Happiness is
loving a borrowed book
so much
so much that I can't wait for my own book
to arrive in the mail
so I can turn every marked page
into a page I can mark
encouraging the phrases
to finally
Become
MINE
Friday, September 26, 2014
Saturday, September 20, 2014
Words
I was listening to NPR the other day, and they had an award wining poet on the show, he said "Words are cheap." That instantly brought to mind the opposite, "Words are expensive". Then, the skeleton of this poem popped into my head and it started writing itself. I'm no poet, but I liked this idea.
WORDS
Words mean nothing
Words are cheap
They have no cost
Words are light
They float effortlessly around us
Words are fleeting
Spoken without thought
Chosen at random
Words are harmless
Words wound
Words are permanent
Their meanings never forgotten
Permanently emblazoned
Words are heavy
Their weight makes us sag
Words are expensive
Their cost we are sometimes unprepared to pay
Words mean everything
WORDS
Words mean nothing
Words are cheap
They have no cost
Words are light
They float effortlessly around us
Words are fleeting
Spoken without thought
Chosen at random
Words are harmless
Words wound
Words are permanent
Their meanings never forgotten
Permanently emblazoned
Words are heavy
Their weight makes us sag
Words are expensive
Their cost we are sometimes unprepared to pay
Words mean everything
Sunday, September 14, 2014
Prayer
I have had an analogy buzzing at the edges of my conscious for many months now. I have wanted to flesh it out in writing, but I'm not sure that I will be sharing this on Facebook. There are all sorts of concerns that I have about making these very personal feelings public. I guess I will write it down for myself, and then let it rest a while before I decide what I will do with it. The metaphor that won't go away begins like this:
Imagine a child who wants to love their parent, but their parent seems distant and difficult to talk to. They have been told all of their life that their parent is easy to talk to, is readily available, and is easily accessible. But, that seems a foreign concept to the child. That certainly hasn't been her experience. Then, after years of effort of differing degrees of intensity, a beautiful relationship builds such that the child now comes to their parent often and consistently feels connected. It seems to the child that time and time again, their parent responds to pleas of help to soften a heart, to change a desire, to help her change. I imagine this pleading to happen in the kitchen, because that's where I have many of my conversations with my own children.
Then, something unexpected and painful happens in the child's life. The child is lost, confused. Since the child has done everything she was told she was supposed to do to continue the connection, in fact she has fulfilled the requirements several times over, she feels confident she will get help. Even though the experience is painful, more painful than she ever thought possible, she knows she just needs to ask for help, and it will come. The child, as per her learned pattern, comes to her parent tearfully pleading for help. Surely, her parent will, once again, help to soften the pain, to change her heart. Surprisingly, she gets nothing. Often, she will feel the equivalence of a comfort hug, but no help with the pain. Hmm. This doesn't make sense. She just needs to keep trying. So, she repeatedly begs for help. . . in tears. . . again. . . and again. . . and again. . . again. . . again. . . aga. . . ag. . . a. . . Then, she comes to her parent with drier eyes, and asks. . . . . Nothing. . . . . . . Then, she is done crying. . . but she still asks. . . . Nothing. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Now, she is stronger. Not only are the tears long gone, but she no longer asks. Her heart has healed, and is now scarred and protected. She still goes through the motions of keeping the connection, but her confidence is gone. Long. Gone. When she approaches her parent, it is to ask for strength and peace for those who struggle; it is to ask for help for others. But, truth be told, she is not sure she believes that extra help will really come. It is more for her own comfort that she is voicing this love and concern for her loved ones. She has enough respect for her parent to continue to include her, now distant, parent -- Father -- in her life, but she no longer has faith to believe that He listens or responds. . . or cares.
She is strong. She believes in listening to her gut. She has learned to trust herself and her intentions. She has learned to love more people, especially those who have experienced deep pain. She believes in the goodness of men and women everywhere. She has seen God in the love that people show to each other, and is drawn to those who choose love over judgment and criticism. Her protected heart has grown into a much stronger foundation of trust in herself. Perhaps, like a certain ruby-shoe-wearing character from a show she can't stand, she has discovered that she had it in her all along. All she had to do was recognize it and find it within herself.
