Small things with great love . . .

I spend a lot of time sacrificing good in the search for perfect.   For that matter, actually, I spend more time than I’d like to admit sitting still and never even trying because perfection seems unattainable.    This remains the biggest challenge I face when tackling anything new, creating anything.   With raging ego, I want whatever I do to be huge, great, original, unsurpassed - perfect.   Standards impossible to live up to, right?   

Wandered through a really cool gallery while in San Diego last month, with a lot of different vendors and artists’ work on display.   It seems art with themes of India seems to be the hot new thing with a lot of artists, at least out here.   Appears to be the trend du jour along with all things from Asia.    Much of it is beautiful, reds and golds, silks and jade and marble carvings, exotic and pleasing to the eye.    I wandered into one area with wooden, ivory and jade carvings of different little Hindu gods and mythological characters.   

I spent a moment with Ganesh, always one of my favorites to examine.   The god with the head and trunk of an elephant.    The carvings were fantastic.    Ganesh is supposed to be the remover of obstacles, or according to some interpretations, the god who places obstacles in your way to help you grow.   Either way, he represents growth and change.    I found a great handmade keychain last summer in Maui, with antique beads and a small Ganesh on it that I bought for a friend who I felt could use some help with obstacles in her life.   It was so beautiful, I almost kept it.   That was my obstacle.  

Anyway, so I’m standing in this beautiful gallery, surrounded by beautiful things - original art, antique art, and artish things, fondling an ivory Ganesh, trunk and all, and I look over and see there’s a little gardening section right next to where I’m standing.    There’s a shelf of rocks with quotes carved into them.   I’m fascinated so I wander over.   

My eyes are drawn to one rock in particular.   “We can do no great things, only small things with great love.”   It’s a quote attributed to Mother Theresa.   It’s a message I’ve been getting a long time in many ways from many sources, but until that moment, it had never actually taken root.    

I just read it and said to myself, very meekly, “oh.”   

Sometimes it just takes being hit over the head with a rock to make things crystal clear, doesn’t it?   

Paths

“Travelers, there is no path, paths are made by walking”   

Antonio Machado.  

Sometimes it is just oh so hard to make that simple gesture of just putting one foot in front of the other, though, isn't it?

Looking ahead and behind

When Brian was in his first year of law school, we were friends with another law school couple, and they met us for dinner one evening with a replay of a conversation they’d had earlier at their church.    New to the community and the church, they were meeting lots of new friends and lots of new families.    One man, a father with several children in his forties, after hearing about their struggles as they embarked on their first year of marriage and graduate school, said, “Wow.  I’d love to have it all ahead of me like that.”  

At dinner that evening, we decided the guy was crazy.    All we could see were the piles of student loan debt threatening to swallow us whole as we sat in our crummy apartments with crummy jobs, with several years of the intense workload of law school ahead of half of us.   We were ready to have all of this behind us and reach the point where we could actually get started with life.

I hadn’t thought of that dinner, that conversation, in years until recently, as I sat in a local cafe talking to a young friend of mine who just started college.    

I feel fortunate that as Austin blazes his trail through the local musical theatre scene, and as I walk along behind him, I have the chance to get to know some of the teens and young adults that he works with.    I am the happy recipient of their strange text messages (does anyone email anymore?) and sometimes see more of their Facebook world than I need to.    

Watching them travel their respective paths, as the twenty-somethings struggle with self-discovery and the battle of their relationships and as the new high school grads face the shock and joy of the next steps and college life, should make me feel even older than I already do.    I hear myself thinking, “I remember how hard it was to deal with THAT,” and can picture this grandmotherly image of myself saying it, complete with rocking chair.    

But the reality is that when I’m sitting in the carpool line and receive a text message from a seventeen-year-old college freshman that I adore, and once I translate it, I realize she’s telling me how great her new acting class just was, I feel an uplifting joy as if I were the one who just left that acting class and realize what a rush I feel living vicariously through all of their adventures.   

