Friday, May 12, 2017

10 Year Anniversary - A decade of life summed up in mere pages

I woke up this morning, rolling over to steal a glance at my husband before my eyelids fell shut again, murmuring "happy anniversary, babe." He seemed to wake almost instantly, pulling me into his arms and starting to kiss me. I smiled, remembering where we were 10 years ago today. 10 years ago I sat crying in our wedding suite bathroom, overwhelmed by the energy of the day, blaming my tears on a lost bag of perfectly planned out negliges, but truly bowing under the weight of the decision we'd just made: marriage.

circa 2007

We're in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico right now, "celebrating our anniversary." Anyone who knows us, or knows that tidbit of information always responds with "happy anniversary!" I think, what we're really marking and noting, celebrating and acknowledging is that it's been 10 years full of life, and not all of it as idyllic as it might seem from a few social media posts of two lovers in paradise.

I remember when I first met my husband, vividly. And I remember talking with college girlfriends who would ask "do you have butterflies?" and I always shrugged and said, "not really, I'm not a butterfly sort of girl." I learned early on in life that feelings are like a buoy in the sea - they're a marker and so important, but what really counts is what they're anchored in hundreds of meters below the surface, in the wet, dark mush.

The butterflies I did feel only once overwhelmed me, and they were more like bats flying out of a cave at dusk than a whimsical whirl of white wings on a grassy field - the moment we were pronounced (a word which will forever feel to me like a straight jacket of matrimony because it's only ever used otherwise in judgment or death) husband and wife. To this day I've only told a few souls that I nearly fainted in that moment, not with an overwhelming rush of joy, but with an deer in headlights thought of "what have we done?"

This is turning into the most depressing 10 year anniversary blog ever written. Hang in there.

When my husband and I were dating, we didn't say 'I love you' until the day we were engaged. We'd both had our fair share of relationships before one another, and felt in many ways, we didn't have much new to give each other. So, we saved those words with this expressed intent, "when I say 'i love you' I will always mean 'i choose you.'"

We've fallen back on that anchored meaning countless times. When the buoy of our lives has stretched as far away from it's anchor as possible, angled in such a way that if one were to dive straight down they'd hit only murk and no anchor, 'i love you' has pointed us to the anchor rather than the buoy. 'i love you' has pointed us to the choice rather than the feeling, and I'm so glad it has.

I recently posted the below picture of my husband and I with a quote from Kristen White; "I didn't fall in love with you. I walked into love with you, eyes wide open, choosing every step along the way."

Marriage, and really life, is a series of choices - dozens of them a day. And we watch for the big ones, and we oftentimes respond valiantly to the obvious, but the littles ones wear us down, catch us off guard, fatigue us with their monotony and ceaselessness. It's the habits unchecked, the wound brushed away from consciousness that settles itself in a corner to grow, the dream constantly scribbled as item #3 on the priority list while many others rise past it to top attention. It's the addictions that flare occasionally and are beat back by sheer will power, the temper that flares when almost no one is looking, the pedicure that scrubs of callouses and peels back the veneer on a thinly wrapped monster disagreement on time, money, self-care.

But it's also the choice to turn towards instead of away, to listen instead of shout back, to look into their eyes instead of at the wall, to not always fix it but sometimes just look at it without flinching until you stand on the same side of the problem instead of across it. It's the choice to own your contributions, needs, perspective, and beliefs; and the willingness to let them shift in various seasons. It's the choice to say thank you, even for the tiniest thing, even when it seems the action or gift was owed or obvious, which we seem to think warrants less gratitude. It's the choice to measure the weapon-words before they fly off the tongue, speaking them instead to a trusted friend who will capture their fire with compassion and turn it into a candle to bring a more gentle light to a spot of darkness.

On some days, love is a feeling, the kind we read about and see depicted in everything from commercials to films to music to novels. But I'm glad I didn't sink my teeth into that feeling as the health metric for our marriage, because the absence of that feeling would then necessitate distress and worry. And, with a decade of this behind me, I can say that absence is inevitable. I'm grateful I never thought of that absence as a threat, but as a season, and at times as a sign there was more work to be done. I'm glad that feeling is a buoy - a sign, to be paid attention to, but held down firmly in the wet mush of choice.

