way home, that it felt like back-to-school or whatever other time of life that happens when you find yourself inspired and willing to Start New.  I wrote a list of things I could do that would be new and would remind me that I could have fresh starts every once in a while.

And this morning, I tried a few.  I didn't turn on any noise, no radio or TV, all morning.  I didn't check my email or facebook until breakfast was over and cleaned up, and when I was done, I turned the computer off. I took the kids outside, even though they didn't want to and had the happy pleasure of bumping into a neighbour who invited us in for play and coffee.  I made lunch and cleaned up before I made space for writing here and talking on the phone with a friend.

Oddly enough, it felt all new.  I paid closer attention to my children.  I did the small things that keep our house in order(ish) and keep me from feeling discontent and un-grateful in this home. It was kind of nice.

I know myself well enough to know that all the Start New-ness of today won't linger for much longer but that it existed beyond the idea of it is a gift today.  Truly a gift.  Again.

A Visit is as Good as a Rest

I am day two of three with my sweet friend Heidi. At this very moment, her house is peaceful and quiet, all her people and her own self out and about for the morning. I am sitting in her living room with a few of the acres of green that were her growing up view and play place.  Now she and Mark live in her growing up house and their own kids are doing their own growing up in the rooms and spaces that were hers.  It is so lovely this sun-shiney morning, and I am so thankful to be here to experience it first-hand.

This sojourn from home into the lands of my Other Loves has been so rich and deep and troubling and restful and blessing-full and I'm just not sure what to do with it all.  But it has reminded me how required it is to Be With each other.  I have obviously managed to stay connected with that First Family of mine and with the Pfisterers and with Mark & Heidi.  The telephone and email and facebook and even the occasional piece of real mail allow for that. 

But those things don't allow for the... I don't know what it is.  But whatever it is, it isn't missed until I'm living with it again and I realize that it had been missing, was needed. I don't mean that I need to be living with them. I don't, and of course the world doesn't allow for us to live with or near every person we love. But making a way to be with each other from time to time makes a way for us to love each other, to know each other and to feel known by the other in a way that is soul-feeding and good.

I am out of words about this, but I have wept more than once this week with the Truth of it all.  And of course, in the corner of my heart, the whisper that affirms and says "Of course. That's why I came to Be With You.  Emmanuel.  That's what loving each other looks like."

Last Night for a While

Dinner tonight was penne and chicken in brandy sauce.  Laurie made it.  For me.  Because she knew it was my favourite meal with the Pfisterer Family.  It felt like a blessing or a benediction, if those aren’t the same thing.  An undeserved grace.

Visiting New Jersey is tricky.  I’m not sure how I could have left better, but I also know that my leaving was a bit... abrupt and hurtful maybe.  Coming back here means remembering my own capacity to do damage.  It also means remembering some of the very best moments of my life.

Tonight after dinner with Laurie and John and Heidi and Johnny, I went bowling with the boy and Shannon and Jeff and his daughter and we had a good time.  But mostly me and my Point Street family.  We were the funniest, and the funnest and it was so sweet and good to be together and remember that we were the three of us good gifts to each other.

Now I’ve just Skyped with Scott and the kids and I feel again the not-rightness of having all this space between me and my sweet ones, and know that being with them required not being here and every once in the while, I have to remember that that wasn’t free. 

There’s more to say but not even I can say it all.

All Kinds of Pain

Tonight dinner was in Oaklyn. A stone's thow from Camden, my old hometown. There is a lot to say about that and I'm not quite sure when I'll make space to say it. Dinner was with Shannon & Jeff, Shiaheem and Saniyah and of course, the dogs.  The was some full-circling happening and much loveliness, but all of it tinted with a hint of bleakness.

Again, I'll have to say more later.

Now, to bed, full of good dinner and good friends.

A.

Hello, My Name is A, and I'm Nosy

The man in 17C is a sex addict. Pain pills and assorted other chemical dependencies too, if his spreadsheet is to be believed.  From 19D, I could only read the column “Effect of My Behaviour on Others”, but it was plenty informative.

