Accepting What Is

It is funny (ironic?) that the hardest thing, for me, about parenting is the thing that requires that I be true to some of my own deepest held philosophical and spiritual beliefs: accepting what is.

This is something I read again and again in my daily Krishnamurti meditations. Sorrow, conflict, difficulty in life come from being in denial of what is. I believe this is at the heart of the haum mantra. Freedom from suffering does not mean that "bad" things don't happen to you. It means you can get through them. But you have to start by accepting what is.

Accepting what is does not mean having an attitude of defeat, of giving up because you can't change things. It is just that you can not react appropriately to a situation if you are not honest with yourself about what that situation actually is. It is too easy to get caught up wishing the situation were different. It's like improv with whatever life throws your way. Saying "no" disrupts the performance. But you don't just have to say "yes." It's "yes, and."

So, when we are at a restaurant and Virginia is touching the salt and pepper shakers and dropping her crayons on the floor and spilling her juice and whining, I could tell her over and over again "stop that, stop that." And sometimes that is how things go and it is frustrating for both of us. But at my best moments, I am honest with myself about what is. Virginia can't really do what I'm asking her to do. She is only five. She is tired, bored, hungry (if the food hasn't come yet). At my best I accept the situation and act according to the situation as it is. Yes Virginia is having a hard time behaving in the restaurant and so I ask her to play I Spy with me, or we make up a story together, or we name an animal that starts with every letter of the alphabet. If I accept the situation I can react differently and everyone is happier.

Even more challenging are Horatio's tantrums over things like his granola bar breaking in half. My immediate thought is that this is dumb. The granola bar is still good, and why can't he eat it like that?!! But that is not accepting what is. Yes a broken granola bar is (sometimes) devastating when you are three and I can be in that place with him until he calms down. If I start from the place of believing his feelings are unjustified he only gets more upset. This one is extra tricky because even though he appreciates it when I empathize with him, he sometimes stays unhappy that his granola bar is broken. I can't always "fix" this problem even at my "best." But it does go better when I honor his feelings.

The thing is that even though I recognize that responding to my children in this way is really better for all of us, even though I want to live my life always saying "yes, and" to what is, it is so hard and I don't always do it. It is tempting to wish that Virginia could be a perfect lady in restaurants and Horatio wouldn't cry over broken granola bars. But that isn't the way they are. And as much as I want to always accept what is, what is right now is that I often fall short. Yes, I fall short, and...

My name is...

Virginia's teachers came by the house to meet her last week in preparation for the start of Kindergarten. One of the questions they asked (when Virginia let them get a word in edgewise) was what she liked to be called.

Virginia is easy, because she goes by her first name. But we can take some comfort in knowing that on Horatio's first day of school, a couple years form now, he will not have to raise his hand to "William" during role call and then say, "Actually, I go by Horatio."

Although, I do fully expect that by the time he is five he will have that sentence down. Currently when I call him by other names like Peanut, or Manzilla, or Handsome Devil he says, "I not Peanut! I 'Ratio!" I still get away with calling him Buns, because I've convinced him his full name is William Horatio Honeybuns Nelson.

With new, kid-friendly, systems in place, my children's teachers will already know what to call them on the first day. And they will be spared embarrassment.

Until... Latin class.

I had a college Latin professor who was fond of having the entire class decline names in unison. Not all English names decline in Latin (Sarah doesn't, unless you leave off the -h) but we had Latin names for the class that did.

On a side note, our teacher chose our Latin names to be as close as possible in meaning to our given names. My Latin name was Regina, because Sarah means "princess" and Regina means "queen." We did have the option of asking for a different name but I only remember one person taking advantage of this. He wanted to be called Janus. A few days later I saw him creeping around my dorm trying to follow someone through the door (we had hand scanners). Janus was not such a master of portals after all.

Anyway, not only did this professor have the class decline all of our names, but he had us decline the names of visitors as well. When my sister, Amanda visited:

"Surgite, Amanda!"

He made her stand up in front of the class.

"Vos omnes, declinate Amanda."

The class responded:
"Amanda
Amandae
Amandae
Amandam
Amanda
O Amanda
Amandae
Amandarum
Amandis
Amandas
Amandis
O Amandae"

As it turns out, Virginia's name declines perfectly.

Surgite, Virginia!

Vos omnes, declinate Virginia.