So I sat in this little cafe a few weekends ago, where Austin and I had stopped between Will’s soccer game and Austin’s voice lesson, and I listened to my young friend/our waiter, also a college freshman, talk about the first few months of college life and pour out all of his angst and fears and confusion.   He’s a film student, a total artist type, incredibly brilliant, with all of the darkness that goes with that personality.    He’s anxious to get on with life, to move ahead, he’s tired of feeling in limbo.    

As he walked us out to our car, I refuse to tell him that in some ways limbo is all we ever really have.  

Instead I say, “Honey, you have all of this ahead of you.   Just enjoy this place you are now.   Stop worrying and just have some fun.    You’re going to wake up one day and wonder where it all went.”

Then I added, “Do it for me.   Just enjoy the ride.”   

He smiled and hugged me, but I realize no matter how strongly I feel, I’ll never convert him to the religion of enjoy your youth while you can hold it in your hand.    I guess some things we just don’t understand until we’re on the other side; at least, that’s what my sixty-year-old self whispers to me every now and then.    

Come have tea with me

25 Things

Did you do the 25 things meme on Facebook?   I tried.   But instead of 25 things, it became 25 paragraphs.    So I never posted it.   So I'm doing it now . . .

Here it is:

My parents still live in the house where I grew up.   I lived there from the time I was born until I was seventeen.   Since then, I’ve lived in ten different cities.  Brian and I have lived in this house for a little over five years and it’s the longest we’ve lived anywhere since we were married almost twenty years ago.  

Growing up with sisters did not prepare me for living in a house of boys.  

I was not prepared for the shocks of motherhood - the dueling feelings of overwhelming unpreparedness and inadequacy and overwhelming love.

I’m a better mother, wife, friend, and citizen on the days I go for a run at the beach.  It’s not a physical thing; it’s a mental thing. 

I’m writing a novel.   Most days I feel like I’ll never finish it, but I plug along.

I also paint, sculpt and make a little pottery, but writing is where I focus most of my energy.   

I love to hear Austin sing; I love to hear Will laugh - he has the best laugh ever.

I am not a housekeeper.    I’m quite lousy at it.    I feel guilty for not caring more that  I’m quite lousy at it.   We live in a chaotic mess of toys, books, unfinished art projects and stuff.

I love being outdoors.    I need my time outdoors everyday, even if it’s just to sit wrapped in a blanket and drinking my morning tea.   Most days I spend as much time as possible outdoors - having meals, reading, gardening . . .  I always choose the outside table at a restaurant and my workouts are always outside.    

Will started school last year, which made this the first year in almost ten that I have a huge chunk of everyday to myself.   I’ve gone from being totally disoriented to being stressed about how to fill my time to just sort of being.   

I detest all things PTA and school-volunteer related.   I’d much rather spend my volunteer time with whatever theatre company Austin is working with at the moment.   Theatre people are much more fun than PTA moms.  

Brian and I are counting the minutes to trade in this house for a smaller place at the beach.   We’re pretty close to beach now, but we can’t hear the ocean at night, yet.  We stay here for the school district.   If we ever make the decision to homeschool or send the kids to private school, we’ll be making the move a lot sooner. 

My favorite date night out is to go to dinner and hit the local blues bar for live music.   

My favorite day out with the girls is hitting the vintage clothing shops in West Hollywood.    

Most days and nights I prefer to have dinner on my deck and relax in my garden than to go out.

The highest compliment you can pay me is to come to my house and totally lose track of time.   Our last dinner guests, who were here about a week ago, left at 5:00 am.   Okay, maybe that was a little much.  

I am the daughter of a man who loves his work.   I am married to a man who loves his work.    I hope my sons find work they love.

I’ve lived in small towns, the downtown area of large cities and the suburbs of large metro areas.    Living in a funky neighborhood of a large city energizes me in way that living other places doesn’t.   I think my favorite lifestyle was when I lived in San Francisco and could walk everywhere I needed to go and my car stayed in the garage for weeks at a time.    

