Guarding the Stone

Time.  It's all we have and yet never have enough.

We rush trying to pack in a million things and are blinded to the holiness that surrounds us.  

The wonders of the everyday.  The divine conversations we take part in day after day--all heavenly.

There's a pin ball machine banging in the background.  A baby playing.  And the holy rosary being prayed both on the television and in my head.

I stop.  Slow.  Listen.  I breathe in holiness and deliberate how to seal it in--like the stone rolled in front of the tomb.  

And yet like the body of Jesus disappearing, the peace inevitably finds a way to escape.  The one guarding the stone falls asleep at least twenty tines a day.

A type of sleep apnea of the soul, I presume.

Racked sleep and cessation of breathing in holiness.

Today, I fight to stay awake.  To keep watch over the stone.  To seal in those things that are good and Spirit-filled.

Things that are divine, barely spoken, beautiful.  

I hide them in my heart and stand guard.

Silence in the circus?

I like to read about different religions and belief systems.  Not because I'm ready to jump ship on what I believe, but because I think that valuable teachings can be learned from most philosophies.

I am a little obsessed with things that are calming.  Why?  Probably because I love quiet, candles and Norah Jones and I live in a house with a (super-cute) husband and four noisy (but also super-cute) kids.  I crave the sound of soft piano music flowing out of Pandora.  When I do get the chance to be all alone, I light all of my votives, get out my knitting and perhaps listen to a book on cd.  It just doesn't get much better than that.  (I am acutely aware of how those words depict me as a 75-year old woman).

However, this is most often not my reality.  My reality is more like being woken up with a blow horn in your ear.  "Wake up!  On your toes!  No dilly-dallying, sister!!"  My reality is always feeling like I have to be "on."  If I dare sit down, it is a signal to all of the children to climb on me like a brand new jungle gym.  Or to request a snack...or a butt-wiper (of which I am said to hold the title--not bragging, just sayin'.)  

It's hard when the way you want things and the way things are don't always coincide.  Please note, I am not saying that I don't dearly love my children or wishing away the beautiful chaos that ensues daily.  I am simply saying that it can be difficult for a person who so enjoys quiet to very rarely get any.

Soooo, as of late, I've checked out some books from the library on meditation and the Buddhist practice of embracing silence.  Silence is not always referencing the absence of sound.  It is the quieting of the mind even when there is chatter and sound all around you.  It is learning to be fully present to each moment of your day and saying, "Just this."  

The "Just This" principle is one I read about in a book.  As you are buttoning your child's coat, think, "Just this."  The feel of the cold zipper in your fingers.  You engaging your child.

As you are walking in your backyard, think, "Just this."  The crunching of the grass beneath your shoes.  The feel of your feet against the earth.  The sound of the wind rustling the trees.  

As your child is rambling on and on about what, you don't know.  Stop, look at him and think, "Just this."  These words.  This interaction.  Is this the first time you really saw him today?

If you want to read more about embracing silence, here is a great article by a Catholic Priest, Gus Gordon.  In it, he speaks of the value of the Buddhist elevation of silence and how it can impact our lives.  And ultimately, how it is there that we can experience God and love.

"My own personal task is not simply that of poet and writer (still less commentator, pseudo-prophet); it is basically to praise God out of an inner center of silence, gratitude, and ‘awareness.’ This can be realized in a life that apparently accomplishes nothing. Without centering on accomplishment or nonaccomplishment, my task is simply the breathing of this gratitude from day to day, in simplicity, and for the rest turning my hand to whatever comes, work being part of praise, whether splitting logs or writing poems, or best of all simple notes." -Thomas Merton

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History Repeats Itself, Sandy Hook and Judas

On December 14th, 2012 at around 9:30 a.m., twenty-six people were killed at Sandy Hook Elementary School by a 20-year old kid with a gun.  Twenty of them were children--first graders. 

On December 14th, 2012 around 6:30 p.m., we bundled our children until they couldn't move their arms to attend Holiday Nights at the Henry Ford Village.  As I buttoned their coats, I pulled them close and pressed my cheek against theirs. 

