choices

Certain words and concepts sometimes cause me to trip over them, like the countless number and types of male footwear all over my house. The word "choice" is one of these. There was a time, not so long ago, when someone would ask me, "Which one do you choose?" and life as I knew it would stop dead in its tracks. Why does this person think that it is up to me to decide? I would wonder. The choice was simple. I would choose whatever was on sale.

This method of thinking served me well over the years as the majority of my belongings were once owned by someone else. It only became problematic when people like Oprah challenge us women-in-search-of-ourselves to compile notebooks containing styles that speak to us and define us, colors that represent us, and unending ways to show the world who we really are based on our choices. And yet, my problem is not solved.

What invariably happens is what always happens: exceptions to the rule. My choice to persevere in the face of great odds becomes undone when tears welling up in my eyes let the other person know he or she has gotten to me, in spite of my best efforts to remain strong. My choice to seek out something that I truly want is circumvented as I start to realize that I don't care enough to obtain it, even though I am told repeatedly through the role models of our time that my self esteem depends upon it. The real challenge is not letting someone think less of me because I am a thrift store queen. What are the chances of something-someone-may-have-died-in holding up against brighter, shinier new things certain to offer one a far more favorable entree into polite society? I "choose" not to care. But sometimes I do anyway.

My choices have been questioned more than once and for good reason. Some of them have altered the course of my life. And yet we are told that we are free to choose. We are somehow given this idea that we are in charge of our own destinies and if we but walk through the correct door, all will fall into place and we will live happily ever after. As long as we maintain this self-possessing strength of character that allows us to know what is best for us, well, we've got it made. Truth is, most of the time I don't have a clue.

I don't know what this day holds in store for me. I have no idea whether or not I will lose my temper at my loved ones even though I would choose to only love them. I would like to choose something more exciting for dinner but with a big pot of beans in the refrigerator I can already tell you what we will be eating. I choose good health and will be running down the road with the dog in a few minutes trying to accomplish that goal, all the while knowing that conditions have limited me that have had nothing to do with my choices.

Rebellious to the core, I have always struggled with authority. But when I think there is a Spirit who knows more than I do, can guide me in ways that are far more brilliant than my very best plan, and can speak truth to my heart so that I can understand it, I am strangely relieved. I'm willing to admit the gig is up and I do not know what I am doing. It makes going into a thrift store more of a treasure hunt when I discover amazing items seemingly waiting for me that I actually really like. It makes my whole life a lot more exciting when I am led on this grand adventure by One capable of setting into motion all sorts of scenarios--some I would choose and others, not so much.

known

Years pass and memories fade. And then comes a lunch invitation with the hope of reconnecting with someone I once knew. I wonder if our friendship will take up where it left off, wherever that was. Does my friend regard me the same way that I think of her? We have each undoubtedly moved on to other friends that fulfill our needs. Can we still make room for each other?

It brings me comfort to think that I am known by someone. And yet it is a misleading notion since we are not images in frames on a wall, frozen in time. We live. We breathe. We move into our ever-changing beings, becoming at times even unrecognizable to ourselves.

Sometimes I will think back to how I first met someone and reflect on my initial impression. I retrace our shared journey on a well-worn map in my mind. Spending time at someone's home reveals more about the person than his or her favorite colors or the ability to purchase quality furnishings. There are tell-tale signs of children--toys that have not found their way back to the toy box, muddy soccer cleats by the door, clothes en route to the laundry room--or the equally apparent lack of children, quietly filling a room with the emptiness of a woman's longing to turn the office into a nursery.

A weekend trip to the beach in which each woman is encouraged to share her story can launch a friendship into an intimate place with lightning speed. An invitation into someone's deepest heartaches opens a door that does not close easily. Celebrations open all of the windows. And with each opening of space into someone's life comes the knowing that something mystical is at work, forging a relationship in a way that requires more than human will.

Given all of that, I promised myself to hold it together and wait until my friend responded to me so I would know how to respond to her. Joy spread across our faces as we exited our vehicles and walked toward each other in a restaurant parking lot. There we embraced and openly wept in each other's arms. We could have pretended that it was not that big of a deal. We are grown women, after all, and each have active lives in which we are counted on to show leadership ability and professional conduct. But we chose instead to live, for that moment, in a very sacred space.

day old popcorn

Making my way through the devotional I've been reading for the past several months has left me grateful for the experience, yet longing for more. The words of Ann Voskamp, the author of One Thousand Gifts, has spoken to me in ways I had not previously been reached. I think it has been her honesty. She writes what others are thinking but do not dare say out loud.