Virginia
Virginiae
Virginiae
Virginiam
Virginia
O Virginia
Virginiae
Virginiarum
Virginiis
Virginias
Virginiis
O Virginiae

Horatio's name got a little corrupted from the original Latin. But, it comes from Horatius:

Surgite, Horatius!

Vos omnes, declinate Horatius.

Horatius
Horatii
Horatio
Horatium
Horatio
O Horati
Horatii
Horatiorum
Horatiis
Horatios
Horatiis
O Horatii

The cats (Socrates and Penelope) got Greek names. The kids got Latin names. And Latin names bear hidden gifts.

A little bit of a psychopath

At the beginning of the summer, during a dinner between Atlanta Fringe performances with family and friends, the conversation drifted to that bit of wisdom from Law and Order about how psychopaths often began by torturing animals as children. We were all nodding sagely when my stepbrother said, "I mean, haven't we all tortured an animal at least once?"

I thought, "Not me!" I was a vegetarian for four years. I don't kill spiders. I adopted pets that needed homes. I am love animals!

Except...

Artistic rendering of moon jellies from markshasha.com

Beautiful, right? Elegant. They glow in the dark at night, too. Imagine being in a boat in the evening looking into water as luminous as the starry sky above. 

I was the death of many a poor moon jelly. During the summers that my sister and I spent in Long Island we went to the beach with our cousins multiple times a week. As groups of children do, we invented new games to play. We tied our beach towels like capes and jumped from the bulkhead onto the sand. We dug canals. And we raced melting moon jellies down the wooden stair railing. 

The water was full of the creatures, which bumped up against us as we swam, sometimes putting us into a panic, wondering if we would get stung. We knew the moon jellies didn't sting, but there were occasionally red jellyfish in the water that did, and when you didn't see what you bumped it was a little disconcerting. 

The moon jellies didn't sting. They didn't even appear to have tentacles. Just little blobs of jelly. We would catch some and put them in buckets. Then two contenders would choose their jellies. They would each place their jelly at the top of the railing and release. The jellies would slowly slide down the railing, but as they did, they evaporated. There might be nothing left before the jelly made it to the end. 

I did this. I'm not proud of it. But is it true, do you think? Have we all, at least once, acted like a psychopath?

Virginia Looses Her First Tooth

A couple of weeks ago John and I arrived a little early to pick the kids up from their half-day at preschool. They were both still eating lunch. I sat down with Virginia and John hung out with Horatio.

While Virginia was eating she said, "Momma, my tooth feels funny."

"Did anything happen to it?" I asked.

"I don't know."

And then, because once you have been parenting long enough you are over the whole germ thing, I reached inside her mouth and felt her tooth. It was loose!

I was shocked. She didn't get her teeth in a hurry. I figured I had at least until she was 6 before they would start falling out.

Virginia started playing with the tooth, and it quickly became very loose.

Snaggletooth.

The next day there was a little more than the usual amount of drama at meal times. Virginia insisted on using her tooth to bite, probably to make it more loose, but then complained about the pain most piteously, and ate at the pace of the slowest snail. 

That afternoon the kids built a fort in the living room and asked to sleep in it that night. John and I agreed to this. We set them up with blankets and pillows and then went up to our room and watched Hulu on John's laptop (because the kids were in the room with the television). 

There were some noises from downstairs. We figured the kids would wind down and fall asleep on their own in a few minutes. But then, wailing. From both of them. Utterly heartbroken wailing. 

We went downstairs. Virginia cried, "Horatio cut my tooth out with his sharpest nail and it's gone FOREVER."

She hadn't just lost her tooth. She had LOST her tooth. And, you know, without the tooth, how can you trade the tooth fairy for coins?

After some snuggles and calming conversation we figured out that Horatio had run into Virginia's mouth by accident (with his sharpest nail, apparently) while they were playing in the fort. John lifted up blankets and pillows and found the tooth (not lost forever after all).

The tooth went in a plastic bag under the pillow and Virginia did receive 4 quarters from the very stealthy tooth fairy who even makes calls to living room forts. 

Gaptooth.

Now when you ask Virginia about loosing her first tooth, if Horatio is present he will proudly announce, "I helped!"

That time someone helped me instead of judging me

It was last winter. John was working in Georgia for a few days, and I was doing that thing I do sometimes where I insisted on trying to do things that can be a little difficult to do with one adult and two children because, damn it, I got this.