People ask me what it’s like to live in Los Angeles, and I tell them that quite honestly I don’t feel like I live in Los Angeles.    I live on a hill by the ocean, that’s sort of a mix of Suburbia, USA and Laid Back Beach town, and Los Angeles is a place I drive to occasionally.    I try to explain that LA is like any other city or town in that it’s made up of lots of different areas and neighborhoods each with it’s own soul and flavor.    It doesn’t feel like living in a metro area of 10 million people - unless I’m on the freeway at rush hour.   

And, yes, this is my favorite place I’ve lived.   It slightly edges out San Francisco because of the weather.   

We hope we are in California to stay this time.    Brian’s job means that we are probably here or in San Francisco.    When we talk about retirement, we talk about living somewhere along the Southern California coast - if not here, than some beach town somewhere between Santa Barbara and San Diego.   

I do miss my family and friends from the east coast and would like to see all of them  more often.   

Even though I’ve moved a lot, and I’m horrible at keeping up with people like I should be, I feel like I’ve traveled through this life with a pack of soul sisters who’ve always had my back, those whom I could call anytime day or night and they would be there to bail me out of any situation I find myself in,  and I would do anything for them in turn.   You know who you are.  

The biggest thing we fight about in this house is music.    I like blues and indie alternative, Austin is (currently) into old Michael Jackson, Queen and musicals, and Will is into John Williams’ movie compositions.     The only thing we can agree on is changing the station when Brian turns on NPR.    We are a house of music, though, and there is always music playing in the background of our lives.

We are a house of music, a house of art, a house where everyone is encouraged to create and freely express themselves.   My house isn’t always clean, my kids don’t always make it to school on time, but this is a place where creativity and self expression is encouraged and valued.   That’s the home I always want to have . . .  and now I do.   

Heard this today

Forgiveness is giving up all hope for a better past.  

Whole Concerns

I made a salad last night with red cabbage, dandelion greens and cilantro with an Asian style oil and vinegar dressing.    It was yummy.   All the ingredients - I picked up fresh at our farmers market.   Along with the apples and broccoli that the kids had with their pizza.  Y’all know how I love the farmers market.   

So we were sitting at the table moaning about how great all these fresh things tasted, and I noted how surprised I was to find so much variety this time of year.   I had asked one of the farmers if he grew his broccoli and tomatoes in a greenhouse.   “No,” he said.   “I grow them in Irvine.”  

The conversation turned from fresh veggies from the farmers market to the latest public relations gaffe from the CEO of Whole Foods.   In other places I’ve lived, I loved that store.    I occasionally go to our local one, but with less frequency.   Between the daily local farmers’ markets, my love affair with Trader Joe’s, and this wonderful grocery store called Sprouts - which is like a Whole Foods in that it has the whole natural foods and products thing going on with a lot less attitude, I have had fewer reasons to go to WF.    

Brian and I were contemplating what the latest statement by the WF CEO would do to business.   Austin piped up and asked us to explain what had happened.    

“Okay, Whole Foods:   think about how they are different from other grocery stores - they are trying to attract people who are into organic foods and other products, vegetarians and vegans, who are for fair trade, etc.,”  I said.   “These people as a demographic are overwhelmingly liberal or progressive in their politics.  Not everyone who shops there, but the customers are going to trend in that direction.  A few months ago, the CEO came out against the health plan agenda that most progressives have been fighting for . . . “

Austin cut me off,  “Oh no.   Not good.   I get it.    That’s pretty stupid.”   

I continued, “And, now the latest is that he’s basically said something like he doesn’t believe there’s scientific evidence of climate change.”   

“WHAT?!”  Austin exclaimed and turned bright red.    

And then, my ten-year-old goes off into this long, loud rant with things like  “JUST LOOK AROUND!”  and “THE EVIDENCE IS IN NATURE!” and on and on and on in a way that makes me look at him with a little awe and wonder because it’s one of those rare moments when I am reminded that he IS my child.    

And the rant goes on and on with sprinklings of “WE CANNOT SHOP THERE ANYMORE!” and I’m proudly thinking “my little activist” and my heart is getting all warm and mushy.   

Then Will, who has been sitting silently, watching and listening, suddenly pipes up, in his sweet little innocent voice, expressing his biggest concern about the whole thing, asks,  “But does they have toys there?”    