I don't know what the next ten years will hold, the older I get the more heartache there seems to be swirling around me, and the more opportunities for savoring the joy and the beauty. I don't know who I will be, or who my spouse will be in ten years - we are vastly different now than we were when we met just breaths past adolescence. But I know choice, I know 'i love you' will always carry two meanings, and that we'll keep turning our face towards.

This isn't meant to say we have it all figured out, we definitely don't. This isn't meant to say I'm confident I'm past the moments I want to quit; I'm fairly certain there are more of those to come. This isn't meant to say that if you'd just tried harder your marriage would be better, or even be. If anything, I hope you hear, in the midst of whatever struggle you're in or have been in, "it is hard. it is work." But I also hope you hear, "it is sweet. it is worthwhile. it is a choice, my choice."

and choice is refreshed as frequently as we take breath.

So today, on our 10 year anniversary, I celebrate choice with an unflinching gaze on the last decade - the losses and the gains, the challenges we overcame and the ones we lost, the pain and the beauty, the sure-footed steps and the careless ones that cost us or others, the dreams we set aside and the new ones we discovered. I honor hard work, not just ours, but our children's, our families, our friends, our communities' - whose hard work has piled rocks on our anchor, settling it stronger for what may come. I cherish tenderness in the face of pain, gentleness in the face of anger, strength in the face of fear, and laughter in the face of struggle.

Almost ten years ago, weeks after our own wedding, we wrote a song for my sister-in-law's wedding. The chorus simply said:

I choose love, the time is now
we're starting out, though I don't know how
we'll walk this road that we cannot see

but when the winds grow cold
and the sky grows dim
when the sea lies still
I'll remember then
that right now
I chose love

Happy Anniversary, my love. I love you.

circa 2 days ago

Wednesday, April 5, 2017

The Launch of a Book | Raising Grown-Ups | Intro


And so it begins, as many things do, without much fanfare. As I sit to write, my two babies lie sleeping in the sweaty sleep, my husband is out at a concert with a friend, and after binge-watching several episodes of Friends and eating ¾ a pizza by myself, I decided it was time to start writing this book.

I came up with the title for this book approximately 4 years ago when a friend asked me a question about my parenting philosophy (which, as a side note, is a rather bizarre thing Western culture has normalized…having a parenting ‘philosophy’. But more on that later). As I answered my friend, I casually said, “if I ever write a book about parenting, it’ll be called Raising Grown-Ups.” And so, here it is.

Why write it now? Well, it’s surely not because my children are grown into fabulous adults and I’m sure I have (and had) this all figured out. Neither of those things are true yet, and the latter will probably never be. I’m writing this book now because my brother, who is expecting his first child, asked me to. And when your little brother, nearing 30 years old, asks you to write a book on parenting because he likes your kids best out of all the kids he knows, it’s the biggest vote of confidence one can get – especially when this little 28 year old brother has been living in the room above your garage for 3 months and has totally seen you lose your cool, lots and lots of times.

I’ve hesitated in writing this book for a perhaps very obvious reason: my children, at this moment, are only 5 ½ and 4 years old. I am hardly an expert, and have over a decade before my children will reach the age where they begin to enter adulthood and being ‘grown-ups’. Nevertheless, if my inability to remember where my glasses are when I’m wearing them is any indication, in over a decade from now I won’t be able to remember what my philosophy on parenting was at this stage in the game.

But here is what I can say confidently now as a mother, and doubt will ever change: learning to raise grown-ups is just as much about learning about ourselves as it is about helping shape our children into who they will become. So, whatever you glean from this book, and even if you decide to stop reading here, please take this: you are still a work in progress, especially in your parenting. Have grace with yourself, humbly seek help, courageously fail and keep trying – and I promise you, at thousands of little invisible junctures, your children will learn these things, and your journey of raising grown-ups will be well underway.

Monday, March 27, 2017

Loss wrapped in beauty

Loss can jump out of the shadows sometimes, very abruptly, leaving a gash on our souls that demands our attention. A sudden illness diagnosis, a miscarriage, the death of a loved one, loss of a job, being wounded by someone we trusted. But loss can also creep across us, the way a beautiful sunset somewhere along the course of time turns into total darkness as the sun disappears and clouds cover the stars and moon.