Horatio needed a better winter coat and both kids needed gloves or mittens. I took all three of us to a thrift store to see if we could find any of these items for cheap, and did see a pretty good looking toddler coat. While I was looking for mittens, Virginia announced that she needed to use the bathroom.

I looked around the edges of the store, and did not see a sign for restrooms. Then I asked at the checkout, "Do you have a bathroom we could use?" I knew there had to be a staff bathroom at the very least, and maybe they would take pity on me.

"It's out of toilet paper."

I whispered with Virginia about what kind of business she had to do and was about to argue that we could do without toilet paper if necessary, when the woman said. "Why don't you just go to Whole Foods?"

Whole Foods was a couple of stores down the shopping center and did have a very nice bathroom. I put down the coat and hustled the children out. We marched across the front of Whole Foods, straight for the bathroom. We walked into the Ladies' and towards the open handicapped stall, where Virginia froze in the doorway. It was an automatic flush toilet.

Virginia does not like automatic flush toilets. They are loud, and sometimes flush unexpectedly because the sensor is made for adult-sized people. We had had some difficulties with this before, but on this particular night, Virginia flat out refused to use the toilet. My patience was wearing a little thin and I was prepared to put her on the stupid toilet with or without her help, when a young woman entered the bathroom.

She didn't have any children with her. It is possible she was a mother, but she struck me as more of a college student who maybe nannys. She saw what was happening, to my great embarrassment, and smiling calmly said, "You can tie toilet paper over the sensor."

I thanked her sheepishly, locked the door, and covered the sensor with toilet paper. After I convinced Virginia that the toilet couldn't see her anymore, and wouldn't flush, she agreed to use it. Then we went back to the thrift store and bought the coat. And we bought new, overpriced mittens, at another shop.

As you might guess, we have to tie toilet paper around automatic flush sensors all the time now. Virginia doesn't get upset about using them anymore. And I remember that one time, when I was not at my best, someone understood and was kind.

Two Short Funny Stories

John's back has been hurting, so the other afternoon I offered to give him a massage. He laid down on the living room floor and I started rubbing his back. I looked up, and our cat Penelope was eying me from the futon. She sleeps there pretty much all day. She sat up and gave me a look. Then she opened her little mouth an meowed at me accusingly. She was jealous that I was petting John and not her!

Penelope crushing the futon.

At dinner recently, John got up from the table to get a beer. "Don't drink that, Daddy!" Virginia shouted. "You'll get drunk!"
"What are you talking about" I asked her.
"He already had a glass of wine!"
I said, "Virginia, Daddy can have two drinks and not get drunk. Now, if I had two drinks, I would be 'woooo'... fun."
Virginia looked at me conspiratorially. "Momma, you should have a beer."

Woo fun without beers.

The Ballad of the Birth Certificate

This is a story I'm working on. It is meant to have musical accompaniment, which will take me a little while to perfect. Although this account has obviously undergone some artistic interpretation it is based on real events.

Virginia is the daughter of a storyteller and a lawyer, so she came out telling stories and arguing. And because the next generation always has to add something on, she came out singing songs, too.

"I'm a rambler and a gambler a long way from home. If the people don't like me they can leave me alone."

Virginia picked up the guitar, ukulele, cow bell, recorder, kazoo, harmonica, train whistle, drum, tambourine, any instrument she could find. She couldn’t quite reach the piano keys, but she got pretty good with the iphone app.

Virginia was burdened, as many children are, with parents who seemed determined to make her life hard, so she often played the blues.

Before she was even born Virginia’s parents were making her life hard. They made the very unconventional decision to have Virginia at home, which meant that Virginia had to acquire her own birth certificate.

She filled out the paperwork as best she could, she was only a baby, and then took herself down to the courthouse. You may wonder how she got to the courthouse and there is only one way for a rambling one-baby-band to travel, by The Wabash Cannonball.

Virginia jumped off the train, hit the ground with three or four instruments tumbling around beside her, and then went through security at the courthouse. All her cases were scanned by the x-ray machine and when security saw that there was nothing in them but music-making devices they let her through to the Probate Court.

Virginia couldn’t quite see over the counter at Probate Court so she stacked up all her instrument cases and slid her form through the window. The woman behind the window told Virginia she hadn’t properly filled out the little boxes.