It felt wrong that we should be doing anything so enjoyable while mothers and fathers were sick with grief.  It felt wrong that worlds were shattered, but ours was still in tact.  

We walked through the Village arm in arm.  We smiled and talked about our week pretending that all was right with the world.

It was cold out and our breath rolled off of our lips in a white fog.

"What's that?" my four-year old wondered aloud.

"It's your breath," I said.

"What's bref?" he asked.

"It's air that flows in and out of your body," I grappled with words, "It tells us that you are breathing."

"What's breaving?"

"It tells us that you are alive," I answered.  The words hung heavy in the air.  

Our sweet child was alive.  And twenty-six others were not.  Adults and children whose lives were ended in the blink of an eye.

I won't lie.  I stood grateful.  God, was I grateful.  But I fully recognized that another mother sat telling her little boy that his sister would not be coming home from school that day.  Not ever.

Bonfires glowed and hands felt the rough bark of sticks that browned marshmallows.  Carolers sang in tightly-knit circles, their hands being warmed by furry muffs.

Silent Night echoed throughout the moonlit streets.  We listened and prayed in our hearts for those whose night was not silent at all, but filled with the sobs that wake you even in your sleep.

We listened to horses trot, drank hot apple cider and earnestly longed for a time when living seemed gentler.

We sang about the birth of the One and mourned the death of so many.

We warmed our children's hands with our own and thanked God for one more day.

Innocent blood was shed.

Two thousand years ago and a million times in between.  It's the age old tragedy of the human condition.

Children who did nothing wrong at the mercy of a deranged man with a gun.

A man who did nothing wrong, but was betrayed with a kiss by his companion. 

Mothers wept.

Men suffered.

Judas hung himself.  A murder suicide.

Betrayal.

Anger.

So many questions.

Revenge upon the innocent.

A heart grieved.

And yet again, we find ourselves hoping for redemption.  Praying for peace.  We wring our hands and beg to be delivered from such suffering.

Today and two thousand years ago...and a million times in between, we pray, "Come, Lord Jesus, come."

My bucket list in progress...

My Bucket List: 

Go back to Italy to visit my dear friends.

Make homemade pasta!

Go whale watching in Prince Edward Island, Canada.

Run a marathon...or maybe a half marathon. ;-)

Visit Ireland with my husband.

Make homemade bread.

Be able to to sight read piano music.

Write a novel...or five.

 Make my stomach look like it did before I had kids.  (That would mean I have to stop eating those chocolate-covered toffee bars that are addictive...and I'm not totally sure how I feel about that).

Make a strawberry-rhubarb pie from scratch.

Take swing dancing lessons.

Knit something really cute (after I find some hypoallergenic yard--ugh...).

Take karate with my kids?? (I still haven't decided on that one).

See the Holy Land.

Buy a metal chicken...because it's funny. 

There are some things I've already done that have made my bucket a little fuller:

Sleep on a sandy beach next to the ocean.

 Laugh until I cry.

Sneak in to a fancy hotel in the middle of the night and go swimming.

Visit Italy and speak semi-fluent Italian (that's all gone now--it's been 15 years).

Observe monks praying in a pagoda.

Visit a third-world country.

Take the train to Chicago.

Get a college degree.

Live in one place for more than three years.

Get married to a wonderful man and have four amazing kids.

 And then there are some things that just can't be checked off a list:

 Love with complete vulnerability. 

Be a faithful friend and companion.

Make my kids feel loved every day.

Make my husband feel valued and treasured every day.

 Allow God to use even a flawed person like me.



I know there is a lot more, so I'll add to the list as I think of things.  What about you?  What's at the top of your bucket list?  What are the things up to now you are most happy you have experienced?  Oooohhhh, this is fun.  I can't wait to hear your answers!


 

Why we homeschool

People often ask me why we decided to homeschool, so I thought I would answer that question in a blog post, both for myself and for others.  

For the last couple of years, Super Boy had been coming home with hours of homework at night.  Hours.  I spoke with his teacher(s) who told me that he really shouldn't have that much, but that he wasn't getting it done in class.  Okay, so my kid is a space cadet.  

