Jillibee'sness

An "apple" for the "teacher"

We are entering our 4th month in our new house.  This is a house with at least 9 different fruit trees. I did not realize this when we bought the house, so this has been a fun part of discovering our new home.  Having never owned my own yard, I do not know a whole lot about plants.  I'm more of an animal person. So, it is against this backdrop that for the first month I lived here, I thought the little green balls on my tree were pomegranates.  As the fruit got bigger and turned yellow, it became clear that this was an apple tree.

I know just a little about apple trees because we had them growing up, and we still try to go apple picking every fall.  So, I was confused when my greenish yellow apples started prematurely falling on the ground.  They were small and did not look ripe but I tried one.  I expected it to be tart, but it was sweet, kind of a golden delicious.  It was not a very tasty apple.  I could tell they were far from ripe, but still they fell.

My 5 year old picked and ate them every day.  I was worried he might get a stomach ache from eating unripe fruit but he he LOVED them so I let him go for it.  One day last week he brought me one and I gave it another try.  I don't  know what it was that finally tipped me off, but as if a veil had been lifted, I realized why the apples did not taste right.  They are pears.  Immediately after realizing WHAT I was eating, this strange apple became a delicious pear.  In fact, these are the best pears I have ever eaten. I never knew that pears were supposed to be drip-on-your-shirt juicy. 

This is the first day of school kind of.  My middle son and I started community college last week. He has taken off on the piano and is preparing for a music degree in conjunction with his high school diploma.  But his other classes will be taken through a charter school in which he and my 5 year old are enrolled. They do not officially start school until the second week in Sept. 

My daughter, who is part of a home school program affiliated with our local school, was supposed to start today but she does not meet with her adviser until next week and we have some issues about which math book she should begin.  She wants next year's I want her to finish last year's. This was a stupid, tired argument last night.  I wanted to win more than I wanted to appreciate the way she likes to start fresh. I won...which means we both lost.  Today was over 104 degrees and we had all kinds of activities planned, none of which involved books.  So we either started or didn't start school today depending on how one defines a school day.  It was kind of a sucky apple, but not a bad juicy pear, kind of day.

I have been struck by how this apple/pear analogy sums up my idea of successful home schooling (or even parenting).  I was so fixated on what I thought the fruit was supposed to be, that I completely missed out on the pleasure and bounty of all those delicious pears, practically falling on me, as they wore out their welcome on the family tree.  Only after I accepted it for what it was, did I enjoy what the tree had to offer me and the rest of the world.  The pear never changed, but changing my expectation of the pear turned it from strange to perfect. 

I have been at this parenting game for 23 years. I should REALLY know this by now.  I have long known, I did not get the moldable, blank-slate, kind of kids. The model I received have a deep agenda of their own that must be honored or it wilts and drops to the ground (in the case of my middle son), or just rolls away from me and becomes a little rotten (in the case of the others). 

My 23 year old, because he is my 23 year old, is loudly, proudly, not a whole lot like the "mini-us" we thought we were shaping him into when we were rookies.  His world view seems to be vastly different from ours.  For instance, what scares or motivates me politically, inspires a mixture of scorn and pity from him, a fact he made public on my FB wall this week.  (Thankfully, the part that he does retain from our parenting style is the ability to say things in jest so they don't sting as much).  I am proud of him, even when I feel perplexed, scared, or hurt by the ways we differ.  Funny, how talking back and writing on walls has become a virtue, instead of a "time-outable" offense.  I really like that he can form his own opinions from his experience, education, lifestyle, and peer group. I love that he trusts me enough to disagree. 

For the most part, my misconceptions and missteps to date have yielded juicy fruit in all my children, a fact I do well to remember as I head into a new school year with the idealism of Fall.  There is THE PLAN and then there is that stuff we actually end up doing.  In hind sight, both are good. I hope that I will be able to strike a healthy balance between mapping our course and allowing the terrain to motivate us to forge new trails - using the character and demeanor of my children as my compass.

...and a little child shall lead us... While I am wringing my hands over the best way to establish a "rite of passage" for my kindergartner's first day, he is blithely reading at about a second grade level.  I think it is time I wake up and smell the pear.

Just another ordinary stay

I just saw "Eat, Pray, Love".  I am a big fan of all three activities, so I thought I would love this movie.  I hate spoilers, so don't worry, I am not going to be one.  I am also not going to draw fire by critiquing a movie that everyone in my demographic is sure to adore.  I am capable of it, a fact I proved when I gave Odie, the sweet young ticket taker, a piece of my mind.  He made the fatal mistake of asking "What did you think?" at precisely the moment I was longing for someone to hear what I thought.  (Thank God he was a theater major. it led to conversation instead of eye rolling).