“These little boxes, little boxes, little boxes made of ticky-tacky” said Virginia, “pertain to the home where I was homebirthed. You see my parents don’t own or rent that home. My Sugar, that’s my Grandma, lets us live in her house for free. She wrote up a statement saying so, it’s all here.”

That Probate Court lady was just listening to Virginia and smiling and talking with her about those little boxes that weren’t properly filled out. But a singing one-baby-band does not go unnoticed and the Probate Court lady’s manager stepped up to the counter.

“We can’t file this form.”

“Why not?”

“Those boxes aren’t filled out right. I’m not going to waste my time by filing this  

incorrectly filled out form.”

“I don’t have the information those boxes are asking for.”

“Only illegals, poor people, and hippies don't have birth certificates. The form should be hard to fill out. Not just anybody can be an American citizen.”

“Are you really going to deny me a birth certificate over those boxes, little boxes, little boxes made of ticky-tacky? There’s no arguing that I got born. I’m standing right here.”

Crash!

Virginia was standing right there until her tower of instrument cases fell over leaving her dangling by her fingertips from the counter. At that moment a sheriff's deputy caught her, set her on the ground, and told her to leave the Probate Court.

Virginia dusted herself off. “I’m trying to get a birth certificate…”

“You threatened this woman.”

“I didn’t…”

“She pushed the emergency call button.”

Virginia had no choice but to follow the deputy into the lobby.

“Look, sir, there has been a misunderstanding. I’m just a baby. A one-baby-band. I didn’t threaten anybody.”

Three more deputies showed up. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave the courthouse.”

“What? No. I’m here to file this form so I can get my birth certificate.”

Five more deputies came out of nowhere. They surrounded Virginia. The deputy who had escorted her out of Probate Court pulled out his baton.

“My job is to protect the employees of this courthouse. That woman in the Probate Court felt threatened, so you have to leave… One way or another.”

“You wouldn’t strike a one-baby-band.”

There was a noise between a kathunk and a twang. He brought the baton down on the guitar, cracking it in two.

“You are one baby banned from the courthouse. Now get out.”

She dared a parting shot as she herded her instruments and cases out the door: "You can break my guitar, but you can't break my spirit. I will not be silenced."

Virginia hopped back on the Wabash Cannonball and took it into the big city to talk to Vital Records.

“The Probate Court won’t file this form because I can’t fill in all the little boxes, little boxes, little boxes made of ticky-tacky, but I’ve got some extra information right here that’s just as good. Will you take it?”

“Yes...But it still has to go through Probate Court.”

“The police make it hard wherever I may go…”

“I’ll send them a note explaining your case.”

“Actually, can I send it to them? I have some...things I’d like to include.”

Vital Records wrote the note and handed it to Virginia. Back at home she made up a package with several of her dirty diapers, and the note on top, so they’d be sure to see it, and she sent it off to Probate Court.

She waited a few days to make sure they got the package, then hopped the train to the courthouse. She piled all her instruments on the conveyor belt, where they got x-rayed. And she went back into Probate Court.

Virginia made a tower of her instrument cases and peaked over the counter. The nice lady on the other side said, “Oh, I think we got a note about you. Birth Certificate, right?”

Virginia handed over her form with the notes attached. The nice lady took it from her with a smile. But the manager had noticed Virginia come in. It’s hard to miss a one-baby-band.

She walked up to the counter. “Your note stinks.”

“Sure does, ma’am. Be on the lookout for another one. I’m sending you the bill for my new guitar.”

Doing it Right

I didn't do a post right at the end of the spring semester - the end of the first year of my doctoral program. But I think right now, today, is actually a better time to reflect on this mile marker.

This weekend I completed my first fringe festival, in which I performed with three other talented storytellers as the Bad Ass Storytelling Quartet. We did four shows in four days, and I also told a three-minute story at the preview of all the fringe acts. We met other amazing performers and were surrounded by audience members who appreciated art for art's sake. I've recently resolved to look for more opportunities that allow me to be myself and not worry as much about the ones that would require me to change my shape to fit the mold. Fringe is an excellent place to be yourself and, for the most part, fringe attendees are really into it.

Our group did get the audience choice award, which was a nice finale to the whole experience. And the bit of extra cash will be nice, too - always a bonus to get paid for doing what you love. But the energy in the room during most of the performances was enough. Even more interesting was that the large ensemble people's choice went to another storytelling group (KSU Tellers), so look, the art of storytelling is alive and kicking.