I used to pray to something
Something
Something I called God
I expected the warmth of
Good Morning, of
I've missed you, of
I'm glad you're back
Silence
The deafening kind
empty
Now I pray to nothing
nothing
and no one answers
Imagine a child who wants to love their parent, but their parent seems distant and difficult to talk to. They have been told all of their life that their parent is easy to talk to, is readily available, and is easily accessible. But, that seems a foreign concept to the child. That certainly hasn't been her experience. Then, after years of effort of differing degrees of intensity, a beautiful relationship builds such that the child now comes to their parent often and consistently feels connected. It seems to the child that time and time again, their parent responds to pleas of help to soften a heart, to change a desire, to help her change. I imagine this pleading to happen in the kitchen, because that's where I have many of my conversations with my own children.
Then, something unexpected and painful happens in the child's life. The child is lost, confused. Since the child has done everything she was told she was supposed to do to continue the connection, in fact she has fulfilled the requirements several times over, she feels confident she will get help. Even though the experience is painful, more painful than she ever thought possible, she knows she just needs to ask for help, and it will come. The child, as per her learned pattern, comes to her parent tearfully pleading for help. Surely, her parent will, once again, help to soften the pain, to change her heart. Surprisingly, she gets nothing. Often, she will feel the equivalence of a comfort hug, but no help with the pain. Hmm. This doesn't make sense. She just needs to keep trying. So, she repeatedly begs for help. . . in tears. . . again. . . and again. . . and again. . . again. . . again. . . aga. . . ag. . . a. . . Then, she comes to her parent with drier eyes, and asks. . . . . Nothing. . . . . . . Then, she is done crying. . . but she still asks. . . . Nothing. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Now, she is stronger. Not only are the tears long gone, but she no longer asks. Her heart has healed, and is now scarred and protected. She still goes through the motions of keeping the connection, but her confidence is gone. Long. Gone. When she approaches her parent, it is to ask for strength and peace for those who struggle; it is to ask for help for others. But, truth be told, she is not sure she believes that extra help will really come. It is more for her own comfort that she is voicing this love and concern for her loved ones. She has enough respect for her parent to continue to include her, now distant, parent -- Father -- in her life, but she no longer has faith to believe that He listens or responds. . . or cares.
She is strong. She believes in listening to her gut. She has learned to trust herself and her intentions. She has learned to love more people, especially those who have experienced deep pain. She believes in the goodness of men and women everywhere. She has seen God in the love that people show to each other, and is drawn to those who choose love over judgment and criticism. Her protected heart has grown into a much stronger foundation of trust in herself. Perhaps, like a certain ruby-shoe-wearing character from a show she can't stand, she has discovered that she had it in her all along. All she had to do was recognize it and find it within herself.
I used to pray to something
Something
Something I called God
I expected the warmth of
Good Morning, of
I've missed you, of
I'm glad you're back
Silence
The deafening kind
empty
Now I pray to nothing
nothing
and no one answers
Monday, September 1, 2014
Authority and Keys to the Grown-Up Restroom
I had an A-HA! moment the other day as I walked home from work. I was thinking about something that had happened at work that day, and I had two analogies simultaneously pop into my head. So I don't forget it completely (a particular talent of mine), I want to write it down. My official title at work is Paraprofessional. It is just a fancy way of saying Teacher Aide. At my school, and probably all other schools in my district, parapros are not given keys: no keys for classrooms, restrooms for the grown-ups, doors to the building, etc. Only teachers were allowed to have keys. A few years ago, we were given Fobs so we could at least enter the building. I remember how empowered I felt to have the power to come into the building without relying on someone walking by to let me in. However, for the first 6 1/2 years of my employment, the restrooms were always locked, so in order to use them, I had to ask the secretaries in the front office for the key. I remember thinking that it was quite demoralizing to be in my 40's and still need to ask to use the restroom. I knew that I had the authority to use the restrooms for adults, and all I needed to do was ask the holders of the keys for help, but for some reason it really bothered me. The last part of this last year, our administration changed the system for the restroom doors so no keys were needed. I recognize how silly it must seem, but I felt so relieved to not have to feel like I was one of the students anymore. Then, I was chatting with my co-worker the other day, and she mentioned that it was possible that I was finally going to be given keys. It made me so happy, validated, and acknowledged as a full member of the staff at the school.
