Travelers

Heading off to visit with Aunt Beth in Virginia for a week. I miss'em already! (But man, I sure don't want to spend 10 hours on a bus again soon!)

Think through it before you do it

Those of you who know me know that I'm a woman of faith. I don't spout scripture on the subway, or force my beliefs down the throats of others; my philosophy is that you ought to be able to tell what I believe by how I live. 

Nevertheless, one of my favorite regular freelance jobs is writing a monthly Bible club letter. It's a letter with a practical bent, a missive that aims to help people put what they believe into action. I get to choose which topics I want to write about. Since publishing works with a long lead time, I'm currently finishing up the December edition. You'd think this calls for a discussion of joy at the birth of Christ, or perhaps humility (what with the stable and all), but I've chosen to write about temptation. For most of us, there's a lot of temptation in December: temptation to eat too much, drink too much, do too much, give too much.

Here's a thought to give you pause: studies show that resolving not to do something increases the odds that you'll do it. Willpower isn't the ticket to defeating temptation. Planning is.

If you stop to ponder it, this makes sense. Most of the temptations we face are pretty obvious. They show up consistently, in predictable places, and under foreseeable circumstances. If you're going to a party, there will be food, and there will be drink, and there will be a tendency to gossip. Resolving not to give in isn't nearly as effective as planning ahead of time how you're going to keep yourself from nibbling all night, or deciding what you're going to do instead of having that third glass of wine, or who you'll stay away from (and how) so your tongue doesn't start wagging.

We all have patterns that underlie how, when, where and with whom we do things we later wish we hadn't done. Figuring out what those patterns are -- and figuring out specific strategies ahead of time for skirting that rut -- improves our likelihood of success.

As a side note, there's a temptation to think of temptations as 100% onerous, but that may not be true. If I truly want to become a better person, an inventory of my temptations can be quite helpful in showing me where I need to get to work.

Busy brain

Yesterday a friend took Snuggler and Little Guy to an event elsewhere in the city for most of the day. Dancer had a sleepover, followed by a ballet class, and wasn't expected home until about 2:30. Suddenly, unexpectedly, I had a decent-size block of time to myself.

After about two hours of working intensely, I decided to do some errands. Here is what was on my shopping list:

1. Plaster of Paris. Little Guy wants to start a business making sidewalk chalk to sell at the playground.
2. Masking tape, for the whole-wall marble run Little Guy is building from salvaged toilet paper tubes. 
3. A birthday present for a 6-year old boy.
4. Liquid glycerin. I'd promised the kids a few gallons of bubble liquid, so we could experiment with 3-D shapes with our Zome Tools. (This kit makes an awesome birthday present, though it's hard to find in stores.) I couldn't find liquid glycerin, so I bought suppositories and dissolved them in hot water before mixing in the Dawn and cold water. It worked.
5. Grout, for some falling-off bathroom tiles. Again.
6. Odds and ends from the drug store for Dancer's upcoming journey to sleepaway camp.

Once my errands were completed -- alone! without complaints! -- I realized I still had half an hour before anyone was due to arrive home. This never happens. Never. I went into a Starbucks, and guiltily spent nearly $4 on a Frappucino. I didn't have a book. I didn't have a laptop. I didn't have anyone to talk to or tend to. And what do you think happened?

Did I think about all the things I haven't had time to think about? No.

Did I pray about the things I haven't had time to pray about? No.

Did I relax and let the tension pour off of me? No. I sat and listened to my brain, and it sounded for all the world like channel surfing. I'd have half a thought, and then half another one, and half of a third. No one idea stayed put long enough to be pursued. It was the mental equivalent of a game the kids and I play on the subway: Twenty Nonsequiturs. Get me outta here!

Abandoning my precious seat in the air conditioning, I went outside and walked quickly, sticky in the heat. I arrived home to find Dancer already here. I sat down to do some more work, and felt myself pushing away one kind of mental noise after another. But at least I knew it wasn't someone else's fault. It wasn't that the kids were interrupting (though they often do). It wasn't that the phone was ringing (though it often does). I didn't have to go somewhere, or do something, or get more chores done. It was simply my overstimulated brain.

Somehow, I found that rather comforting.

Congrats, Eldest!