My problem with this movie, as with much of life is... my age.  Just as when I read  the "Twilight" series, though a part of me could remember how it felt to not know things and just enjoy the sensual aspects of the story, I can NOT let go of all the lessons I have learned the hard way.  In the case of "Twilight" - self loathing is no reason to let a boy suck on your neck and make you wish you were dead, no matter how shiny he is in the sun.   In "Eat, Pray, Love"  I could not help but think about how much money it would take to bankroll her Spiritual journey.  I hate to admit that I have become that left brained, and certainly my right brain would gladly take a stipend to see if these results are repeatable; but I suspect the deepest spiritual journeys are not begun with a HUGE budget.  When it came to articulating the spiritual truths she had discovered along the way, I felt they just skimmed the foam off of the top of these beautiful locations then served it up with a hefty portion of cliche. 

But the real issues, lest I also be guilty of the skimming, are mine. I just don't believe in the world that was painted with such broad brush strokes. Like the character, Liz, I have prayed the fervent prayer that started her whole ball rolling.  I think most of us, if we are honest and brave enough to admit it, have prayed that prayer: "Our Father who art in heaven, GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE!"  But I got a different answer than she did (and it would have been a much different movie):

"Stay".  Not just the polite, spiritual reminder to "Be still and know that I am God"; but that clear and simple Master to Fido: "STAY!"  So I stayed and waited for God to come to His senses.  I recommended that He check out a few movies and self help books I had read on the subject.  Going is very popular.

But I have to wonder, what ever happened to stay?  My parents stayed.  And what I have discovered by staying...is that for me "staying when you don't feel like it" is where the REAL journey begins!  (Talk about your "Eat, pray, love"! Anything to get you through a day!  Though it was more like, "eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, pray, eat, pray, pray, pray, PRAY!" and eventually..."love"...after I had exhausted all other avenues of escape).  When the going gets tough...it is so tough not to get going!  Staying is not for sissies. Staying is not sexy.  Staying is not exciting, exotic, or fashionable.  But in the staying, I have found hidden treasures in surprising places.   I have found strength in my weakest hour and patience when the well was dry.  And I have learned that the well is NEVER really dry.  Real love is a free refill in a bottomless glass.  But sometimes you have to take a sip before you realize just how thirsty you were...and how satisfying even a sip can be.

I promised to blog about homeschooling, not marriage and movies. So I will try to tie it all together. Today my high schooler and I began classes at the community college.  I am filled with excitement at the prospect of being "forced" to be around musicians every day.  I would not have gone to a community college to find musicians (considering I already have a Bachelor's from one of the leading music schools in the world for what that's worth), but it just happens to be the perfect place for my pianist/composer son.  Since he is a freshman in highschool, I thought it best to go through it with him til he gets his own two feet wet enough to stand on. So we are bonding, we are mutually musically growing, AND I still get good Mom points even though there is definitely a lot in it for me! This is a nurturing environment of very caring, capable professionals. That is a change of pace from the place I attended when my pace was fast and furious. So what I did, motivated for him, benefited me  (that seldom works vice-versa).  And that's not all.  It just so happens going to a movie was the perfect reward to my daughter for babysitting.  We bonded, talked about life, and saw a movie I wanted to see as much as she did, and I still got good Mom points for doing so! 

Some days just work out like that.  What I want and what they need are in alignment.  This was not a day that required much patience or imagination to see the prize inside of the box of duty flakes.*  These days can be few and far between at times. On an "award winning day" like today, it makes it easier to see the prize in all areas of my life.

For instance, I came home from the movie and looked past the DEVASTATED kitchen and cluttered family room, to find my husband, worn out from weeks and weeks of 14 hour day after 14 hour day. I can not tell you how sexy it is to see a drooling man who has sacrificed his last drop of energy, trying to stay awake to watch a little "Star Wars" with his sons (one of whom had never seen it).  Talk about heroic!  I am SURE he wanted to come home and retreat to bed, but when his boys asked him to watch a movie he has seen a zillion times..he stayed in their room and he TRIED to stay awake!

This is not my most exciting blog entry. This is not my most exciting day.  But it is a day, like so many others, where I am completely in touch with how full I am.  As usual - I  ate, prayed, loved and stayed...close to HOME!  


*Duty flakes: Not to be confused with "dooty flakes". The only prize you get in THAT box is the message "this too shall pass",

Kick the Bucket List to the Curb

It's me again.  Only, in many ways, it is not the same me who used this format for blogtherapy.  I have been squeezed through that *proverbial toothpaste tube of adversity and come out a more solid me. In the pursuit of housing, marital harmony, launching a young man, keeping 2 adolescents from killing one another, a toddler from accidentally killing himself, all while holding down a job, home schooling and enduring chronic pain; I just did not have or make the time to give a shout out to "whomever it may concern" about endless, depressing circumstances.  (I had Facebook for that!) When the going gets tough, the tough quit blogging.