As I was walking home, it clicked. I'm sure you have already guessed the connection. It made me realize how many women in the church feel about not officially holding the priesthood. We are told repeatedly that we have the authority of the priesthood (the ability to use the grown-up restroom), when we are acting in our responsibilities in our respective callings, etc., but if we need the actual keys of the priesthood (the power to enter said restroom), we have to ask someone who has been given that power. So, there is a continual need to ask permission from someone with actual power to do anything.
The second analogy that hit simultaneously, was the idea of partners/spouses and money. I'm not exactly sure how to describe my thoughts on this one, because this analogy doesn't apply to every couple. In fact, it doesn't even describe my own three-way relationship between my husband, me, and our finances. But, I have heard of this happening often. In many partnerships, the couple has blended their accounts so that all of their money is jointly owned. However, often one person is in charge of the finances so they control the checkbook, so to speak. So, even though they both have the authority to spend their money, it's really one person with the power to approve or disapprove any one purchase or charge, thereby necessitating the first to ask permission of the second.
For some women, it is not enough to have the authority, when they still are forced to continually ask someone else to exercise their power to access their keys. I'm still not sure where I am on this particular issue, but this eye-opening moment helped me understand, to a small degree, how they might feel. This is such a complicated issue. I have many friends and family members that have no problem asking for the proverbial restroom key. They are just grateful to be able to use the grown-up restroom. I have a lot of respect for these women. I also have friends for whom this issue is a very painful one. They feel marginalized for having to ask for the key again and again and again. My heart hurts for their pain.
As I was walking home, it clicked. I'm sure you have already guessed the connection. It made me realize how many women in the church feel about not officially holding the priesthood. We are told repeatedly that we have the authority of the priesthood (the ability to use the grown-up restroom), when we are acting in our responsibilities in our respective callings, etc., but if we need the actual keys of the priesthood (the power to enter said restroom), we have to ask someone who has been given that power. So, there is a continual need to ask permission from someone with actual power to do anything.
The second analogy that hit simultaneously, was the idea of partners/spouses and money. I'm not exactly sure how to describe my thoughts on this one, because this analogy doesn't apply to every couple. In fact, it doesn't even describe my own three-way relationship between my husband, me, and our finances. But, I have heard of this happening often. In many partnerships, the couple has blended their accounts so that all of their money is jointly owned. However, often one person is in charge of the finances so they control the checkbook, so to speak. So, even though they both have the authority to spend their money, it's really one person with the power to approve or disapprove any one purchase or charge, thereby necessitating the first to ask permission of the second.
For some women, it is not enough to have the authority, when they still are forced to continually ask someone else to exercise their power to access their keys. I'm still not sure where I am on this particular issue, but this eye-opening moment helped me understand, to a small degree, how they might feel. This is such a complicated issue. I have many friends and family members that have no problem asking for the proverbial restroom key. They are just grateful to be able to use the grown-up restroom. I have a lot of respect for these women. I also have friends for whom this issue is a very painful one. They feel marginalized for having to ask for the key again and again and again. My heart hurts for their pain.
Saturday, February 22, 2014
Am I an ER?
"So, you're a singer?" I'm asked often.
I pause, hesitant, "Well. . . I sing."
Blank look. "What does that mean? Don't you have a degree in singing?" They respond.
"Yes . . . sort of. It's in choral education." I reply.
"Haven't you been teaching singing in one form or another for years?" They ask.
"Yes"
"Haven't you taken singing lessons off and on for 15 years?" They are starting to get irritated.
"Yes"
"Haven't you put in your 10,000 Malcolm Gladwell hours?" Pitch is rising.
"And then some." I answer.
"Then, you are a singER!" They say definitively.