The point of this book are the forty lined pages at the back. Each numbered line waits for me to come up with a word or phrase representing a blessing--a reason to feel loved. Feeling loved can also have to do with what I love. Rediscovering a list I made in a journal I still have near my rocking chair (from 2005!) I am reminded of how making this sort of a list helps one become present to life and find joy in the simple things.

coffee with cream
dark chocolate
the smell of rain
the sound of waves
singing together
flute music
quiet
eating garden-ripened tomatoes
laughing so hard I can't breathe
making someone else laugh
words spelled correctly
Birkenstock sandals
Just For Redheads cosmetics
conversations that have meaning
no laundry to do
pecan pie
handmade gifts
antique toys
Thanksgiving food
campfires
a well-told story
sunscreen protection
a good pillow
the possibility of angels
Mexican food
dark beer
red wine
no cavities
the scale going down
wearing black
being alone
being included
getting published
crying in a healing way
being united with others in the Spirit
hearing the birds before dawn
mint chocolate chip ice cream

Another thing that makes me profoundly happy is day old popcorn. Most people would probably say it is stale and throw it away, but I actually enjoy the chewy, salty, buttery goodness of it. I will make popcorn when I don't really want some just to leave it for the next day. Makes no sense at all.

overheard

The conversation went something like this:

girl: I can't believe you said that.
boy: Why?
girl: Because it made me mad!
boy: That is why I said it.
girl: Why would you want to make me mad?
boy: I've never seen you mad before.
girl: Sure you have. I've been mad plenty of times.
boy: I've never seen you mad at me. I wanted to see what that would be like.
girl: (speechless)

As a proctor at our local middle school for the end of the year testing, I have to find ways to engage my mind since a three-hour period is a long time to walk around a classroom, looking over kids' shoulders to make sure they aren't cheating. I'm always grateful when someone "needs" to go to the restroom. So I count the students based on varying criteria, categorize them and sometimes even make up stories about them.

Half of the students were wearing hoodies, obviously to ward off frost bite since the temperature of the room was similar to that of a walk-in freezer. The one with pink polka-dots got my vote. Nike shoes and Rainbow sandals seem to be the footwear of choice. Most of the students had varying shades of black to brown hair, with two on the blonde side of the hair color spectrum. One kid wore glasses. There was one redhead.

A few of them realized that I was in fact their math teacher's wife and this left them wondering what kind of a home life he must have. I wondered which of these students were the cause of their teacher's thoughts of retirement.

As I gazed upon the fresh faces of tomorrow, young people not yet knowing who they are with their braces glittering in the fluorescent lighting of the room,  I wondered what was going on in the minds of the girls with the lip gloss and painted nails; the kids who could use more time in the gym and less in the cafeteria; and the boys who may continue to wear athletic clothing every day of their school lives. Would the girl who kept fixing her hair find more meaningful pursuits? Would the self-confident boy who asked me boldly how I was doing find a leadership role in society? Would the kids who kept sniffling, forced to use pieces of cardboard-like paper towel to continue to blow their noses, ever regain their health? Would that boy try to make that girl mad again?

Testing had ended. The redhead and I exchanged a knowing smile.

a day in the life

5:30 Teacher husband's alarm goes off. Too early. Can't get back to sleep. Enjoy listening to the birds. It is amazing how many bird songs can be heard right before dawn.

7:30 Wave good-bye to those going off to school. Take a few moments to read and reflect on greater truths. Get dressed. Drink coffee. Walk the dog.

8:09 Have figured out this is the last possible time to leave for work without being late. Better to leave earlier in case there is a train or an accident blocking the road, but usually can't force myself to do so.

8:30 Walk through the red door into the preschool where I started working back in 2001, when the boys were 3, 6 and 9. Go about my duties in exactly the same way every day like an obsessive compulsive person. This way I don't have to think. I just do. I have other things on my mind, like words that are organizing themselves into a poem or a prayer, or art I am in the process of creating.

8:50-1:15 Play with babies while sitting on the floor in bare feet. Rock back and forth in a rocking chair, garnering strength for the rest of my day. Talk with my teaching partner, another mother of three, about everything going on in our lives. Chat with other teachers and parents. Drink more coffee.