But I am back.  I am a proud and happy homeowner. I have a proud and happy husband who I am going to keep. I have a launched and thriving young man who gives me false confidence in my ability to survive 2 teens and a 5 year old. (Although I secretly know that I don't claim the prize for my son's triumphs and it takes a village to raise us all, for our entire lives).  I found a method of controlling my pain that does not involve numbing or otherwise altering my brain (feel free to ask me about it if you are interested, but I won't inflict that upon you unsolicited).  My writing job is quiet for a few weeks and I have an empty house.  I am full of gratitude, peace, joy, and love.  I am a living Christmas carol.

From this space I want to promise you all kinds of things. Among them, I would like to write a weekly home school blog and today have every intention of doing that this year. But part of the secret of my new found success is that I set lower bars for myself. That nonsense about "reach for the stars", "believe to achieve", "dream your biggest dream" and any other short needle pointer's paradise; is just too much pressure for someone with my drive and imagination. I could never reach what my mind is capable of conceiving (good thing) and I hate to fall short of my expectations. I am a lot happier and more productive with a more general approach to life (all perfectly suited for needlepoint - the hallmark of a good life strategy).

• Live in the present.
• Love your neighbor as yourself.
• Love yourself as your neighbor.
• God is love. 
• Listen to your body. 
• Trust the people you love with their own lives. 
• Facebook.
• Kick the bucket list to the curb.

Let me explain that last item.  I have recently recognized a sense of anxiety over the idea of checking off items on a bucket list before I die.  I can barely handle my "to do" list and all it requires is that I "buy eggs" and "mail back the Netflix video".  I have decided that it makes more sense to designate someone to write my bucket list for me after I die and then I will be certain all the items can be checked off (by someone else, of course). My friends on Facebook pointed out to me that posthumous bucket lists are called biographies, or obituaries. But I contend that the former is for undisputed "somebodies" - too much pressure and out of my control.  Obituaries are too short and general, and I am very much at risk for getting the gross kind I hate: "Mrs. John R. Enders was a homemaker and mother and served her family and community well". Bleck! I would rather you say "Jillibee Enders favored the blue 'Cross' brand of tweezers, which she was never seen without until she discovered the miracle of laser".  It does not form a flattering picture, but damn it, it proves the people writing it KNEW the person, for goodness sakes!

I have no idea what any of this has to do with you, in fact, I have no idea who you are or even IF you are. And that is precisely my point.  No matter what it is we think we are doing - all we are really doing is living and (in my case) shouting out the truth as we know it. It is like we are a bunch of tourists on different simultaneous vacations shouting our observations to one another. Or at times, we are having nightmares while fully awake, but are fortunate enough to bring a friend.  Whether life is a glorious vacation or a living hell; I find it comforting to read what other folks are living and as a writer, I get great satisfaction from sharing my observations - even if I am a tree typing in the woods with no one around to hear it.*

*I have no idea if a toothpaste tube is in a proverb anywhere. But my experience being squeezed by life persistently for such a long period of time, makes me feel a kindred spirit with all who have passed through the Gates of Col and Aim to catch a Gleem, of Aqua Fresh insight, while we Aim toward whatever may have Crested UltraBrite in the deep cleansing of our soul.

*I am thinking that a tree typing in the woods would have a horrible inner conflict or at least a measure of commitment beyond most writers.  I am concerned though, that a tree typing in the forest would not be a very good writer, because you have to throw away a lot of paper to get a good draft. This would not be a very popular profession among trees, even if you were a Poplar. I guess a tree typing on a PC in the forest would be Ok.  It would have to be an Apple tree though.

Writer's Blog

As you may have noticed, I have been blogging again.   I could probably come up with a list of reasons for this, which would make this activity sound noble.  Truth is, I am just doing this to avoid writing. 

I have a new job.  Someone is paying me to write.  I like the someone and I like the pay.  So why am I procrastimusing about writing instead of writing? Google that.  Apparently a lot of writers do this. Houses get cleaned, drawers get organized and sidewalks get swept; all because commissions are paid to writers.  That would probably be a more effective way to keep our streets clean and fill our potholes than taking our tax dollars for these things to be addressed.  Eventually there would be books too. 

So while I am waiting to get around to it, I want to talk about it.  It is a ghost writing gig so I am not really allowed to talk about IT, but I can talk about doing IT (or not doing IT, as the case may be).  I find I don't want to do IT.  But why not?

It is NOT because I am not putting my name on IT that I am unmotivated.  There are lots of things out there which I have written (particularly in facebook world), that go on ahead without me.  I keep writing them anyway.