. . . . . This is the hard part. If I say, "Yes" I'm claiming something. As soon as I say I'm a singER, people expect something of me. Or, perhaps, they think I put myself in a certain category of accomplishment. I don't make money singing. I'm not a professional singER by any means. I don't sound like an opera singer, I don't sing like most musical theater singERs, I only sing certain kinds of jazz, I sing folk and pop, but only in my own way. The next time they hear me sing, they will be making their own decision.
Am I a singER? I have been singing almost since birth, it's how most people knew me as a kid. It's probably in my veins and sinews, the most basic core of who I am. However, how much it calls to me ebbs and flows over the years. Sometimes, I sing daily. And sometimes, it takes me months to actually let the constant, but quiet, pull of my piano draw me to it. But once it wins and I give in, I usually stay glued to the bench for song after song. I guess, YES, I am a singER. But, I don't sound like anyone else, I don't have a genre, I just sing like me.
There's more.
This next quote is hard for me to write. It sounds so arrogant, so please keep reading to get my meaning. "You are a good writer!" A few people have been kind enough to say. But then, they are not going to tell me to my face that I stink at it are they? Regardless, I have heard it often enough that I have been thinking about it. Am I a writER?
This one is much easier for me to answer. I have a friend who is a writER, a published, practiced, talented writER. I have been reading about the process she goes through to write her next book. A rewrite of the whole book to change voice. A rewrite of the whole book to change setting. She edits again, and again, and again. She writes every day for hours and hours.
I write a blog. I hope I am grammatically correct. I hope I use full sentences. I hope I use correct tenses. I very much hope I am somewhat interesting, and somewhat entertaining to read. I sincerely hope I sometimes connect with people on a deeper level. However, am I a writER? No. I don't claim to be a writER. Yet, since I know I am not a writER, every compliment, every kind word is a rare treasure that I hold close, never to be forgotten.
Am I a teachER?
Twenty-one years ago, when I got my first teaching job, I was more than slightly terrified. I remember standing in my empty classroom before a single student arrived. I distinctly remember saying to myself with much trepidation, "I sure hope I like this." My fears were unfounded. I loved it. However, I only taught for three years before I stopped teaching in a classroom to become a mother. Within a couple of years, I had friends and neighbors begging me to start teaching private piano lessons. When I couldn't dissuade them - and I tried - I reluctantly agreed to open a teaching studio in my home. Again, I quickly learned to love it. I taught for about 14 years before I "retired" due to my children's busy afternoon schedules. In the meantime, my youngest daughter began all-day Kindergarten, so I begged the principal of our elementary school for a job teaching at the school. I started teaching a math rotation, and now, for the last three years plus, I have been teaching reading intervention with an amazing team. However, since my position was that of an aide, I was never sure what to tell people when they asked what I did for work. When people found out I worked in a school, they would ask if I was a teacher. Not wanting to sound presumptuous, I always told people no. However, I have since changed my mind. Being a teachER is more than your official title. It's more than a job you have or a thing you do. Teaching is a mind-set. It's either in your bones, or it isn't. I think you can learn to be a teacher for a career, but whether or not you become a teachER, whether or not it becomes a part of your soul, the way you think, who you are, has to be remembered or discovered, not learned. Almost every calling I have ever had in my church has been teaching related. Or, I have turned it into a teaching opportunity.
Am I a teachER? Yes. I am. It is a switch I can not turn off, even if I try. It's how I approach every situation. There is always an internal dialogue of how I would approach or teach something differently.
Am I a runnER?
Yes. I have been running off and on for 25 years, and have been a consistent runnER for the last 16 years. I have run some marathons and a handful of triathlons, however, I have won NONE of them. The only medals I have from running are for races where everyone gets a medal for finishing. I think I feel like a runner because I choose to run at least 4 times a week -- every week -- year after year. I don't necessarily love to run, and my favorite part of a run is finishing each run. But, if I do have to miss an occasional run because of illness, I miss it body, mind, and spirit. I feel so much better if I have run that morning. So, when our alarm goes off at a ridiculously early hour, I grumble and groan just like everyone else. But, while I'm grumbling, I'm lacing up my shoes.