So far, this seems to have little to do with my first year as a PhD student, but pursuing a career that allows me greater connections with storytelling has been important to me. I was able to find the time to do this performance, and I guess I've spent more time recently philosophizing on the general value of what I do. Stories really can change the world!

But also, as of today, I've gotten my final grade for the semester. (I had an "incomplete" so I could get a short extension on a final paper.) This experience has been interesting. I have a hard time taking criticism, although I realize its importance. There has been a lot of criticism, but also genuine support. Every critique of my work has been, not to point out my flaws as much as to help me be better. I really feel that everyone here wants me, and the other students, to succeed.

I've had moments of self doubt, but I have realized that tough criticism will lead to better work in the end. And, actually, the work I've done isn't bad at all. It is good, and with some refinements, will be amazing.

There have been times in my life when storytelling was the one area where I felt like I was doing something "right." The one area where I felt like people appreciated my work. I was a different person when I was storytelling.

I came home from the fringe festival to an affirmation that I am making it as a PhD student, not barely hanging on, but really making it. I'm doing something right. Today I didn't have to step down from the high of a successful series of performances to the low of fumbling through everyday life. My everyday life is just as good. And I love it.

When Parents Try to be "Spontaneous"

Saturday morning. After breakfast.

John: [whispering] Come in the bedroom with me.

Me: [to the kids] Hey, guys? Um, I'm going to help daddy...get ready for his shower. You guys get dressed and then go downstairs and play.

Bedroom door closed and locked.

Virginia: [outside the door] Momma? Daddy? ... Momma-Daddy!

Me: Please go down stairs.

Virginia: I have to tell you something.

Me: Tell me in a few minutes.

Virginia: It's just one sentence.

Me: Fine. Say it through the door.

Virginia: Horatio put his shirt on upside down.

Me: Okay. I'll help him in a few minutes. Please go downstairs and play.

Playing noises. Right outside the bedroom door.

Horatio: [car rolling noise] Vroom! Vroom! Ah![crying] So'tes scatch me. He scatch me with his mowf. [crying]

Me: [whispering] You think Socrates bit him?

John: [whispering] No. I'm sure he's fine.
[louder] You're okay, dude.

Horatio: [more crying]

Footsteps down, then back up the steps. Xylophone music. Right outside the door.

Virginia: [singing and playing the xylophone] Yankee Doodle went to town, riding on a pony...

Horatio: [crying]

Virginia: [singing and playing the xylophone] Mr. Horatio went to town, riding on a Socrates...

Horatio: [crying]

Me: [whispering] Kind of hard to "get ready for a shower" with all this singing and crying right outside the door.

John: [whispering] You think?

Me:...

John: [whispering] Yeah.
[louder] Okay, Horatio, we're coming. Let's see your scratch.

Door opens.

(Note: There were no visible marks on Horatio. Apparently he had been rolling his cars into the cat and found out that cats don't like that game.)

Virginia speaks in rhetorical devices

Virginia and Horatio have a storyteller/librarian and lawyer for parents. Sometimes they speak...uniquely.

For instance, I've begun to notice that Virginia works rhetorical devices into her everyday speech.

The other day, when I was combing her hair, she said, "Momma, I'm not going to mention the knots over on the other side." Praeteritio! Bonus points because this was one of Cicero's favorites.

Then, at dinner this week she was talking about her day, when she commented that two things go together "like goblins and wolves." Metaphor! Analogy! And more bonus points for The Hobbit reference. (We just got to the part where the eagles help everyone escape.)

She and her brother also make extensive use of repetition. "Can I have bunny gummies? Can I have bunny gummies? Can I have bunny gummies?" It is not as poetic or persuasive, but it does have an emotional impact.

I better start thinking of good reasons now for why she can't borrow the car as soon as she turns 16. If I don't stay sharp, by then, she may be able to out-argue me.

SB in the Wilderness

This is from a service I led at NWUUC last summer. I think of it as a Lent story, but it works at other times of the year, too.

By the second or third time I checked back with the Sears auto department I finally had to admit to myself that I was going to be stuck at the mall for a while.

I had just moved to Tuscaloosa, Alabama for graduate school. I didn’t know anyone yet. The nearest person I did know was John (my then-fiance), who was an hour away in Birmingham.