So like THIS bag . . .

from the Sundance outlet:

I like it.   But let's go back to our original discussion.  

I can't decide if I'm too old for it  . . .  or too young for it.  

Dear Austin

Dear Austin,

Before Will was born, I stressed, I mean really, really stressed about how I was ever going to possibly be able to love him as much as I love you.    I mean, I actually worried about it.    Because I didn’t think it would ever be possible to ever love anyone in my life as much as I loved you.   And you were only three then.   And then, I couldn’t imagine that I would even love you so much more now, than I even did then.   

I quickly learned after Will was born a concept that I never quite understood before.    Love is infinite.   There is no shortage, it doesn’t run out.   It just grows and grows.   And when you need to come up with more of it, you just do.    Once I held Will in my arms I realized I’d never have to ration love, or worry about running out and having to share a limited supply, because when it came to my sons, my love would just grow and grow to the point that I would simply overwhelm them with it at times.  

So I was shocked tonight when you said that.   When I held Will in my arms and tried to comfort him because he was crying his eyes out because he couldn’t play Wii, a really silly reason to cry, admittedly, but his broken heart was made obvious by the tears, my natural response as a mother was to hold him and try to stop the crying.    

Remember he had been given a really big job to do, pickup all the Legos, all over the living room.   We don’t play Wii on school nights, but I told him if he could manage to do that before bedtime I’d let him play.   It probably wasn’t fair of me.   Like I said, it was a really big job.   And he became distracted, of course, and started building things as he cleaned up, so I felt really bad, like I’d set him up to fail.   So then, when he cried . . .  I just felt worse.   

When you said, “that proves you care more about him than me,”  I was totally shocked.   I had no idea where that was coming from.    And I could see how hurt you looked.    When I asked for an explanation, you couldn’t even put it into words.    

But then I realized, and said it:  it’s not just this one thing, it’s having to sit there and watch him being babied and comforted your whole life.   When as the oldest child, you’ve been pushed forward, pushed away faster, encouraged to do things for yourself, get over your tears a little faster, meet your milestones a little faster as we have been fascinated by watching you grow and seeing what you could accomplish next.    

Will, as the youngest, has had a bit of an opposite reaction from us.   We’ve held him back.   We HAVE babied him more.   We’ve tried to hold on to those last fleeting moments of every stage that we’ve watched you fly through.   Because we learned with you how fast little boys grow up.   And it’s so totally unfair.    

I tried to explain what it’s like from Will’s perspective, as the youngest.   He watches you do things he can’t - master new skills quickly, run faster, ride the over 48 inches rides at the amusement park, lift and push heavier items, take off with your friends, read and write, sing and dance, sleep all night without occasionally peeing the bed -  I could write a long list of things that you can do that he can’t - all of which frustrate and sadden him.    

But none of that is really important right now.   I remember once when we still lived in Virginia, and Will was just an infant, and you, of course, were only four, a moment when you reached me with a heartbreaking clarity that I’ll never forget.    Will had fallen down, and was crying, and I rushed to him to comfort him, and you said, “why don’t you ever do that when I cry?”   Tonight reminded me of that moment.   

Nevermind that you’ve deserved an Academy Award for your dramatic moments after every small injury since the time you were small, and we have spent a lot of time trying to get you to simply, ahem, get over things.    You were still four, and you needed hugs and kisses when you fell, and I, of course then and now refuse to believe you didn’t get them, though perhaps we did make a bigger deal when the four month old fell over and cried.   

Now, you’re ten.   And even though you still need hugs and kisses, as you slowly pull away from me in that way you are so naturally inclined to do, I’m not sure how to best comfort you.    You never bawl your eyes out over a Wii game.   You never bawl your eyes out over anything anymore.    But you do have a distant, hurt, raw look in your eyes sometimes when you become upset that I’m not sure how to best handle.    