Tell me something I don't know.  

I talked to other moms and yes, there were days when he just wasn't getting his work done, but it turns out there were a lot of days when the homework was piled on--not just for Super Boy, but for everyone.  Four pages in an English workbook might be assigned.  Four pages is a lot for a third grader who has been in school all day long and really needs to run around like a crazy nut to work off some energy! 

Then there was the feast or famine thing.  

There would be no homework for days.  And then there would be homework from 4:00-10:00 p.m.  (This was most days).  Yeah, I pretty much would've rather eaten chalk than suffer through those nights.  Because Super Boy has a very active mind (i.e. can get distracted by something as simple as a loose thread or the fringe of his paper), I had to stay right on top of him.

But there was still dinner to cook, dishes to clean, floors to sweep, babies to change, homework to do with Cindy Lou Who and baths to give.  Where was I supposed to fit all of that in?  

I was maxed out.  Completely.  We all were.

Then there was the "you have to memorize this to pass a test and get a good grade" thing.  Don't get me wrong--I recognize that memorization is necessary.  I believe it is beneficial.  However, I do think it has to be coupled with teaching kids strategies for remembering and a true understanding of the material. 

Yeah, we didn't have time for all that.  We were trying to make it through to the next day when we would repeat the whole thing over again.

The kids started to dislike school.  Okay, not to sound super-nerdy (which I already know I am), but learning is fun!  Really, there are so many amazing things to learn and that gets lost when kids are force-fed information.

I want my kids to have a true love of learning.  To understand how things work.   To be hungry to know more.  

Since we've started homeschooling, I've seen this in full bloom and it has been a beautiful thing to watch.  Every day isn't roses, I can assure you!  However, because we can pore over books and play with math (both my kids and myself used to despise math, and now we LOVE it because of this amazing manipulative-based program!), they are enamored with learning.  

And I guess having four kids makes you more controlling of your schedule.  Poor Ralphie...there were days when I would say, "I'm so sorry, I promise I won't take you in and out of your car seat one more time."  We were constantly on the go.

I decided that it would be easier for me to teach the children at home when it was convenient for me (in the morning, not at the dinner-hour rush).  The amount of time I was spending on sifting through the ever-growing pile of flyers and "Don't forget your cake raffle money" reminders, could be spent intimately teaching my kids.  

There is time to be a kid.  Time to explore.  Time to be creative. 

Disclaimer: I know this is not for everyone.  I have never been the one who says homeschooling is a good fit for every child.  Or that parents who homeschool get a gold star.  On the contrary, I am amazed by women whose kids are in school and can balance everything.  I couldn't keep up and I didn't like how it morphed me in to Cruella DeVille.  Or how stressed out it made my kids.

Some assume that if you're homeschooling, you're a religious nut or that you have to wear jean jumpers (which, I won't lie, I used to have one but it was only because it had big pockets on the front that I could put pencils in and I know that's really nerdy, but I don't have it anymore, I swear).  

There are many, many reasons for homeschooling.  But this is a general overview of why we did.  And that whole socialization thing that people always bring up?  If you have spent any time with my children you will know two things:

1) They love people and love to interact with others who are both like and unlike themselves.
2) Our family was weird before we ever started homeschooling.  There was no hope for us to begin with.

Why I should not have taken Dynamite to Staples

All I wanted were two very simple student planners.  No frills--just something to write down my kids’ individual assignments in.  After church, I ask my dear husband, “Do you mind if I just shoot over to Staples for a few minutes?  I just need to run in really quick.”  

Then Dynamite and Cindy-Lou Who chime in, “We want to go too!  Can we go too?”

“Okay,” I say, “that’s fine.  But it’s just going to be a quick trip.  In and out.”

Like that would ever happen…

Two minutes in to my perusing the clearance rack for some discounted planners, I notice Cindy Lou Who doing the pee-pee dance. 

 

“Do you need to use the bathroom?”  I ask.

“The very tiniest bit, Mom” she says holding up her index finger and thumb to give me a visual.

“Mm-hmmm.”