My car needed new tires. A year of driving between Athens, Georgia and Birmingham, Alabama will do that. In Athens, I had always had simple car work done at the Sears in the mall. That way, I would have something to do while I waited. Tuscaloosa also had a Sears in their mall, so it seemed like the perfect place to get new tires.

I got there when the Sears opened, which was a little before the mall opened. I walked around outside, then inside. The first time I checked back with Sears, they hadn’t started working on my car yet. I had been the first one in, so I couldn’t imagine what was keeping them. But I walked the mall again, and then came back. Still no progress.

I sat on benches and called friends...until my phone was almost dead. Then I started to panic about being stuck at the mall and not being able to call for help.

I ate lunch. I got a hair cut. I didn’t have a lot of money to buy things - all of it was going towards the car.

Then I started walking the mall really slowly, observing every detail. That was when I realized, with a rueful smile, that being trapped at the mall for the day was strangely like my day in the wilderness. I occupied myself the same way, at least: by engaging more fully with my immediate surroundings.

Back in highschool I had become a little obsessed with the idea of going into the wilderness. All my friends gave up things for Lent. I did too, occasionally. But I knew that the forty days of Lent was supposed to represent Jesus’s forty days in the wilderness. To me, going into the wilderness seemed like a better way to understand that, than living without chocolate until Easter.

And it wasn’t just because of Jesus. It was because of Casy. I read The Grapes of Wrath in high school, which became, and still is, my favorite book. Casey, the less-than-perfect preacher spent time in the wilderness to find himself.

I loved that. I wanted to find myself. I wanted to go into the wilderness and have a religious experience.

But how could I do it? Realistically, how can a teenage girl get to a some area that at least resembles the wilderness and spend time there without possibly endangering herself?

Year after year I would try to think of some way to go into the wilderness and year after year, Lent would pass and I’d let it go until the next spring.

Until my senior year of college. I was living in a neighborhood that backed up to a park. And our spring break fell during Lent. I figured I could walk into the park on one of my days off. There wouldn’t be many people there on a weekday. I could have my day in the wilderness.

On the fateful morning I packed a small backpack with a blanket, a jacket, my keys, my cell phone (in case of emergency only - it was turned off), and a bottle of water. I didn’t eat breakfast, I just walked to the park.

Instead of walking through the trees straight from our neighborhood, I walked down the road to the front entrance. I wanted to officially leave the civilized world behind. There was a police officer sitting in his car in the parking lot.

I walked past him, and didn’t think there would be a problem, since I was doing nothing wrong. He stopped me to ask where I was supposed to be. It took me a minute to realize he thought I was a high school student playing hooky. This was probably because of my backpack, the fact that I was on foot, and the fact that the high school was not on spring break that week.

I told him I was on spring break from UGA and just wanted to spend a day in the park. He asked to see my license. I invited him to walk back to my apartment with me to get it. (I never go out without my license now, and this is why!)

Finally he gave up and let me go on into the park.

Right at the entrance, there was a bridge over a creek. But to the side, there were some large rocks. I just knew I could get across the creek on those rocks.

The thing is that wet rocks are slippery. I slipped near the middle of the creek and got wet all down one side of my body. I gave up on crossing the creek, made my way back to the entrance side, and walked to the bridge. I was glad the cop hadn’t seen me do that, but since it was a little chilly, I regretted that I would now spend my day in the wilderness wet.

First I walked the trail that went around and through the park. That took under an hour. Then I started exploring off the trail. I went down into a secluded grove, spread out my blanket, and meditated.

I walked the trails again, more slowly. It wasn’t about walking anymore, it was about everything there was to see. I saw a probably-rabid raccoon stumbling around a clearing, and I walked in the opposite direction. I saw a lizard on a tree branch. I watched that lizard for long minutes before I realized it was watching me and was somewhat terrified of me. I moved on, much to the lizard’s relief.

Occasionally, I ran into other people. With a brief greeting, we both moved on quickly. My guess that the park would be mostly deserted on a weekday had been correct.

I watched the sun move across the sky and had a good estimate as to the time. Throughout the day I sipped on water, but I had nothing to eat and I was not hungry.

Late in the afternoon, as I passed by the hill that led up to my apartment complex, I stopped. I felt home tugging at me even though it was my goal to stay out longer.