I think I do overcompensate with Will a little, too, because I spend so much more time with you.    When you are in a show, I’m off with you, and Will is left here with Dad.    When you are rehearsing and I’m watching, Will comes into the room, and I immediately shush him, so that you aren’t disturbed.   I worry about how that makes him feel.   You and I have discussions, sometimes long ones, about things that he doesn’t understand.   I know he feels left out a lot.    And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I tend to make a big deal, a REALLY big deal, of your talents.    I’m often afraid Will is left to feel like he doesn’t quite measure up.   

The result of all of this is that I’m still pushing you to stand on your own a bit in places where I tend to baby him a little.    I’m sorry if this makes you feel unloved, because nothing could be farther from the truth.    

All I can say is that you were wrong tonight.    I don’t and have never cared more about your brother than you.    And I never will.    I told you before about what your mere existence means to me, and to quote another friend of mine who spoke of her son: when you were born I realized for the first time in my life there was a boy that I’d never be able to live without.    

I’m just sorry I haven’t done a better show of showing you all of that.   

Love,

Mom

Quiet time

I’m enjoying a quiet day at home, in an empty house, for the first time in over two weeks.   

Austin has to be at school by 8:30; Will has to be at school at 8:45.    We drive and dropoff Austin at the back gate by 8:30, sometimes a little later, and then Will and I park the car and walk to Kindergarten.   

The Kindergarten yard is open at 8:30 and the kids are allowed to go and play until time for lineup.    At the beginning of the year, most all of the parents stayed and chatted and watched the kids play until 8:45; now the crowd has dwindled down to a few parents as more of the young children have become accustomed to being dropped off in front of the school.  

Will begs me to stay until lineup for “one more hug.”    Everyday I ask, “How about I just drop you off today?”    Everyday the answer is, “but I really want you to stay.”    I think about all of the things I could be doing with that extra fifteen.    That’s natural, isn’t it?

I have become a fierce guarder of this time to myself.   Doling out time during my days like Scrooge, hanging onto it tightly.   I’m doing what is, in my mind at least, the minimally acceptable amount of volunteer time at the schools.    A very close friend is our PTA president, but fortunately she knows how I am, she doesn’t pressure me, but will occasionally ask, “would you like to help out with this?”  Help out - yes.  Chair a project - no way.    

I appear totally selfish about it.   Friends call - can you meet for breakfast or lunch?   I look at the week I had mapped out for myself, knowing each day what I wanted to do with my time.    I’m becoming unmoving about keeping certain appointments with myself.   I know I have to walk or run everyday; somedays company can be nice, but most of the time I want that time alone.    Today I have this project at home in mind, tomorrow I’m going to that place for that errand which will take all morning, etc, etc.   Built into all of it is blessed quiet time at home - to do some yoga, to meditate, to sit in my orchid garden and sip tea, to paint, to write.    

I find out how important this time is when I don’t have it.    There was this horrible week last fall that I didn’t have it.    And I was horrible.   Monday my housekeeper was here, she loves to chat, I try to remember my German.   It’s motivation for me to clean, too, when she’s here.   To tackle the linen closet while she vacuums, clean out the fridge while she’s cleaning bathrooms.    

Tuesday both kids were home sick.   They totally played me.   They could have gone in late; they felt fine after a little children’s motrin and some extra rest.   Note to self:  make  sick days more boring.   I tried that by making them clean their rooms.   But kids turn that into a treasure hunt, as they find old toys and books they’d forgotten about.  

Wednesday was my volunteer day in the Kindergarten.    They had a substitute who didn’t seem to like noise, or young kids, very much.   I decided I should stay long beyond my scheduled shift and lend a hand.  

Thursday Brian worked from home.   His stuff was everywhere, I kept tripping over it.   He made lawyerly phone calls that were less interesting because I only heard half the conversation.    

Friday was my day, finally, except I had to spend it cleaning.   The house was a wreck, and I was bringing a load of ten-year-olds home for a playdate.   At this age, they seem to travel in packs, and you have to bring in all the wild animals at once.    “You’re cleaning up for kids?” a friend asks, incredulous, during a phone call.     Yes, because it’s really that bad.   And kids are picked up by parents.   Who tend to hang out for a few minutes to chat.   And then have a few munchies.   Before you know it corkscrews and bottles are out.   