I think that because I am a writer with lots of embryonic stage productions (shows in the embryonic stage of development, not shows about embryos); I always feel a little disloyal to those projects. But the nature of those projects is such that I won't be paid, if at all, until they are done and out.  This money is now. I am continually writing what I want to write and I would prefer to write what I want to write.  But I want the kind of compensation I can spend on groceries and houses.  So I have to wait. And I am OK with that for now.

I think this writer's block stems from a conflict with the material.   Because I am not a plumber, I get personally attached to the concepts in the words I write, even if no one knows they are mine.  I am fairly certain that plumbers don't agonize over the wall paper in the kitchen of the house they are plumbing - at least not the straight ones.  (OK, sorry that was a cheap shot.  No offense, please!)   I suspect that if something offensive is on the wall of the house, or  in the people of the house being plumbed, the plumber just does the crap he came to do and stays out of the other business.  That is their crap to work out.

But as I write the words from someone else's head, I find myself grappling with the moral implications of the message.  I love to write because I love to/need to know the TRUTH.  Once I see a clue to that bottomless topic, I jot it down and move on to the next clue.  Writing is a way to create more space in my brain for new clues.  I never intentionally lie to myself or others.  That is just not my weakness.  So, when I am writing words for someone else that are not yet (and may never be) true for me, how do I reconcile that? 

It feels like homework. I spent years in school writing lies upon lies without any conflict.  I know that "Johnny did not have 5 apples and give Sue 3 of them" and how many remained was irrelevant because there never was a real Johnny or Susie apple exchange.  I know that Skip and I did not go to the store ("Or rather Skip and ME which I had to change to "I").  Yet I wrote it.  I wrote it and turned it in and got a grade and took that A report card to McDonald's and got a free cheeseburger.  Is this really any different?

I have a writer friend who recently found a treasure trove of smutty old novels (one man's trash...) which were written by famous authors in the start of their career.  I hate to confess to having a libido, but I could sooner write and stand behind (or stand in front of, on my head for, swing from the chandelier with; as the case may be) one of those novels; because I GET that, think those things, could imagine those scenarios with me as the lead character.  (No, that is not happening or being shared anytime soon folks, in art or life, so settle down). 

There could be one more explanation as to why I am not writing this book I have been hired to write.  It is a 4 letter word -"work".  According to my late mother in law, I am allergic to it.  Never mind how it felt to hear that or what 4 letter words might have come to mind if I had heard them at an older age with better self esteem; that lingering indictment hangs over my head at times like this ready to damn me if I do or damn me if I don't.  On the one hand if I write this book about something I don't believe, I am selling out (for about $35 an hour if you are interested in knowing how much it would take).  On the other hand, if I don't take advantage of this great job, which I can do in my jammas in my BED, while the kids are asleep; then I am a FOOL! (I suspect that the other sell out job matching that job description would not yield me $35 an hour at this age and stage in my life unless I did it over the phone). With the right hand not liking what the left hand is doing, and vice-versa, I find that I just want to sit on my hands and do nothing.  It is hard to write when your hands are tied.  So I blogged instead.

The eve of a miracle

I know exactly how I felt 23 years ago, tonight.  I had worked a 10 hour day at two of my three jobs, had treated myself to a lunch of curried vegetables at my favorite Ethiopian restaurant, and had gotten disappointing news at the Ob/Gyn.  A night before my due date there were no signs of progress and I had scheduled a stress test for the following week.  The thought of  inducing labor frightened me. 

I called and talked to my midwife, prayed and felt a little more reassured.  I made plans to attend a political rally the following day,  a cause for which I was not yet passionate.  My motivation was social, I am ashamed to admit. The weather was ominous and a blizzard was predicted (and materialized).  The air escaping through the cracks of the poorly insulated windows whistled in the one “room” basement I rented for $120 a month and shared with a hair salon and washer/dryer. I could feel the sub zero breeze and hoped it would help to dilute the smell of permanent solution and the evidence that my landlord's well nourished baby.  She had a conviction about using only cloth diapers, and my thoughts were not of  a landfill or her baby's precious bottom; but of what filled the diaper in the bottom of the diaper pail next to the washer (also kept in that room). It was an unfortunate time to have my sense of smell heightened. 

Unsettled, discouraged, and exhausted, I opened my Bible to the chapter I had been struggling over for months.  Although I had read the New Testament and various books of the Bible over the years, someone had suggested to me that when times were tough, she likened her journey to the sojourn of the Israelites crossing the desert.  From that suggestion, I had decided that I would read the Bible from start to finish and had only gotten as far as Deuteronomy before I just had to stop.  I am not a fan of construction or rules.  All the “cubits” and “shall nots” wearied me. 