This passenger had earlier grabbed all of attention when the flight had boarded and he was the last man standing, speaking loudly on his phone (which was perhaps on speaker – I was glad to know his contact was looking forward to seeing him too) and then shouting down the aisle to his partner Gretch as the plane taxied to the runway.

I’m not sure what of this particular misbehaviour left me unsurprised to discover his... issues, but surprised I was not.  In fairness, I suppose he could have been reviewing a document sent to him from a friend or family member for his review.  But something about his demeanour left a person like me pretty confident that indeed he was so troubled, and indeed he hoped someone nearby would take note.

I was tempted to catch up in Terminal 1 and remind him about boundaries, but the irony of doing such a thing amused even me and I held myself back.

The public domain is an amusing place.  Glad to be here.

Dinner tonight was pasta with a deliciously cayenne mushroom and pepperoni pasta sauce accompanied by a fine winter ale.  A visit with Shannon always means good eats.

Hysterical

Dinner was steak and quinoa and roasted vegetables and green beans and amazing skor meringue dessert. It was at my parents' house with our other family there too, all potlucky and delicious.

We are sleeping over before I fly away early tomorrow morning and my beloved spend the week with Daddy-O who will pick them up in the morning after work.

Grandma is trying to comfort her grand-daughter who is beside herself because I woke her up when I went in to get pyjamas.

This makes me feel like a terrible mother.

Should be a great trip.

Not Bad for a Five

As happy as my birthdays so often are, the day that follows is almost invariably equally bland. Obviously, the world not stopping to celebrate me is disappointing. And of course, the day after the 4th is the 5th and what good can come on the 5th?

But today was fine.  Not too much bleak, not too much turmoil.  That Nate is ailing and napped on my person for almost two hours helped make it slow and easy. Ish.  That Talia was with Grandma for Grandma Friday made it quieter and less demanding.

Sadly though, it was a day that required a bit more... zip? There were tasks to be done, items to be crossed off the list.  So it wasn't the day I wanted, but I'm willing to believe that it might have been the day I needed. Or at least that my son needed and I suppose that part of this mothering gig is conceding to their GFAs* more often than not. And maybe there's some zen in agreeing that what my children need is in fact what my own soul needs.

Huh.

I'm not convinced.

Dinner was sushi out, cause that's what I needed damn it.

*GFA: if you don't remember the facebook status update, stands for Gaw-damned F*c&ing Agenda.

Numberology

I have a thing about numbers.  Scott calls it a "mental disorder".  I call it a quirk.  Maybe some low-grade OCD. Maybe just a real bendy mind.  Hard to say.  But how it works out is that I have strong feelings for and against every number in the number-bet.  They are completely subjective, Out Of Nowhere, gut reactions and have no basis in fact, or truth or anything measurable and helpful.  I do not pretend they should be trusted or believed or even shared.  I do insist that they be respected.

I blame my father.

Part of the story of my birth is that my mother laboured for a full day, through lunch and dinner and into the dark of night.  I was taking my time I guess, perhaps because I was so enormous (Denise deserves a prize), and finally an intervention was required to hasten my arrival.  As the story goes, as midnight approached, Dr. Thomas said to my father, "So do you want the 4th or the 5th?"

Who knows how these things work, but all I know is that I was born at 11:55pm that night and have had a deep disdain for fives ever since.  So much so, that if you ask Scott and my midwife Irene about Nate's birth, they'll both tell you he could have been born about 3 hours earlier.  At one point, Irene even said (insert lovely Scottish accent here) "You're not letting him come Ali!" I don't remember wanting to extend labour but it is undeniable that he was born just a couple of hours into the 16th, a nice square of 4, not the 15th, a dumb multiple of 5.

The number 37 is a great number.  Nice and prime, no fives (or multiples thereof) nearby to wreck it.  A seven is lovely, and threes are kind of neutral - nothing offensive at all about it.  I actually have lots of good anticipation about 37.

Today, Scott is working and the kids are sick. There will be a steak and caesar salad for dinner and maybe crazy cake and wine for dessert if I get my act together this afternoon.  If not, just Halloween candy and water.