1:35 Arrive home. Take out dog. Take a short nap if possible. Make it possible. Coffee.

2:30 Decide whether to do dishes, laundry, cooking, go running or work on art. This is problematic because there is usually only time to accomplish one of these goals. If I choose to run, then what is for dinner? If I choose to cook, who is going to run the dog? The dishwasher has been broken since December 1, 2011 some time in the early afternoon. The washing machine seems to be heading toward the same appliance demise, as its random beeping seems to indicate. What IS for dinner? I have no idea.

From this point on there is a complex choreography of transportation and events rivaling the greatest productions of our time. Practices, games, classes and meetings are all scheduled and like clockwork each person gets to each event more or less on time. Uniforms, taking precedence over regular laundry, are at the ready. Food in various forms is available for whomever, whenever, even if it is not to everyone's liking. A hope to have us seated around the table together again someday lingers.

Of course in the midst of this dizzying array of endless opportunity lies my unfinished and often unrealized life as a writer and an artist. How long does it take me to make a bed bunny? I am sometimes asked. That depends, I want to say, on how many people, places and things need to happen involving me and the minivan on any given day. And besides, it isn't like I time myself. Sewing has its own rhythm providing soothing relief from too much hurriedness. How can I increase my productivity and my income for my business? I was asked recently. Ah . . . live alone?!

Suggestions are sometimes made to me about letting others "help" with creating my art. Not sure how that would work. Translating my vision into something someone wants to purchase is difficult enough for me to do, but I'm not sure how I would communicate my artistic thought process to someone else who would then duplicate what I am doing. Perhaps I flatter myself but I would like to think that what I am creating is one-of-a-kind art and not easily mass produced flea market fare. Sure there is money to be made getting out a glue gun and following some downloadable pattern, but I make my own patterns. In fact, I have created everything I sell, sometimes from dreams and visions I have actually had. I like to cook the same way--often making up a recipe as I go. It takes longer but the result is worth waiting for. And there is so much more joy in the process.

The interesting part about these conversations involving my creativity is that they usually end in one of two ways. I am either cast in the role of an idealistic purist choosing a life of abject poverty in the futile hope of saving the world by reaching the hearts of people, not yet recognizing that this is a ridiculous waste of time and why in the world am I not pursuing a REAL job; or, I am made to feel like I have been blessed with unique gifts that I can choose to share with those who have eyes to see and ears to hear, knowing that ultimately I will receive provision because there are greater forces at work in my life.

Hmm. I wonder which one of these thoughts will motivate me to be creative today.

beyond survival

Too lazy to get up and turn the television channel to something more worthwhile, I found myself watching Undercover Boss last night. It was actually a "best of" show highlighting some of the more extreme situations. What stood out to me as these company presidents and leaders of business worked alongside their employees, doing whatever was required to earn them a paycheck, was that so many of these employees were at that particular job for one simple reason: money. Not the kind of money the business owner was making since he or she undoubtedly had more education and caught the breaks necessary to climb the ladder of success, but a paycheck nonetheless which would allow another mortgage to be paid and kids to find something on their dinner plates. I wondered what had happened somewhere along the line to get these people to this point in life. Naturally I reflected on my own path.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" is the question asked to children and kids getting ready to don cap and gown to walk across a stage, receiving a diploma and a handshake. Does anyone ever say, "I want to work in a dead-end job?" I remember thinking that I would love to travel, write, and become rich and famous. The rich and famous part would be necessary to make the traveling possible.

Trying to figure out what to major in if one is fortunate enough to get to go to college is not easy. Especially when I had just turned 18 and had no idea what life was like in the wider world. One of the good things about being from a small town is that everyone knows you. One of the bad things about being from a small town is that everyone knows you. This sense that others may be looking out for your best interests is not how life works. And though I never felt alone sitting by myself in the woods or in the tree where I liked to read or write in my journal, I often feel very alone in the midst of people. I thought that becoming a journalist would somehow shield me from that insecurity because I would be the one asking the questions--the one in charge of presenting the unvarnished truth to the eager, awaiting masses. (With that kind of imagination I should have majored in English or Drama!)