But 23 years ago tonight, I determined to read through Deuteronomy or fall asleep - whichever came first.  At about midnight, I finally finished that book and started the first chapter of Joshua.  Then I went to sleep.  At 2:43 a.m. I dreamed I was getting a phone call. I woke up and discovered I was reaching for the phone on the nightstand next to my thin twin sized mattress.  I sat up in bed and my water broke.  Exactly 12 hours later at 2:43 p.m. I became a mother (although it can  be argued that I was already a mother for 9 months. That has been an argument this circumstance of my life has led me to have from time to time; though I never relish the discussion). 

My life has never been the same.  I have never regretted for even a second the gift of Joshuah, or the blessing of motherhood; though I would be lying if I downplayed the challenges of the process or practice of becoming and living as a single mother.

Tonight, in many ways, I feel just as unsettled and discouraged. I am equally exhausted - not as it was then, because my boundless youthful energy has been expended beyond the average person’s supplies - but because my limited supplies are being drained by challenges beyond the average 45 year old white American upper middle class person’s tolerance level. As I write that sentence, I recognize another drain to my energy that was not part of the equation when I was 22.  In those days I did not understand the finite nature of time, the risks of childbirth, the limits of the body, the realities of financial hardship, nor the senseless suffering experienced all over the world.  As I remember, there was little time for self pity in those days. 

I have learned in the school of hard knocks that opportunity knocks hard on the door of our expectations some times. And it almost always feels like a thump on the head.  Tonight the issue is a house we had our hopes set on buying and were literally in the last day of closing escrow when we got a GIANT answer to prayer.  It was not the answer we were asking for; but then God is not a genie in a Bible. He does not always tell us what we want to hear.  Sometimes he just says “NO!”.  And it is OUR responsibility to trust that his big “NO!” is only a step away from an even bigger “YES!”. 

So tonight, as 23 years ago, I will do that which comforts me until I can fall asleep.  I will fight discouragement that grows in the gap between disappointment and making other plans.  I will erase the tapes I have run in my head of what life would be like in THIS house and reset my clock on how much longer we will need to wait for relief from this sub standard apt living.

Like 23 years ago, experts are eager to tell me there is no sign of anything happening. But like 23 years ago, there may be a miracle of unsurpassed joy just beyond my dreams of the ordinary every day activities.  When patience grows dim, all I must do is look at my beautiful, healthy, talented, kind hearted, witty, intelligent, charming, artistic son; and know that whatever is next is worth waiting for. And Whoever is responsible for whatever is next, is trustworthy - and must love me far beyond what I feel worthy to receive.  As I wait for the house, I will cherish the home, and bless the day that started the family who makes life all worth the effort.  Happy birthday, Joshuah!

Bittersweet Sandwich

I have not blogged for a long time! I didn't expect to take a break, it just sort of happened. I got a ghostwriting gig that paid me well for writing in my pajamas. I had only ONE thought on my mind anyway - HOUSE! Just how many ways can I say "I WANT A FREAKING HOUSE" before I start to get boring?  Frankly, 2009 just wasn't something I wanted to spend much time reflecting on, especially while I was still trapped in it. Like most things, the longer I was away the harder it was to jump back in.  So why tonight? 

Tomorrow we are doing a final walk through on a house that we are buying.  This time next week I could be a first time home owner! After more than a year of hell this should be a time of celebration.  In an economy of unemployment, in an area of the country where home ownership was out of reach, at  a time when so many are losing their homes to foreclosure, my husband got a promotion and we are buying our first home - a large house with a pool in a nice area of CA.  it is not THE house I was striving for (if you have read previous entries) but it is just about everything I wanted and more.  So why am I not doing the touchdown dance in the end zone?

My mom is suffering tonight after undergoing a painful surgery.  It is not life threatening, but I suspect at times she may feel like it would be a relief if it were.  I am a whole country away from her and there is nothing I can do about it.  Welcome to the sandwich desperation...I mean, sandwich generation. 

My parents raised me to be independent.  They NEVER EVER try to manipulate me into doing anything that I do not feel like doing, to help.  In fact, my biggest complaint of them is that in their attempts to protect me, they leave me out of the loop when things are tough.  The other complaint is that by raising me to pursue my dreams and follow my passions they never explained to me that building a life clear across the country might mean that I will be in the middle of that life when they need me.

As I wait for the phone to ring for an update, imagining and feeling the pain that my mom is enduring, the stress that my Dad is bearing, and the role that my brother is playing to help; it just feels wrong  that I am not there with them.  I am desperate to help and there is NOTHING to be done. 