Peer Pressure

According to Nadia, while the men of the world grow mustaches this November, the women of the world are blogging every day.  Well, maybe not exclusively the women, and probably not all of them.  But all the cool ones are, and if all the cool ones are, then like the lemming I am, I will too.

Now, it should be pointed out that I am already starting out a failure, having missed yesterday. However, someone on Facebook quoted someone famous who said something smart like, "I haven't failed yet. I've just ..." Oh wait. I just looked it up and it doesn't apply. But the point is, I'm going to be okay with an imperfect start because of course, I subscribe to the theory that one ought to start as one intends to go on (some of you may remember this).

A difficulty with committing to daily blogging is coming up with daily thoughts.  So my plan is to write down at the very least, what we had for dinner.  If I can come up with more, all the better, but I only committed to daily, not interesting, so ... there.

Tonight's dinner with my two ailing children (T: cold, N: croop) and their long-suffering father was tortellini and sauce.

Expect big things tomorrow.  Deep thoughts about a wonderfully prime number: 37.

I'm Passionate!

This one's for Brooke. And maybe for anyone else who can relate, but for sure Brooke.

One thing that's true about me is that I don't have any passions. Well, none of the Find Your True Self kind. It's true, I am a bit easily excited by a hockey game and frankly, just about any sporting event. I have been known to really enjoy a good book, and knit consistently for a month or two.  But there is no activity, no endeavour that holds my heart, that gives me life, that makes me want to get up in the morning, that inspires me to give up The Good Wife on Tuesday nights in its pursuit.  The idea of 'finding your passion' has always amused me - I don't think I actually have the Passion Gene. 

However, it is also true that I didn't use to think I had endorphins.  Then one day, someone told me that the rush you get public speaking, when you're making your best point and you know it's Good and True and Right - that feeling is an endorphin.  I know. I was shocked too.  But also gratified because I know for certain I've never had that experience doing any kind of excercise but have for shizzle had it at the front of a church or leading a small group or at public meetings. It turns out, I gots me some endorphins!

Knowing that I had been wrong about endorphins then, I opened myself to the possibility of one day discovering a passion, but wasn't holding my breath.

This morning, I got to begin the Alison's Birthday Celebration Extravaganza with a coffee and lunch date with one third of SCS, Laura. Halfway through lunch, while going on and on about myself as I'm wont to do (it's Laura's fault - she's always acting so interested!), I found myself answering a question about what I like to speak about with this: "Well, you know, it tends to be about whatever it is I'm figuring out. I mean, I guess I'm just passionate about me."

Oh shit. I'm still laughing.  There was a moment of silence and we both laughed and Laura realized she too is Passionate About Me (in her case, her).  And it was so great because it's so wonderfully true - Me is a subject I'll wake up to think about, investigate, do something for.  Me is a reason to get up in the morning and get up and go.  I will even give up The Good Wife for Me.

Finally, a passion.  Friends, this could change everything.

Toy Rant

Several times a month (week?) Scott will step on something small and brightly coloured and most notably, Not Away, and say "That's it! We have too much shit in here! We're getting rid of it! Now!" Of course, you'll remember that I love conflict, so you might expect that I would jump in with a clear and coherent defense of said object, pointing out that it is, in fact, the only reason to hope our children might read/play an instrument/cure cancer (we only acquire educational toys, it goes without saying).

But no. Every time I just drop my head and sigh. Yep. I hate 'em too.

Other friends with children seem to embrace to the Toy.  They have several, many even. They seem to enjoy the acquisition, the variety, the abundance.  God love 'em, some of them actually seem to enjoy playing with them. Together. With their children. I was at a toy party last week and could only bring myself to purchase a book because the catalogue seemed to be just a collection of small pieces to lose and make me angry. Sure, they were going to teach my children to count, match, see patterns and choose sexual partners wisely (at the right time, of course), but good gravy, do they have to be so... many-pieced? Ugly? I get cranky just thinking about it.

