Open a new box of Crayolas.
Inhale deeply.
(Aahhhh, new crayon box, my favorite first grade scent.)
Choose your favorite color.
Sky blue, no, carnation, no, burnt orange – oh, go ahead and use all the colors.
Write a story in crayon.
Feel what children feel.
No.
Experience what children don’t feel –
fear,
embarrassment,
apology.
use kindirgoten speling leave out punctuation draw a picture
Give yourself permission to create – imperfectly, authentically.
Proudly display your story on the refrigerator, adhered with masking tape or a Tweetie Birdmagnet. Mail your creation to your mother, folded in a bulky square and stuffed crookedly in an old fashioned envelop – aaah the taste of sealing an envelop. Remember when an upside down stamp on a letter meant I Love You.
Experience Creation.
Go to the neighbor’s monkey bars and do a trick.
“Look at me, look at me”.
Children are not smaller versions of adults; they are a different species entirely (unless poisoned by criticism or too much correction).
They are self-forgiving, creatively expressive, and free with imaginative experimentation.
After this post, my life insurance policy was terminated due to non-receipt of premium payment. Finding myself uninsured and hyper-aware of bizarre death scenarios, I began application for a second policy while I faxed bank record proof of premium payment to the first company.
LSS (long story short), the first policy approved reinstatement shortly after the second policy processed. Today I am worth double the cash value as the me in the cash-blowing-in-my-face picture, but only if I am blown into the Grand Canyon by a sudden gust of wind.
The whole scenario reminds me of “The Monkey’s Paw” by W. W. Jacobs – that wretched short story where the family makes three wishes on a magical monkey paw, but their wishes come true by gruesome and undesirable means.
Thus, I will be content with the natural course life and will stop interfering with fate via non-subliminal cyber-images.
In Extreme Makeover Home Edition style, I renovated this junky section of my kitchen into a standing writing area. Please notice the laptop, cup-a-pencils, and commercial-strength pencil sharpener. I haven’t done any writing here yet, but the desk has stayed clean for six days – a Warner record. Home organization people recommend getting stuff off the counter tops. I hung the wire file organizers on the wall and, miraculously, the kids now put school papers in them. Amazing. One small step for a writer, one giant leap for motherhood.
Third, Digging up the yard.
As you can see, I wasn’t kidding about digging up segments of our yard. I pried up cement trim, took out dirt, and put weed barrier in the flower beds. This is the “before” picture. Next spring I hope there will be beautiful, tulip-filled and weed-free “after” pictures to post.
That works for me.
J. thinks a yard gnome village would be the perfect finishing touch.
Maybe, just Three Gnomes.
Thanks for tuning in.
Go read “The Monkey’s Paw,” or save it for next Halloween.
If you see my head rolling down your street, it’s not the gory end of our Halloween story, it’s that I’ve lost my grip. Not my grip on reality – my grip on my head.
I feel like a dough-kneading kitchen mixer spinning lumpily close to the edge of the counter, facing the prospects of plummeting over the edge and dangling by my electrical cord inches above the tile.
I feel like a barreling merry-go-round throwing off sweaty-handed third graders.
I’m a top-load washer with too many bath towels.
I’m not sick, just uncommonly dizzy.
I don’t have a cough, sore throat, stuffy nose, stomach ache, or fever.
But today my neck can’t support the weight of my head.
When did my cerebral cortex put on so many pounds?
Is it a virus?
Is it my thyroid?
Is it all in my head?
The names have not been changed, since no one is innocent.
This story has been re-told each Christmas for the past 13 years, but this is its first appearance in written form.
Once upon a time…
We were poor. You know, like freshly-wedded, tuition-paying, diploma-earning, employment-seeking, future-awaiting kind of poor–our matrimonial union a mere four months old.
I laid my last college final on the professor’s desk – a blue essay book overfilled with rapidly scribbled responses to essay questions like: What role did the head of the United States CIA play in the downfall of the Guatemalan economic system?
If I passed this final, I would walk across the stage next June among a sea of fellow graduates, reaching out my hands to receive my congratulations and my double (and equally useless) degrees in Liberal Arts and Political Science.
(See my cousin Natalie with the long brown hair
behind me? We both married into W’s and dropped
to the bottom of the alphabetic graduation line).
I exited the humanities building and entered the student center, intending to visit the display of the campus clubs Christmas Tree Decorating Contest. The December sun poured through gigantic skylights and bathed me with rays of my bright future and sunny holidays with no papers, finals, or boring texts. I began to daydream about my upcoming first Christmas with my new hubba-hubba husband. Just then, a whale-ish black cloud swallowed the sun, plunging the Taggart Student Center into darkness, and I remembered our bare, Christmas-less apartment.