This time next week, I could be a proud home owner in the beautiful state of CA, which I love. This time next week, I hope my Mom will be feeling much better.  My husband will be settling into his new responsibilities at his job.  My kids will be more or less doing what they were doing before our lives were tossed topsy-turvy.  Having to move the week before Christmas, from the 3,100 sqft rental property we loved and wanted, to a small 2 bdrm apt, was tough.  They tried to make the best of it, but were showing signs of stress, as we scrambled to find a new home and keep the balls in the air to protect them from the insecurity and financial strain we were feeling. 

I can only imagine how hard it must be for some families during this time.  We are one of the lucky ones!  But this has been a tremendously difficult period and my husband and I have done all we can to manage the twists and turns of a difficult transition (more on that process some other time).  My kids are 7th and 8th graders.  This is not the time to upset the apple cart although we were contemplating very seriously, moving back East.  In the end, it just seemed like the wrong time to uproot them and when my husband got the promotion - that made the decision.

I know that one of the things which makes my Mom proud of me is how I strive to put my kids' needs above my own, try to support my husband, and "suck it up" in the hard times.  I learned from the "master".  Mom, (if you still read me after such a long hiatus) thank you. Thank you for EVERYTHING!  God bless you!  I love you! Get well soon!!

I'm not losing a house, I'm gaining a perspective

I've been thinking about the house a lot. It really stinks not to have what I want and envision, work out just as I wanted and envisioned it would. It feels exactly like being dumped for the first time. Here I am with our future children all named, our names written all over my notebook, and a closet full of clothes he said I looked sexy in...and just like that it is over. I have no say nor control over it. How could he NOT see we were meant to be? I mean, we both like Billie Holiday and cherry Jolly Ranchers! My whole family likes him!! His friends all like me! How could my house dump me? Not only that, but with these showings, my house is dating around right in front of me! It is devastating to stand helplessly by, as people march through our stuff evaluating MY dream boat (house) before I even have a chance to get my record collection or sweatshirt back. What? People are going to decide if the house that I was not good enough for, is good enough for THEM?! And this house is just gonna LET THEM?! Not only that but these people will conspire with my house against me and point out the mistakes I made in my treatment of it! I fear these people who are now seeing my house will hold me in contempt as they review the evidence left behind of how I lived with and gave my heart to this dream. Ok, maybe this metaphor is taking me too Glenn Close to PTSD (post traumatic stress dating), but it is pretty Glenn Close to how I really feel about losing this house! Fortunately, I have more than my feelings to help me out of this hole. Somewhere inside of me I know I am giving FAR too much power to this thing. After all it IS just a thing! "What profit a man if he gain the whole world yet forfeit his own soul?" (In the Bible somewhere). In general, I am pretty good at valuing people before things, but this time I have noble reasons for giving so much of myself to this thing. Even though I have not been able to do so effectively living in "limbo"; I wanted this house for the potential I see to nurture my soul, my family, and my friends. That is precisely where I am missing the whole blessed point - I HAVE family and friends! So what am I doing wasting all my energy on a stupid house? Really, when it gets down to it, a house is just a big, expensive box to keep your real treasures in!! So this was a big fancy box - big deal! In fact, if I end up with something without such a fancy exterior, I won't lose time fussing over the wrapping, or have to be so careful with it so that I can save it for another gift! The time is NOW! I can just rip that sucker open and get to the goodies inside!! Yeah, I'm still disappointed. I loved that house and I am not ready to invest emotion in another. I'm sad and stressed about all the ways I will have to change course and all the effort it will take to move out and move on - particularly when I have no rebound house waiting in the wings! Besides, experience in dating taught me that anyone who ever dumped me pales in comparison to the one who hasn't, and promises never will, dump me!! While I am getting used to my new vision of the future, I vow to not let obsession over this box rob me of all the many precious gifts I have to enjoy and share! Oooh...but darn, you should just SEE the back of this house...and the VIEW from inside just takes my breath away! Wait a minute - if I break it down, what I am really crying over is a window! Sure it over looks a mountain, but no matter where we live, that mountain will still be there and if I am not trying so hard to attain that window; I will be better able to see and appreciate the splendor of that mountain! Ironically, along the way when I was losing faith in our ability to purchase this home, my husband would say "if you have faith the size of a grain of a mustard seed you can say to the mountain 'be ye moved' and it will move" (Bible somewhere). I had faith, but I guess the mountain is just better off right where it is. In my disappointment, it takes more faith to accept that fact than it does to believe that if I just try a little harder I can still get my way! Who am I to order a mountain around anyway? So until I know where our next step is, I will just stand here in awe, and wait for the next big adventure to unfold.