And loss, wrapped in beauty, is perhaps the most difficult of all to respond to simply because when loss and beauty are intertwined, the loss can go unnoticed until it reveals itself in a pile of rubble made of bits of loveliness.

It's a friendship that brings so much life and joy, that starts to dissipate and is one day altered or gone.

It's a journey into parenthood, that brings so much newness and hope and laughter, but also ushers in a loss of independence, flexibility, and self-confidence.

It's the decision to start a family that starts with excitement, anticipation, and hope, and somewhere turns into bruised hearts, fleeting dreams, and another box of even more unwanted tampons.

It's the relationship or marriage that is full of so much laughter, dreaming, and togetherness that picks up dents and dings, and can turn into an efficient business/parenting partnership where gymnastics and football practice are calendared and bills are paid but backs turn as lovers roll away to the far edges of the bed, and we shrug to a friend over coffee, the tears dried up, "I don't know, somewhere we just lost each other."

It's the pursuit of the new passion that starts with energy, a renewed sense of self, and a belief in adventure that can turn into a sudden realization that priorities have slipped, and with it, health, relationships, and margin.

Loss wrapped in beauty is tricky, not just because it sneaks up on us, but precisely because it is wrapped in beauty. And to give up this kind of loss, would be to give up the beauty as well.

There are so many sayings that can be summed up more or less in the most popular of them all "better to have love and lost, than never to have loved at all." Yeah, sure, we all know it's true, but it sure doesn't ring true on that day (or week, or month, or year, or season) of loss, at least it doesn't for me.

But, what I'm slowly starting to see, is that not only can I develop a habit of seeing the beauty in spite of the loss, but, if I open my heart to it, there may even be beauty in the middle of the loss. Maybe, just maybe, loss is fertile ground for new beauty.

Not that there is beauty in broken dreams, shattered marriages, lost friendships, elusive pregnancies, or the moments of parenting that rip off every last bit of veneer and reveal our ugliest selves. These are the losses, the full-throated, warm-blooded losses that cut us at our knees every time. Having gone through these, or held dear friends and family while they went through these, I know these are the things darkness is made of.  While stillness can be found in the dark, it is a weighty stillness borne of necessity, and not the stillness of a flower tilted toward the sun.

The beauty is what is borne out of losses acknowledged, shared, grieved. This beauty is born out of a friend turning further toward you, not away when you casually hint that you're experiencing a loss. This beauty is born out of a partner pulling closer when you admit you've failed, or point out that perhaps they have.

This beauty is born out of surrender to the hope tomorrow will be better, even if today's view is blurred with tears and rain. This beauty is born out of the healing that comes when we share our greatest fears, failings, and broken dreams and are met with a teary whisper from the soul of one we dared to tell, "I know."

This beauty is born when we are seen, and still loved, not to whisk the loss away, but to help us weave it somehow into a piece of what is the tapestry of our lives.

I don't know what your losses are - whether they jumped out and bit you, or snuck in wrapped in beauty but lately seem only blackness. But I know you've got them, or as it feels at times, they've got you.

But I also know the only wasted string in a tapestry is the one that's never seen, never acknowledged, never incorporated into the whole. Whatever your loss is, I know someone will hold it well, will hold you well, will let it be loss, but not see you as lost. And when they do, I know that tenderly held strand of your life will begin to weave in to beauty, not just yours but theirs, too. I know that a seemingly lifeless color will provide contrast to the brighter hues of realized dreams, loves, and life.

Don't brush away your losses with callousness or shove them away with grit - see them, grieve them, share them. They are yours, but they are not you.

And maybe (often) the loss is only a season, and the friendship returns, or the pregnancy happens, or the marriage is filled with renewed life, or the parenting hits a better rhythm - but even if this is the case, there still will have been a loss. A loss that is a part of your story.

Dear one, for whoever you are, you are dear - your story, made up of your dreams, your loves, your successes mixed with your failings, your defeats, your losses - it is the only one that's ever been written quite like it. Sure, the pieces of you in and of themselves are similar to many others. You're probably one of a billion people who can sing, and one of 4 billion who can cook, and one of 7 billion who've loved, and been wounded. But your tapestry is as different from anyone else as each new sunrise is as different from the one the night before.

Sunrise, the mixture of darkness and light, of loss and gain, of end and beginning - all wrapped into one unique and beautiful masterpiece that impacts every one who sees it. Just like you.

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