We've started talking about Christmas presents.  Well, I have.  And in the spirit of full disclosure, I should probably confess two things before going any further.  One, I am cheap and hate spending all that money at once not because anything is needed, but just because The World says If You Love Them, You Will Show It With Your Purchases On This One Day Of The Year. While You Celebrate God With Us. And two, as perhaps hinted at in number one, I have some theological issues about Big New Amazing! gifts being exchanged as a way to celebrate Christmas.  But those are posts for another day.

Given the disclosure above, you are right if you assumed that Christmas present discussions are a bit fraught. Not with conflict (surprise!) but with a shared un-enthusiasm, for Scott also dislikes the gift orgy, although for different reasons.  We don't actually exchange gifts with each other, just stockings of underwear and soap and a few miscellaneous treats. We've often considered the year's holiday to a hot, sunny spot our gift to each other.  But of course, kids complicate things and so last year there was the tree-aplenty to greet us Christmas morning with Toys! and Fun! and Wow! for everyone.  When we talked about it last night, I realized that probably our first attempts were where I want us to get back to as a family: seeing the gift we give at Christmas as an opportunity to revel in God With Us, which is so deeply experienced in our togetherness and therefore choosing to give ourselves time together, however that works out.

And so maybe this is my first moment of parenting against the stream of our culture.  I feel the push-back when I see the flyers for toy stores and know that the children my children spend time with have homes filled with plastic (and non-toxic, wooden) diversions that they love and my children are going to have new underwear, a new book and maybe a new activity-creator (think tennis racquet, bike, ice skates, life jackets and crayons) but not so much on the trains and trucks and collectable doll front.  Just because I hate them.  The toys, not the kids. To be clear.

I love our play kitchen that Grandpa made for Auntie Barb back in 1960-something.  I love the dog that walks that Uncle Bri made and the big huge elephant from Uncle Andy.  The dress-up clothes that Auntie Anna got at Value Village rock. But the rest? I could throw the rest away and never miss them. And I suspect the kids would not miss them either.

I worry though. I worry that I'll be depriving them of the opportunity to find out they're science-lovers or artists or truck drivers because they didn't get to explore their own selves through play, which is, of course, their job.

And to be clear, this is not about being Anti-Consuming or Pro-Something Impressive. It's about being cheap and annoyed by things that I don't enjoy myself.  I've got 60ish sleeps to get it worked out and decide what part of my own toy-hating I'll be imposing on my small people.

Anyone see it more clearly than I do?

Secret Confession

Sometimes I read back in my blog and I think, "Damn, that's good."

A Few Good Women

There is no shortage of deficits in my life. No deficit of deficits I suppose. The writing you find here is often an ode to a deficit most days, an investigation into what current want or need is making me miserable. A wandering through the fields of Not Enoughness.

But I am rich beyond all measure in one particular direction: Good Friends. Not a day goes by that one of the women in my life makes my life just a tiny bit better, just by showing up.  On Facebook, by email, on the phone, over coffee, in the yard, at the park... somewhere, somehow, someone is reminding me that God must secretly like me best. I know the smartest, funniest, wisest, kindest, catty-est, snarkiest, giving-est, genuine-est women around. It shocks me. Shocks me that I know them, shocks me more that some of them seem to like me back.

You reading this know that you are one of those women. If you write, your writing has fed me and left me feeling less alone in the world.  If you phone, your timeliness has made me remember that somehow the Creator of the whole planet is also watching my small heart. If you've visited, your presence has been my comfort and my joy.

Thank you. Each of you. And especially you.

Streams

I have a lot of things I could say a lot about and yet when Time makes itself available for the writing down of these things, none makes itself known. This is infuriating. But I will just type and type and see where we end up.

One thing that happened today was that thankfulness failed me. I was in a beautiful home that houses two small children and all the furniture matches and there is a place for everything and everything is the right thing and it belongs and nothing that doesn't belong is there. Oddly, I really like this family, and like being with them, so my go-to Judge and Resent isn't actually appealing.  So while in their bathroom, taking in the tidy and appealing and appropriate bath toys, I tried being thankful for something to take the edge off my envy and self-disdain. I tried to be thankful for a house that is warm and comfortable. I tried being thankful for a house that we can afford. I tried being thankful for a husband who can do so much to keep our home beautiful. I tried... but trying is useless, isn't it? I needed a genuine dose of straight-up thankfulness and none could be conjured. So instead, I've just tried to ignore envy and drown it in Thin Mint Cookies.