When one door closes, a mother goes to the beach

Well, it looks like we won't be able to stay in our home and facing another move is overwhelming me.  We have been renting and trying to purchase this house via short sale and after a year of heartache, headache and hoops, some bozo lender negotiator got greedy and said "no" to an offer comparable with what the even nicer houses in the neighborhood are selling for.  It has been such a roller coaster ride that to have it end at a red tape brick wall is just really tough.  It is not officially over yet, but I hear the fat lady warming up.

I have not been handling the news well.  As far as those who are displaced go, we are the lucky ones.  This is not a foreclosure.  This is not a fire.  This is not hurricane Katrina.  This is just not getting what I want.  Somehow, the knowledge that I am being a big baby does not comfort me.  I still want what I want for my family and this made so much good sense!!

Through it all, my friends have helped me to see the bigger picture.  I recently likened this to being swept out to sea with all my friends on the shore hollering in, "it is shallow water, just stand up!" or "It's a rip tide, just relax and go with it!" or "It IS a great white shark but he thinks you are a seal and once he tears off your leg he will swim away!"   The bottom line is - they can see what I can not see in this sea.

Recently I heard a horrible story about someone my husband knew from work.  A mother and her young daughter were wading in shin deep water, got caught in a rip tide and swept out to sea.  Both were drowned.  This was devastating news of course, and upon hearing it, I vowed never to go to the ocean with my kids again.  I am from the Midwest, where people are sensible enough not to have an ocean.  My husband from NJ however, said, "you just have to know what to do in a riptide.  You relax and let it take you and spit you back out". (Again, why am I not comforted by this notion?)

However, I think that is precisely the voice of sanity in this news I have received about our house.  Let it take me and spit me back out!  The notion of spitting back out brings up another story of the sea.  I try to see the whales every year around mother's day when they are migrating north.  A couple of years ago we were lucky enough to find a pod of killer whales - a menacing, beautiful, street gang of the sea.  They were chasing this poor fat bird.  This pitiful creature whose name escapes me, seemed to be a cross between a duck and a pigeon and was half flying half running to get away from them.   I was watching this with the scientist on board and of course expressing my horror at the limitations of this poor flightless victim.  The guide said, "She could fly away if she would spit out her food".  Apparently, these guys gorge on the same fish that may attract the orcas.  They get so fat they can not fly, but by regurgitating they are once again airborne. BOY OH BOY CAN I RELATE! (On so many levels, but bulimia is not where I am going with this analogy or in my life).  I have to spit out my vision of this house, and my plan for the next 5 years, our neighbors, the home school community and worst of all my DREAD of moving again!  I need to just let the rip tide take me and spit me out where  I am meant to be. I need to be willing to spit out our stuff if we end up in a smaller house. I have to let go. Right now, I am spitting mad.  I need to  just stop at spitting.

I am standing at the closed door unwilling or unable to find the window of opportunity to scramble out of.  However, I am keeping my ear to the ground and my mind on the sea and my hands folded with the folded hands of those whom I have placed my soul's care.  Though I can not see the shore, the prayers and support of my friends has been a real life saver. I know I am buoyed by God and I firmly believe I am in good hands.  I just need to let go and let the waves take me where they will.

What is playing on the other channel today

I know it is un-American of me not to blog about Michael Jackson today on the day of his passing.  I could at least be a marginal-American by blogging about the passing of Farah Fawcett, or even an older American by blogging about Ed McMahon.  They were all important to me growing up and it is sad that they are gone and unfortunate that the passing of Michael obscures the contribution of the other two. This reminds me of when the death of Jim Henson was eclipsed by the passing of Sammy Davis Jr!  (Note to self: Die on my own special day).  I have plenty of thoughts on the matter, the chief thought being one of intrigue.  As I posted on my facebook update:

"Apparently death covers over a multitude of sin. I can't wait till I die and get to hear how great I was! I wonder if MJ would have felt less pressure if he could have heard these great things recently - BEFORE he died! We love to topple the ones at the top! (Of course if he WAS guilty of crimes against children, I don't care how talented he was. No disrespect for the dead intended). RIP"

But I am NOT going to talk about such things today.  I can catch the virus of sympathy and empathize with the families, but truth be told, as intimate as I was with the Farah poster and how she looked when she was cold in a red one piece bathing suit ( NO, I was not "intimate" in the way my boyfriends at the time were, but I did study and copy her hair style) - I still had to look up the spelling of her last name. These were important people to my generation, and their art became part of what highlighted the important events in our lives, but we did not really "know" them.  The grief seems, well, make believe.  Sorry.  It just does. (Perhaps that is more of a personal admission of shallow sentimentality than a global one).