I keep hearing that recent graduates are having a hard time finding work in their chosen fields. I remember facing the same problem. It is at times like this that survival instincts kick in. The paycheck becomes the bottom line, even a paycheck way below what you thought you would be earning with the amount of effort involved in higher education. This was the case in my first job when my soon-to-be employer told me that he could not afford to pay me what I was worth but the job was mine if I wanted it. Rent was due and my unplanned fasting was getting the better of me. Thus would begin a series of dead-end jobs that in no way reflected what my childhood dreams were about. And yet, there was still a spark, a lingering hope, a desire that would not die.

My first job out of college ended when a partner embezzled a large sum of money, thanks in part to my efficient work as an unknowing accomplice, which eventually encouraged my boss to accept an offer to sell his company when he had the chance. I was grateful to not be indicted and do prison time, like the hapless partner, so I became a temporary employee going from office to office often answering phones and trying to make the best of it. Being a temp provided me with so much more expertise than I ever imagined. I would learn how to deal with sexual harassment in a never-ending variety of situations, and to cope with all of the rest of the people who thought I was not worthy of respect because I was, after all, a temp. My best temp job was at a law firm in which a team of us worked on a long-term project. Every single one of us had unrealized hopes and dreams. Writers, actors, musicians, teachers, a paralegal and a school principal who wanted to make movies made up our ranks of those-who-had-not-yet-fulfilled-their-callings-in-life. We became friends as we celebrated our potential and laughed at the mundane nature of our current work lives. We took turns choosing music for the office and making each other cakes. It didn't matter that we were getting paid horrible wages and were seen as nobodies because we could see each other through a lens of truth. We may have looked like mild mannered Clark Kents but we knew we were really superheroes just waiting for the chance to fly. And maybe even save someone--perhaps ourselves.

Still, after all of these years, I find it interesting that the question, "What do you do?" is difficult to answer. To say I'm a preschool teacher is kind of misleading because I don't see myself as a teacher at all. I've spent the past nine months rocking babies to sleep and being blessed to do it. Does my job require higher education? No. It requires a compassionate heart and a willing spirit. One also needs to show up on time and be responsible but aside from that, there isn't a lot of training necessary. Sometimes I say I'm an artist, depending on the person asking the question. That is also confusing since it is more of a hobby than a business, especially based on the amount of money I bring home.

Anyone who knows me knows that I am a writer. Always have been, always will be. So am I rich and famous? Rich in blessings. Famous among those on my Christmas list. Have I traveled? I got to live in Denver for about a decade, went to California a couple of times, as well as New York. I've been to Quebec and spoke French. I have traveled to far and distant places through the many books I've read and movies I've seen.

What most of the undercover bosses came to understand is that their employees are not that different from them. Maybe life threw some of these workers some curves and they had some extra struggles along the way, self-inflicted or otherwise. At the end of the day we all want to come home and feel like whatever it was that we did mattered. That we matter. And whether or not we have achieved our dreams or not, there is still hope. And no one can take that away.

breathing

I realized some time ago that when my family has time off to play, I tend to work the hardest. Breaks from school are not breaks for me. So I planned for a day I would have all to myself. Last Friday was the day.

Since I would not be going to work the next day, I was not at all stressed when the track meet lasted until 10:30 Thursday night. It made no difference that I didn't get to bed until midnight. I even let Ariel sleep in instead of getting him up at the crack of dawn so he could go to school with his teacher daddy. I decided to drive him to school figuring I may as well run the dog at the park while I was going to be in the neighborhood.  hough the dog was in desperate need of a good run, I was in greater need. The woods beckoned. The smell of the trees, the sunlight filtering through the leaves, and the beauty of it all began to cure me of all that ailed me.

Returning home I was aware of laundry and dishes and though I made some basic attempts to bring some order to the chaos, I decided to fix myself breakfast. I usually don't bother to make something just for me but on this day I really wanted an egg, over easy, placed over potatoes and covered with a little cheese and salsa. I sat down and ate without rushing. It seemed almost more like a ritual than a meal. I needed to do each step in a way that would only bring peace to my soul. I would take more time to pray and focus on what was going on in my heart. Giving myself permission to take each moment as it came lightened my burden. Having a good cry during a chick flick certainly didn't hurt either.    

Being given time to work without interruption is a rare gift. It is as important as breathing. I am fortunate that the sewing I do to create fiber art to sell is also what I do to relax. I have found that it is a type of meditation for me all its own. The needle coming up through the cloth is like breathing in, and as the needle goes back down it is like breathing out. Stitch by stitch I find my rhythm. I cannot be creative when I am in a hurry. Inspiration means breathing. I am beginning to understand.