Today was Eldest's last full day of high school. She goes in on Monday to get her report card, but that's it. No graduation (she applied to college as a junior), no yearbook (she'll buy next year's edition), no party (I offered). Just a normal day, the last of its kind. I think she has some mild regrets about this unusual path, but nothing substantial. She's off playing Dungeons and Dragons with friends tonight.

I guess congratulations of some sort are in order, no?

Eldest, you survived.
You showed up regularly, and on time.
You figured out the difference between their standards and your standards, and set the bar where you wanted it to be.
You made friends.
You learned how to be a friend.
You chose to be generous in helping others who were struggling academically.
You discovered some of your weaknesses (that's a plus -- at least you know!)
You were yourself, through and through.
Your teachers admire you.
Your friends think you have character.

I know I'm just your mom, and that I'm supposed to say nice things about you. You make it easy to do that. Even if you were someone else's kid I'd exclaim over what an interesting person you're becoming.

Happy last (real) day of high school. I love you.

I liked this post about the picture, 'Loneliness' by Gloria Neel:

For many years, Journal of a Solitude by May Sarton ranked among my favorite books. I haven't re-read it in two decades, so I don't know if I'd like it as much today as I did when I was single. I liked my solitude then, and I still like it (when I get it) now. It's the bright side of the moon of loneliness.

If you are an introvert, solitude is the stuff through which you find resilience and your peace is restored. This probably sounds laughable coming from someone with five kids; alone takes on an aura of fantasy when you're a mom. However, I've learned that what external circumstances don't provide, I can still sometimes find in pockets of my heart. There is a still, quiet place within me that can be nourished regardless of who or what is swirling around. It takes work to find that place, and to keep it healthy. I can't always go there at will. But it's there, and that's good.

I look at Gloria Neel's painting, and can imagine myself sitting in that chair, very content to be alone. I can also envision myself on a different day, bleeding with the loneliness she intended to portray. Then I can imagine myself with leg draped over the chair arm, typing away on a laptop, completely oblivious to the emptiness of the world around me. In some ways that's the most alarming idea; I wonder if and when technology will become so iconic of isolation that it makes its way into art.


Many wonderful people have reached out to me in the past week, concerned about my family's struggles. Sometimes one feels lonely in the midst of a crisis. I do not feel that way at all. There are senses in which we are very alone, but it is not because we lack for caring friends. Not at all. Thanks.

We had a plot twist in the Big Guy saga yesterday. It's good news on one level, but hard news on another. Kind of like trading a cluster migraine for a perforated ulcer. In keeping with the general theme of the past week, there are strong mixed feelings everywhere we turn.

As that was unfolding, I took my four other children to the beach. It's a long, long trip, but the beach wasn't crowded, the weather was perfect, and the water was calm. I sat under the umbrella and let the background noises of waves crashing and seagulls squawking and little kids (not mine) crying and accented calls of Cold beer! Corona! soothe my soul. The sounds of a jazz band playing 1940's hits drifted in from the boardwalk.

At certain junctures there is something nice about being among people without having to talk to them. I read a book, and let life waft about me, and for a while I was lifted up into the realm of normal.

This morning, as Little Guy and I returned from walking Murphy the Dog for the last time, my dear son was being quite annoying. It's his way of showing he's upset, especially lately. Rather than tell him to knock it off (which doesn't usually work well, anyway, and isn't a good strategy when I'm irritable) I picked him up. This is possible because he really is a little guy, just growing out of size 4 clothes and weighing in at a mere 44 pounds.


As I walked down the street with my suddenly quiet boy in my arms, I had a visceral memory of holding Big Guy at about the same age. All in an instant the tears poured out. They came so fast I could barely see where I was walking. I couldn't think, couldn't talk. I held my six year old close, blinking rapidly, trying not to sob and upset him. I thought, "Grief is the thing that sneaks up on you."

But the phrase calls to mind Emily Dickinson, who had a much better thought:

     Hope is the thing with feathers
     That perches in the soul,
     And sings the tune without the words,
     And never stops at all,

     And sweetest in the gale is heard;
     And sore must be the storm
     That could abash the little bird
     That kept so many warm.

     I've heard it in the chilliest land
     And on the strangest sea;
     Yet, never, in extremity,
     It asked a crumb of me.

I hope that things will get better for my family, though I'm aware they might not. This leads me to think that hope is bigger than wishing for a specific outcome. Hope exists on a deeper level, contingent more on what we choose to believe about life than on what happens in a particular situation. I have that kind of hope. I hope you do, too.