Yes, I am a runnER.
Am I a bikER?
No. Even though I have been consistently biking twice a week, either outside or at the rec center, for a couple of years now, I haven't earned this particular ER.
Am I a readER?
YES! Thankfully, yes! I see the struggle it is for my students to learn to read, and I am so grateful that I can read without the difficulty they experience. It is a major source of peace and satisfaction in my life. It's something I practice daily. 10,000 hours? Easy!
I am a readER!
Am I a mothER?
YES! YES! YES! and YES!! My co-favorite descriptor is that of a mothER! I love spending time with my girls! They are smart, funny, kind (um, mostly), and a continual source of joy for me. I find that I don't even mind driving them to their various classes, school, work, shopping - ok, I lied, I hate shopping, etc. I love being able to meet any one of their needs. With Casey getting older, I find I recognize the shortness of the time I will have with them before they go out on their own, so I appreciate our time together even more.
I am most definitely a happy mothER!
Finally, I am a partnER/wife!
My other co-favorite desciptor is that of being a partnER to a great man. I owe much of who I am, and who I am becoming to the way Dave encourages and empowers me. I still have a long way to go to find and embrace the strength I believe lies dormant inside me, but I am grateful to be married to a man who wants to support me, who wants me to realize who I was meant to become.
I am a grateful partnER!
A singER, writer, teachER, runnER, biker, readER, MOTHER, PARTNER. These are just a handful of words that describe, in their own way, my journey. I still don't know when that line is crossed and I become an official ER. Each category is a journey, a part of a whole, snapshots in time, phases of a life. There's so much more to learn, to experience, to become. I'm so inexplicably grateful my family will be there to experience it with me.
I pause, hesitant, "Well. . . I sing."
Blank look. "What does that mean? Don't you have a degree in singing?" They respond.
"Yes . . . sort of. It's in choral education." I reply.
"Haven't you been teaching singing in one form or another for years?" They ask.
"Yes"
"Haven't you taken singing lessons off and on for 15 years?" They are starting to get irritated.
"Yes"
"Haven't you put in your 10,000 Malcolm Gladwell hours?" Pitch is rising.
"And then some." I answer.
"Then, you are a singER!" They say definitively.
. . . . . This is the hard part. If I say, "Yes" I'm claiming something. As soon as I say I'm a singER, people expect something of me. Or, perhaps, they think I put myself in a certain category of accomplishment. I don't make money singing. I'm not a professional singER by any means. I don't sound like an opera singer, I don't sing like most musical theater singERs, I only sing certain kinds of jazz, I sing folk and pop, but only in my own way. The next time they hear me sing, they will be making their own decision.
Am I a singER? I have been singing almost since birth, it's how most people knew me as a kid. It's probably in my veins and sinews, the most basic core of who I am. However, how much it calls to me ebbs and flows over the years. Sometimes, I sing daily. And sometimes, it takes me months to actually let the constant, but quiet, pull of my piano draw me to it. But once it wins and I give in, I usually stay glued to the bench for song after song. I guess, YES, I am a singER. But, I don't sound like anyone else, I don't have a genre, I just sing like me.
There's more.
This next quote is hard for me to write. It sounds so arrogant, so please keep reading to get my meaning. "You are a good writer!" A few people have been kind enough to say. But then, they are not going to tell me to my face that I stink at it are they? Regardless, I have heard it often enough that I have been thinking about it. Am I a writER?
This one is much easier for me to answer. I have a friend who is a writER, a published, practiced, talented writER. I have been reading about the process she goes through to write her next book. A rewrite of the whole book to change voice. A rewrite of the whole book to change setting. She edits again, and again, and again. She writes every day for hours and hours.
I write a blog. I hope I am grammatically correct. I hope I use full sentences. I hope I use correct tenses. I very much hope I am somewhat interesting, and somewhat entertaining to read. I sincerely hope I sometimes connect with people on a deeper level. However, am I a writER? No. I don't claim to be a writER. Yet, since I know I am not a writER, every compliment, every kind word is a rare treasure that I hold close, never to be forgotten.