Now to find a bathroom.  We find a store employee and are pointed to the bathroom. 

 

“Okay, just go potty and I’ll wait out here for you,” I tell her.

Now, here is where the story twists.  That’s right, my friends.  In just a moment, it can all fall apart.

“I have to go potty too!!” Dynamite chimes in.

Oh man.  This is the kid whose butt is so little, he has to scoot all the way back on the toilet seat so he doesn’t fall in.  This is the kid who still hasn’t mastered the art of aiming and leaves “art work” for me to find on my shower curtain. 

There’s no, “Just go in and come out” anymore.  That ship has sailed.  So, the three of us trudge in to the bathroom.

It smells like…well, poop.  There you have it.  It totally smells like poop.

 

The toilet is splattered and disgusting and I really don’t want my kids sitting on it.  I get out my all-purpose baby wipes and meticulously wipe the seat.  Then, I lay out strands of toilet paper for the child who only needs to go to the bathroom the tiniest bit, but is doing this amazing number that reminds me of Lord of the Dance.

As I’m trying to do damage control, Dynamite says what we’re all thinking (but not really):

“It smells wike pwetzels in here or sumping.”  Probably not the first thing I would analogize the smell to, but I guess pretzels do have a different kind of smell sometimes.

As he’s doing what he needs to do, I can be overheard saying, “Point your peeper down.  Dynamite, do not pee on your underwear.  Make sure it’s pointed down.”

He’s agreeable and understands, I’m quite certain, that mommy is just doing a very quick in and out trip to the office supply.  He totally gets it that I just need two freaking little notebooks that would’ve taken me five-minutes tops if I had only come alone.

 

“Um, I fink my undapants are wet,” he says as he’s getting off the toilet-paper lined seat.

“Seriously?”

“I fink so.”

Now, perhaps any good mother would’ve said, “Okay, let’s go home right this minute.  We need to change your clothes.”

But I didn’t.  Because sometimes I'm not a good mother.  Sometimes I'm a very utilitarian kind of mother.  And I really needed two measly little notebooks and I was out with only two kids instead of four.

 

So I said, “Okay, I don’t think they’re that wet.  Let mommy just find these (insert naughty word that I said in my head so only I could hear it and prayed later that God would cleanse my heart and help me stop thinking those naughty words when I’m frustrated) notebooks.”

Dynamite walks around pinching the seam of his pants and pulling it out so it doesn’t touch his rear end. 

 

“My pants is wet, Mom.”

I’m beginning to think they’re a little more wet than I realize

.

I grab some cute stripey paper-clips as a consolation that I am not getting my notebooks, but at least I will have gotten something that I needed (read: helped ease my feelings of defeat). 

And that is why, next time, I will leave Dynamite and Cindy-Lou Who at home when I need to get two little things at Staples.

On Aging

As we were eating dinner the other night, Super-boy asked with much seriousness, "Do you hate getting old?"

It caught me by surprise.  Did he somehow know that I've been wrestling daily with thoughts of aging?  

Or see me trying to disguise those fine lines with my newly-found primer product?  

Did he know that I feel a constant stirring in my soul to accomplish something of magnitude before this heart stops beating?

The awareness of how short my life really is is always upon me.  But do I hate getting older?

I won't lie.  Maybe a little.  But not much.

If we lived forever, perhaps we wouldn't feel that sense of urgency that begs us, "Do something beautiful with your life!  Your days are numbered!"

Life gets increasingly precious as another sun rises and sets.

Along with the lines on my face reminding me that I'm aging, my hope is that wisdom and grace run a little deeper as well.

There is a beauty in getting older.  I've learned to love myself...even my ugly feet.

I've learned that time and experience are continually shaping us in to what we are meant to be.

That flaws can be lovely.

That life is precious. 

I've learned to listen to the little voices in my head inspiring me to be better.

Listen harder.

Break out of that man-created box.

Do I hate getting older?  No way.  If I continue to grow in goodness and joy, I should be just about ripe for picking at a hundred and two.

"Nobody grows old merely by living a number of years. We grow old by deserting our ideals. Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul." -Samuel Ullman