I’d spent my last two Christmas’s breaking dry baguettes with equally homesick companions in cold-floored, bare-walled, Christmas-less missionary apartments. More than anything, I wanted a warm, homey Christmas with all the trimmings.
My melancholy deepened as I passed the remains of what had been the Christmas tree display. Pine needles, scraps of tinsel, and a few remnants of broken ornaments dirtied the floor, which begged for a deep vacuuming. Too busy cramming for finals, I hadn’t walked through the tree festival before, I hadn’t expected it to be gone so soon. I hung my head feeling a lot like Charlie Brown.
Then, in the far corner, looking very cast-off and unwanted, I spied four naked trees.
Let me interrupt the story here to explain that the universe and I have an unspoken agreement–I will never buy anything without a coupon, and the universe will provide me just enough opportunities to mooch, beg, rummage or win the barest necessities of luxury.
Suddenly filled with Christmas optimism, I bounded up the stairs to bother the Student Body President.
Knock, knock.
Come in.
Hello, um, Mr. President, Sir. There are some trees downstairs that look like they’ve been sentenced to Christmas at the Logan landfill. I’m married and poor, you see, and if they’re just going to the trash, I’d be happy to take one off your hands.
Well, Mrs. Poor & Married (or was it Mrs. Married and Poor?). Anyway, we donated the decorated trees to the Salvation Army for needy families. However, one tree was too big to fit in our truck and we don’t know what to do with it. If you can haul it away, it’s yours.
No Problem. I’ll go get my newlywed semi-truck. But… I didn’t see a decorated tree.
My committee left that tree by the back doors. It has white lights, gold angels and musical instruments like violins and trumpets and stuff. Merry Christmas, Mrs. Married.
Skipping two stairs at a time, I raced to meet my new, fully decorated, and free Christmas tree.
Holy oxen and wise men.
Ladies and gentleman, this was the very tree.
(And see what I mean by hubba-hubba hubbie?)
The tree came with:
four golden angels,
five violins,
six trumpets and french horns,
several harps,
red globes,
golden apples and golden pears,
over-sized burgundy flowers,
red and gold ribbon,
live poinsettias,
holly berries,
artificial and live foliage,
seven strands of white lights,
an extension cord,
two tree skirts,
water,
and
a tree stand.
How we got the tree back to our formerly bare apartment is another story entirely. (Picture hubba-husband crouched deep into the trunk of an Oldsmobile four door sedan straddling and clinging to the prickly bark of a biggie-sized Blue Spruce shouting “Slow down, honey, we lost an angel.”)
Pulling into our designated apartment complex parking spot, we unloaded the tree, unlocked the apartment, wriggled the branches through the door, replaced the fallen angel, plugged in the lights, snapped our fingers, and Abracadabra folks, instant Christmas!
Staring awestruck at our stroke of good fortune, hubba-hubbie said,
This is the most beautiful Christmas tree I have ever seen. Of all the clubs and organizations on the USU campus, which one decorated this tree?
Well, until that very day, I hadn’t even known the club existed at USU in 1997.
This tree was the creative product of the Gay and Lesbian Club of Utah State University.
Now, every Christmas when hubba and I drape the gold ribbons, hang the harps, trumpets and angels, we give thanks in our hearts for their talent, artistry, and generosity.
My kitchen drawer beds a dandy tool,
Used January through December Yule.
I mix a bowl of chocolate dream,
It scrapes the sides and folds in the cream.
When I need to stir, into the boiling sauce it will go,
Or I stuff it in the freezer to wait with the dough.
By the end of each meal, it’s been washed and rinsed thrice,
My heart beats “thump, bump” for such a functional device.
Then out to the driveway with shovel I trudge,
Time to move snow – a chore I begrudge.
The shovel leaves trails of uncaptured snow,
The handle breaks off, in the trash it will go.
Every years it’s the same, I’m left so bereft,
Until I find a snow shovel made by Pampered Chef.
is not reflected by how cleverly they can outsmart the next person,
but by how acutely they are capable of perceiving his unseen genius.
Karen Armstrong left the convent in the 1970’s because she could not pray, “which is rather a downer for a nun,” she says. After a six year depression, a failed PhD and being asked to leave school teaching because of her epilepsy, she fell into the world of religious study and has become one of the world’s greatest religious historians.
Many people ask her, after years of in depth religious study, which religion she has joined. None, but rather she has become an ambassador for all that is best in the great religions of the world.
In essence, she has developed compassion.
Karen Armstrong is one of many individuals and organizations launching compassion movements across the globe.