Another thing that I realized this week that has been a bit life-changing is that I really like being angry. I love conflict and arguing and feeling righteous and right.  I married someone who also loves this and this is why we have such a good marriage. I don't think I always think it's a good marriage, but the truth is that we both love conflict and so there is a lot of it in our home.  There are obvious downfalls, but the upside is that very little gets left to simmer or rot. If we had found partners that did not love conflict, we would have been a lot lonelier I think. As it is, we both get given (plenty of) opportunity to dip into that (cess)pool of anger and swim around often, feeling it's Energy and Power and probably some kind of endorphin experience. It would be better for our hearts (in every way), if we could get our endorphins from excercise, but alas, 'tisn't so.

Now before my Ode to Anger and Conflict gets carried away, having realized that more often than not I was being angry purely for the pleasure of it rather than because of any objective need for it, I further realized that probably I needed to explore ways to shortcircuit the system, if only for the sake of my children's future children (do you like how I've already given up on them?). I asked the supersmart psychologist guy I know about what might be the emotional-intensity-equivalent to anger so that I could start swapping it out, but he was useless and just asked me if I knew. Stupid psychologists.

Of course, it turned out that I did know.  The only experience that seems to please as much as anger is laughing. In marriage, this is difficult because... well, mostly because Scott doesn't laugh as easily as the children do. I think he's probably a bit jaded and/or over-used to the material. But with the kids, I have discovered that if I notice myself getting angry in time, I can switch over to getting funny and it's like a little miracle.  The kids laugh, I laugh and on we go. My children are no more compliant now than they were a week ago, but I am way less unpleasant and feel a tiny bit better about the content of their future counselling sessions.

I know that having announced this discovery, I have jinxed it, and within 48 hours I'm going to lose my sh*t and yell cursewords in the grocery store or something. But I wanted to write it down: write down that I realized something new about me, and write down that I can still adapt and make adjustments.  I take good news where I can find it.

Finally, this week I discovered that I love hockey even more than I used to: I blame the Olympics.

Diversion

T had her first swimming lesson today. We call it swimming school to make up for the fact that I didn't put her in preschool. She is a bit desperate for a teacher.

The anxiety is (mostly) all mine and I did all my best coping: called ahead to make sure she was registered and in the right class (apparently I was scarred by *not* being registered once? why, oh why all this crazy), arrived early to scope the scene, found the cool "we're not too eager" spot to hang out and watch until it was our turn, said hello to the other small people and their big people and narrated almost the entire experience to both T & N the entire time. Talking out loud makes me feel better.

T was good right up until the teacher announced that they were going to go take a shower. This clearly threw her for a loop for not in one single TV episode about school, discussion about school or book about school, has there ever been a shower. Frankly, it kind of weirded me out too, but whatever, we're cool, we roll. Carrying my almost 2-year on one hip, I walked my big girl to the pool-side shower where she dutifully submitted to the warm water spray but safe to say 'reluctance' was the key body-language message. I was already trying to figure out how I would roll up my pants and hold N while all-the-while coaching T on joining in. As Miss Iona walked them down the stairs into the water, she turned back one last time and held out her hand to T. I slipped her hand over and walked to the viewing area in about 3 steps and in she went! Lesson One down.

It's so good to wait 'til parents are ready for these big transitions.

After half an hour of face in water, kicking and jumping and floating and splashing and laughing (!) and not ever looking over at me, out she came. As we changed back into street clothes, I tried the debrief: "So, I saw you floating. How was it?" "I don't want to talk to you about that." Nice.  I would be more upset if I didn't remember quite clearly saying about the same thing to my own mother about just about everything. Even now, I say it to Scott if he asks about my day at the wrong moment.

On our way out to the car, we headed downstairs and she looked up at me and said, "I did so good." "Yeah, you did." "Yep, I was straight-up fine! Straight-up fine."

She's so awesome.