So I am not going to treat this day as the day time stood still!  Great artists died, but I had a great day as an artist (though admittedly I am stretching the bounds of that word)! I don't want to focus on the sucky day the families and fans of these other artists are having. I just came back from the murky land of second hand suck and I refuse to be sucked down again.  I spent a day or two in suckville and I just don't like it.  The postcards from there suck, the t-shirt sucks, the weather there sucks. It is just not a good place to re-visit too often (though as an occasional change of pace from Shallow Town, I would still reccommend stopping by from time to time).

Today was a good day in a sling of several good (though exhausting) days.  I am performing in goofy skits for day camp. I love the freedom to be OVER THE TOP and the laughter of 250 children is intoxicating!  They are all so ready to board the silly bus to Ridiculousville and go with me wherever I want to take us!  (Usually with scenic stops in Pratfalls and Pieface mountain, with little potty humor breaks along the way).  I don't take the responsibility to make them laugh, lightly.  I am enormously honored by their trust, and their willingness to join me in whatever story or moral I am spinning. And they return the favor by sharing their take on the tale when I encounter them off stage later.  In fact, they feel obligated to tell me the subtle plot points that I missed as a participant: "THAT GUY IS NOT REALLY A PARK RANGER!"  "I was sad when you were sick yesterday!"  (Even though my nose honking and sneezing got the biggest laugh of the day).  And my personal favorite came in a conversation about forgiveness (yesterday's theme).

7 or 8 year old to my character:  I felt bad when that Park Ranger ruined your film yesterday!
Me: Oh, I did too.  But I forgave him! I try not to hold a grudge
7 or 8 year old: I had to forgive like 8 people yesterday!
Me: Wow, that is a lot!  Did you hold 8 grudges today or were you able to forgive and forget?
7 or 8 year old: Oh, I don't have to forgive anybody today.  That was yesterday's lesson!

To re-iterate the point of my last blog, even the worst news days always have something "unsucky" tucked away in them!  I have chosen to see that unsucky thing by changing my focus (just as my un-hip husband changed the channel from E!News to something with Alan Greenspan on it...although if you ask me, that was just out of the suckpan and into the suckfire).  Michael Jackson may have once been the greatest 8 year old to ever appear on stage, but today I got to be the "greatest" to an 8 year old, BY appearing on stage.  For me and mine, I get to be alive today doing that and that is good news!  I hope that will keep me from boarding the bus back to Sucktown anytime soon! And I hope by remembering to take lots of snapshots of the beautiful scenery on the way back from Suckville, I won't consider the trip a total waste of this apparently limited time we all have on this crazy, wonderful earth!

Vacuum

I have a lot of stupid things weighing me down at the moment. When they first started coming at me I was laughing at them and batting them aside, but the weight of "one too many" got me down and today I  am heavy hearted (and not too pleased with myself for caving).  I can imagine nothing more interesting than reading someone's blog detailing all the things not  going right. (I clearly need to find new interests).  But I will spare you the details.  I don't want to bore you or myself by telling you what sucks circumstantially in the categories of health, home, job, and communication (usually that is the one category that doesn't suck!)  Suck begets suck, so I don't want to write a sucky blog entry, but sometimes the way out of the suck is to give in to the sucking force and arrive at a better place on the other side.

My life sucks a little.  But I spoke to someone this week who had one of life's BIG categories happen to her.  You know the list: death, major illness, major heart ache, and anything horrendous that happens to our children.  In this case it was unthinkable cruelty - abuse and theft of the innocence of a  handicapped child.  That is about as bad as it gets for a mom.  I heard myself write: "I am so sorry this world sucks!  At least it doesn't suck in a vacuum!"  Finally!  Something I feel good writing about tonight.

In this case, the mom is fighting back. She is fighting in the courts, in proactive steps toward understanding, healing, and loving her child; and in giving herself fully to the cause of helping victims of rape.  This is a warrior mom. This is the way to keep sucking from happening in a vacuum.

I am so glad, if God chose to let us live in a world with jagged edges, loose parts, creepy crawly bugs and bogey men; he also left enough of the original paradise in tact to make it bearable.  You know your list, but some of the evidence I have found that paradise is alive and well is: puppies, laughter, music, and big shoes (to squash the creepy crawly bugs).  Life does not suck in a vacuum.  If it did, it would be unbearable.  For me, the tough stuff is offset by the continual funny and loving antics of my children, the patience of my husband, the laughter and support of my friends, and the unwavering belief that God has it all figured out and is trustworthy while these things unfold. I have hope and faith, that grows from the memory of a million times before in my 40 plus years of living, when I faced uncertainty and insurmountable odds; only to arrive at a better place, as a better person than I would have been, had I not navigated through the rocky terrain.  And for me, getting to document my findings and share them, as souvenirs from my trip to the land of suck, is another way that this sucking is not happening in a vacuum. So life is already sucking so much less than when I started writing this entry, which I  really hope doesn't suck.