Suddenly, I felt myself become frustrated. I was doing it. I was spending a day in the wilderness. But was I finding myself? Was I learning any great spiritual truth?

How could I? This wasn’t really the wilderness. I could just go home any time I wanted.

I wavered on the hill side. This was a foolish undertaking. I should give it up and enjoy my spring break.

Before officially calling it quits, I asked myself again, why I was doing this. To be like Casy and Jesus. I thought of Jesus’s temptation in the wilderness. He could have turned stones to bread or thrown himself off a cliff or become ruler over all he could see. He certainly could have left the wilderness any time he wanted - as easily as I could have left my fake wilderness.

Maybe the point was staying. Maybe what really mattered wasn’t overcoming the challenge of being stranded in the wilderness, but choosing to be there. I stayed in the park for the rest of the day and walked home that evening with a sense of peace and accomplishment.

A year later, in the Tuscaloosa mall, I felt a little disgusted by my realization that I was once again “in the wilderness.” The wilderness was supposed to be something sacred. Some pristine natural space. A space without other people.

A mall is almost the exact opposite of that. It is all commercial. It is all man made. And it is full of people.

But, it was a day of my life. And when I chose to really be there for it, it got better. I didn’t get to go home any earlier. My car wasn’t ready until closing time. But, I had been running away from the situation at first - talking on the phone, distracting myself. I couldn’t escape. In a very real way. More real than when I was in the park. I actually couldn’t leave the mall.

Taking my attention away from the mall was only a temporary fix. I wasn’t truly calm, truly making the best of the situation, until I decided to be there. I really looked at the other people around me. I looked at the things for sale in the store. I looked at folds and corners and shadows. I looked at the tiles on the floor. I noticed every single thing you don’t notice when you go to the mall to shop. It wasn’t nervous lizards and rabid raccoons, but it was a lot more beauty and truth than I had ever given the mall credit for.

I think I needed both days, the day in the park and the day in the mall, to really get it, because it is easier to choose to be present in the forest.

I had paid so much attention to Casy going into the wilderness and learning some truth that I didn’t pay attention to the rest. He came back out again. That was probably harder for him than going in. He was a preacher who didn’t preach anymore. He was full of sinful ideas. It must have been hard for him to be around people. But he thought people needed each other. We are all part of one big soul.

The “wilderness” isn’t just the wilderness. It is everything. Even very un-wilderness-seeming things, like malls. The mall is part of that soul. What would I miss by ignoring it? And what did I miss all those years I just wished I could go into the wilderness, not realizing I was already there?

Mother Love

The first book we read in the book club (for actual grown-ups) of which I was a member for a short time was Snow Flower and the Secret Fan. One of the things this book is known for is a detailed description of foot-binding. (It is a fiction book. The narrator experiences foot-binding as a child.) I remember the narrator saying that it was "mother love." Her mother hurt her, but she loved her, and was trying to give her a better future.

For some reason this has stuck with me and every time I hurt my children (not from foot-binding) I think: Mother love.

When I comb the tangles out of Virginia's hair. Mother love.

When I wash Horatio's newest wound. Mother love.

When I pull a splinter from Virginia's hand. Mother love.

When I rip the bandaid off Horatio's forehead. Mother love.

Horatio got this impressive contusion by walking into an angular metal pole. Although my usual rule is "bandaids are for blood" I let him wear a bandaid over it for a few days to make him feel better and to avoid freaking out his teachers and classmates too much. But not the same bandaid for a few days. Those things start to melt your skin after a while. He had to take it off every night to let his skin breath and got a new one in the morning. 

The first night of bandaid removal I noticed his forehead peach fuzz and knew it was going to be a painful separation. While Horatio held my hand I said "one, two, three," and then ripped it off. It hurt, but he understood that I didn't hurt him on purpose. 

The next night John removed the bandaid. He didn't do it sloooooowly, but he did hesitate a bit. On night three Horatio announced that Momma would take off his bandaid. "She say one, two, three, rip." My way was less painful. I wasn't afraid to hurt him and in the end I hurt him less. 

The world hurts. It is tempting, as a parent, to protect my kids. I'm not saying I'll throw them to the wolves, but I'm not afraid to let it hurt. I'd rather hold their hands and teach them how to get through it than hide the hurt from them. Because it will get them some day and if they've never experienced it, they won't know what to do. 

That's mother love.