“NO,”  I said to my friend.   “You can’t come over and hang out.   I have things to do.    I can’t play today.  Call me next week.”    I didn’t feel as rude as it sounded.   We have that kind of relationship.   

She called back.   “You can clean, and I’ll just keep you company.”

“No.”

“I’ll just sit, and won’t bother you, and talk.”

“NO.”

“I’M REALLY UPSET ABOUT SOMETHING AND I NEED TO TALK TO YOU.”

Three hours later she left my house, and I had two hours to clean up  Legos, laundry, piles of schoolwork, and all the other clutter all over my house.   

So I stood today in the Kindergarten playyard wanting those fifteen minutes.   Greedily wanting them for myself.    

“But I just love you sooooo much,”  Will had said in the car.     “I just love you and will miss you when you walk away.”   

“You don’t even notice me when I wait,”  I replied, giving him a glimpse of his future with some petulant girlfriend, “you are off chasing your friends and I’m just standing there.   Most of the other moms have already gone.”

“And you don’t want to be the only one?”   he asks.

Suddenly I realize how silly this whole discussion is on my part. 

“No, that’s not it,” I’m just being a time Scrooge, I think to myself.  I hug him.   

So I go, and I stand, and I wait.   I wave at parents as they walk in, drop off their kids, and walk away.    I watch Will and the other kids chase each other around like the little wild foxes used to do in our backyard in Virginia.

I remember a great parenting article I read once about just being there.   That’s all.   It should be the easiest thing in the world.   Just hang out and be there with your kids.    It doesn’t require doing crafts, or building Lego spaceships, or even reading a book.    Just be there, in the room, within sight, watching them play.    

Even Austin, at age ten, still seems to need this.    We were walking through a store recently, and he has his arm around me, hanging on.   He’s getting bigger, I stumble and almost fall from the weight of his body.    “Honey, you can hold my hand, or my arm, but you can’t put your weight on me, you’re too heavy,”  I complain.   “But I just want to be close to you,”  he says.    

They won’t always want me to be there.    But for now, they do.    I think, that’s probably, in the big picture scheme of things, worth a heck of a lot more than that quiet time to myself I’m hoarding.   

New location; same OLD self indulgent whinery

I had an epiphany.   Of sorts.    Not in a good way.   One of those that make you gasp and suck all of the oxygen out of the room.   One of those that make you just want to walk into a bar and order a double.  

We were at Sea World.   The boys were doing something that was likely to cause nausea in those prone to motion sickness.   So I was wandering from little souvenir shop to little souvenir shop.   And I found a surf-shop-wanna be with clothing and accessories like Volcom and Roxy, you know.    I love wandering through surf shops.   

I found a really cool scarf, and I was looking at it, stretching it out in my hands, feeling the texture, and a voice in my head said, firmly, very firmly and seriously actually, “that scarf is too young for you.”   

Wha?   Or actually:   wtf?    A scarf?    I’ve become used to the idea that certain clothes are too young for me, gradually.    I know that whenever I wear anything tie-dyed, or if I wear denim above my waist, I am simply begging for an intervention.    But a scarf?   

I love to shop consignment stores - where my friends will go with me, and thrift stores - where my friends will not, because I’m still basically sixteen.   I tried on a plaid Billabong shirt in said consignment shop recently while my friend shouted, “No, NO!”    

Living in Southern California only feeds my sickness because overall I think women do dress younger here than in other parts of the country.   But you can still take it too far, I suppose.    Okay, yes, yes you can take it too far.   

And this scarf, even though it was a scarf, was much like the leather corded necklaces with large silver peace signs hanging from them.   I didn’t think I’d be able to pull it off without teenagers pointing and laughing at me.     In fact, the store probably wouldn’t even sell it to me for fear of having to burn the remaining merchandise, because once it walked out of the store with me, it would do irreparable damage to future marketing options of that scarf.   

So I didn’t buy it.    I felt a little somber.    I felt a little sad.    The fruit from this tree of knowledge was indeed bitter.   

And then I found another scarf . . .