Am I a teachER?
Twenty-one years ago, when I got my first teaching job, I was more than slightly terrified. I remember standing in my empty classroom before a single student arrived. I distinctly remember saying to myself with much trepidation, "I sure hope I like this." My fears were unfounded. I loved it. However, I only taught for three years before I stopped teaching in a classroom to become a mother. Within a couple of years, I had friends and neighbors begging me to start teaching private piano lessons. When I couldn't dissuade them - and I tried - I reluctantly agreed to open a teaching studio in my home. Again, I quickly learned to love it. I taught for about 14 years before I "retired" due to my children's busy afternoon schedules. In the meantime, my youngest daughter began all-day Kindergarten, so I begged the principal of our elementary school for a job teaching at the school. I started teaching a math rotation, and now, for the last three years plus, I have been teaching reading intervention with an amazing team. However, since my position was that of an aide, I was never sure what to tell people when they asked what I did for work. When people found out I worked in a school, they would ask if I was a teacher. Not wanting to sound presumptuous, I always told people no. However, I have since changed my mind. Being a teachER is more than your official title. It's more than a job you have or a thing you do. Teaching is a mind-set. It's either in your bones, or it isn't. I think you can learn to be a teacher for a career, but whether or not you become a teachER, whether or not it becomes a part of your soul, the way you think, who you are, has to be remembered or discovered, not learned. Almost every calling I have ever had in my church has been teaching related. Or, I have turned it into a teaching opportunity.
Am I a teachER? Yes. I am. It is a switch I can not turn off, even if I try. It's how I approach every situation. There is always an internal dialogue of how I would approach or teach something differently.
Am I a runnER?
Yes. I have been running off and on for 25 years, and have been a consistent runnER for the last 16 years. I have run some marathons and a handful of triathlons, however, I have won NONE of them. The only medals I have from running are for races where everyone gets a medal for finishing. I think I feel like a runner because I choose to run at least 4 times a week -- every week -- year after year. I don't necessarily love to run, and my favorite part of a run is finishing each run. But, if I do have to miss an occasional run because of illness, I miss it body, mind, and spirit. I feel so much better if I have run that morning. So, when our alarm goes off at a ridiculously early hour, I grumble and groan just like everyone else. But, while I'm grumbling, I'm lacing up my shoes.
Yes, I am a runnER.
Am I a bikER?
No. Even though I have been consistently biking twice a week, either outside or at the rec center, for a couple of years now, I haven't earned this particular ER.
Am I a readER?
YES! Thankfully, yes! I see the struggle it is for my students to learn to read, and I am so grateful that I can read without the difficulty they experience. It is a major source of peace and satisfaction in my life. It's something I practice daily. 10,000 hours? Easy!
I am a readER!
Am I a mothER?
YES! YES! YES! and YES!! My co-favorite descriptor is that of a mothER! I love spending time with my girls! They are smart, funny, kind (um, mostly), and a continual source of joy for me. I find that I don't even mind driving them to their various classes, school, work, shopping - ok, I lied, I hate shopping, etc. I love being able to meet any one of their needs. With Casey getting older, I find I recognize the shortness of the time I will have with them before they go out on their own, so I appreciate our time together even more.
I am most definitely a happy mothER!
Finally, I am a partnER/wife!
My other co-favorite desciptor is that of being a partnER to a great man. I owe much of who I am, and who I am becoming to the way Dave encourages and empowers me. I still have a long way to go to find and embrace the strength I believe lies dormant inside me, but I am grateful to be married to a man who wants to support me, who wants me to realize who I was meant to become.
I am a grateful partnER!
A singER, writer, teachER, runnER, biker, readER, MOTHER, PARTNER. These are just a handful of words that describe, in their own way, my journey. I still don't know when that line is crossed and I become an official ER. Each category is a journey, a part of a whole, snapshots in time, phases of a life. There's so much more to learn, to experience, to become. I'm so inexplicably grateful my family will be there to experience it with me.
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