In spring of 2010, the city of Seattle became the world’s first official “City of Compassion.” Seattle’s mayor and nine city council members affirmed the Charter for Compassion, and committed to a 10 Year Campaign for Compassionate Cities. The campaign was largely promoted by Microsoft executives, who are working to apply the Charter to their business practices.
Karen and others hope this movement will propel society towards a Socratic dialogue, which was conducted gently. People enter a Socratic dialogue with the intent to leave enlightened, enriched, expanded, and changed, rather than to win the debate.
“Put your clever, over-educated self to the side and approach learning with an open heart. Don’t judge too quickly. Wait. Listen. Suddenly you will understand another person in a deeply perceptive way,” says Karen.
“We are addicted to our prejudices. We have our pet hates. We define ourselves by comparing to what we are not. When we utter a cleverly-brilliant, wounding remark, we get a buzz of triumph, but it also poisons us, just like addiction does. It poisons our intellectual and social atmosphere.”
With parallels to the Twelve Step Program for alcoholics, Karen has authored the book, “Twelve Steps to a Compassionate Life.” As with Alcoholic Anonymous, these twelve steps are practiced until they become a natural, integral part of one’s day-to-day life.
The book’s preface is to Wish for a Better World, which reminds me of the scripture:
Whoso believeth in God might with surety hope for a better world…
which hope cometh of faith, maketh an anchor to the souls of men,
which would make them sure and steadfast, always abounding in good works.
Karen’s twelve steps are:
1. Learn about compassion
2. Look at your World
3. Compassion for Yourself
4. Empathy
5. Mindfulness
6. Action
7. How Little We Know
8. How Should We Speak to One Another
9. Concern for Everybody
10. Knowledge
11. Recognition: To see oneness in yourself, your community and the world.
12. Love Your Enemies: The word “love” historically did not reference “feelings of affection,” but meant “loyalty.” Two countries would vow to “love” each other or to be loyal to each other – essentially to have the other person’s back.
Karen discusses how fear is the root of much conflict. “When someone feels they are threatened, that their backs are to the wall they can lash out violently. In their anxiety to protect their faith, they actually distort it.”
The antidote for fear is faith, or the pro-active application of hope. Faith in the goodness of humanity. Hope that we can all behave better than we have in the past.
Faith, Hope, and Compassion.
If this is the movement chugging across the nation, I want on board the train.
Have you given yourself permission to do what you love?
I believe that every person has unique gifts to offer the world – their personality, their passions, and their perspective.The challenge is knowing yourself and discovering what you really want to do.For years I did not give myself permission to do things I love, because I always had to get my chores done first: the laundry, dishes, meals, and dusting the mop boards. Well, you know the end of that story – life chores are never done. What’s that saying? “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”
In our modern world of techno gadgets, automatic dishwashers, and washing machines, we have plenty of free time. Really. We do. We have ample time to explore our passions and do what we love.
So what makes us feel so busy?
Ignorance and fear.
When we are ignorant or fearful of our passion, then we fill our time with distractions and busy-ness that keep us from doing our true life’s work. Educating our true desires is our most important life’s work. In other words, learning who we are and what our life passion is.
Fear comes into play when we know what we passionately want to do, but are afraid that we won’t be successful at it.
Jack Canfield, author of the Chicken Soup for the Soul series of books said that he didn’t know how to write when he began writing. He learned as he went.
We often focus on the end result and what we want our finished work to look like, but we don’t know how to get to that finish line, so we never start.
My favorite quotation is: “It is not our achievements, but our efforts that perfect us.”
Move the focus away from the result and concentrate on the effort.
The finish line won’t come into view until you have already started and ran a good distance of the race.
In setting goals, make sure to determine goals that focus on effort and not result. Usually the results are out of our control, but the effort is in our own hands.
Give yourself permission to start today at whatever level you are at. Do what you knownow, and your knowledge and ability will naturally increase in the process. Once you have decided what you want to do, the universe (God) will put teachers in your path. I promise. It works every time.
Don’t worry if you will be good, if you will become famous, or if you will end up doing your work on a professional level. Don’t worry if you can make money doing it. Don’t stop yourself because you think you need to spend money to get started.
Just start.
Do what is in you power to do now, and naturally your opportunities will increase.
Doors will fly open to you, once you give yourself permission.
I just saw the movie Creation about the life of Charles Darwin. Have you heard of this movie? I don’t have television, so I don’t know what movies get promoted in commercials. I’m guessing that Creation didn’t get much publicity because there were no vampires, no computer graphics and there was only one copy of the shelf at Blockbuster.
I loved it.
And I have three confessions:
1. I only selected it because I was bored, nothing else appealed to me, and it had Paul Bettany and Jennifer Connely on the cover. (One of our Smashing friends thinks she looks like Paul Bettany, so I was curious.)
2. I almost hit the off button several times during the first 30 minutes, but I was too lazy to get out of bed, so I kept watching. Then Darwin reached out of the screen and grabbed my heart out of my chest. I pleaded the rest of the movie for him to put it back.
3. The orangutan made me cry.
I loved this movie on so many levels.
I love a movie that shows me the complex dimensions of a person I previously viewed as a flat image from a textbook. I’d only consideredDarwin as the writer of Origin of Species, but never considered his family life, his personal faith, his inner conflict over contradicting the church. My husband said, “I always thought Charles Darwin was an atheist.”
I loved the movie’s focus on Darwin’s family life, his relationships with his wife, his close friends (including the town minister), and his daughter (oh, my heart is breaking again thinking about his daughter).
I loved the orangutan.
Anyone who can make a movie where the orangutan makes you cry has got mad movie-making skills.
The movie was based on the book, Annie’s Boxwritten by Darwin’s great-grandson Randal Keynes.
I love catching a gem like this that is easily passed over.
What other good, non-mainstream movies do you know about that I could add to my movie treasure chest? I especially love great books-turned-into-movies.
“Creation is always happening. Every time an individual has a thought or a prolonged chronic way of thinking, they’re in the creation process. Something is going to manifest out of those thoughts.” Michael Beckwith
For several years I have practiced conscience, deliberate thinking. This is opposite ofunconscious, automatic thinking which is basically a brain running on autopilot.
I have learned that letting my brain run on autopilot is like letting a herd of stampeding buffalo pull my wagon – my life goes way too fast in too many different directions and hits plenty of unnecessary bumps along the way.
Sometimes my thoughts still get away from me and I fall into old autopilot patterns.
“I have too much to do! I don’t have enough time. I am going to be sooooo busy today.” “What? Another birthday party? I don’t have enough money in the budget to buy another gift.” “My husband never notices or appreciates the things I do. Why am I even married if he doesn’t care a wink about me?”
I don’t know about you, but I got tired and sick of that self-pity party just typing it. Yet, this is a typical pattern of get-away thoughts if I let them run wild.
My daily ride on life’s buckboard is a lot more smooth when I choose to put a couple of well-broken stock horses in the harness. For example:
“I have plenty of time to do the essentials and still have time left over for things I enjoy.”
“I’m glad my kids have good friends. What could we give that he would really enjoy?”
“My husband is amazing. He cleaned up dinner, bathed all the kids, painted mytoenails, and is always available when people need last-minute help.”
The thing about choosing well-trained horses to drive my wagon is that they almost always take me where I want to go. When I let the buffalo drive, I usually find myself on my butt at the bottom of a cliff pulling shreds of smashed wagon board out of my hair.
The hardest part isn’t training the horses; although reigning in wild thoughts does take time and a lot of practice.
For me, the most challenging part is deciding where I want to go. Sometimes its just easier to let the buffalo drive than to take responsibility for the destination I’ve chosen.
This is where I pray for courage to make a choice, break the horses, hitch them to the wagon and holler
“Giddyup!”
mw
“You want to become aware of your thoughts and choose your thoughts carefully and you want to have fun because you are the masterpiece of your own life. You are the Michelangelo of your own life. The David you are sculpting is you.”
Did you know that Donald Rumsfeld never sat down. You know, Donald Rumsfeld, the secretary of defense from that dreaded Republican Bush Era (after yesterday’s elections, I think it’s safe to say “republican” again). He claimed to work more productively standing up, so rather than stretching out his legs from a leather swivel chair pulled up to a glossy mahogany desk, Rumsfeld worked at a standing podium – his main piece of office furniture.
I don’t have to deal with fallout from Abu Graib, but I do think Mr. Rumsfeld is onto something here.
You see, when I have completed the afternoon kindergarten delivery and snuggled baby down for an afternoon nap, the house gets soothingly quiet – oh, welcome solitude – my ideal writing environment. The only problem – the minute I sit down, I fall asleep.
Sitting still is a mother’s worst enemy. This year I have counter-attacked afternoon fatigue by digging up various segments of my yard. Aerobic shoveling done outside where there isn’t a cozy couch or cushy bed singing me a hypnotizing lullaby (like that snake on Jungle Book) helps to suppress my cravings to snooze. And my yard is looking, well, dug up. I do have some new sod and flower beds.
Uh oh. I can hear it now – my bed, only four feet away – my cozy rainbow quilt calling to me, “Come, Snuggle, Snooze, Dream.”
Okay, but just for twenty minutes.
And tomorrow I will build some type of standing laptop pulpit.
