A Man's Reach Should Exceed His Grasp

Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp. Or what's a heaven for? 

                         - Robert Browning

A couple of weeks ago, my daughter’s teacher was reviewing her reading for the month.  They are required to read a certain number of pages each month.  This started to annoy me, but if you put more than one second of thought into it, you realize there are no perfect ways to quantify something as elusive, personal and individual as a love of reading. 

Of course, she had read the required amount.  This is a battle we have never had to fight with her.  I am not talking about reading, but getting her work done.  She is a hard worker, very conscientious.  

I could picture her teacher, sitting on her stool, at the front of the room, with her roll away table pulled up to her, maybe with a computer, maybe not.  Her teacher has taught 5th grade at this school for 28 years, but doesn’t look like she has been teaching that long.  Her wisdom helps me believe, though.  I wouldn’t call her soft spoken; she is decidedly strong and confident in anything she says.  However, she never raises her voice.  

Chloe had most recently read the first in a series of books.  She told me that her teacher had told her to stay away from those books - they were too hard for her.  Although Chloe received 100% in the overall category, her teacher had marked that she had not chosen appropriately leveled books to read.  

I’m absolutely positive that the teacher did this discreetly, not only because I know her, but because that would have been the first thing Chloe told me if it weren’t the case.  

She picked the book because many of her friends were reading it - one of the biggest reasons I choose to read a book. It is fun to talk about with your friends, a way to bond.  

Dyslexia has hampered her ability to bond, to be a part of the group in so many ways.  Last year, her teacher told us she was passing notes in class to the point of disruption.  I have no doubt that she didn’t appreciate our inability to hide our joy in her joining the ranks of the girly note writers.  For years, her ability and then her confidence was a barrier to this  important social step.  

Every mother knows how heartbreaking it is to watch your child hurt and not be able to do anything to assuage the pain.  The knowledge of how hard she has tried, and struggled with reading over the years, reminds me now that this wound is, after all these years, still open and raw. 

As Chloe shared this with me, I listened.  A sensitive subject, always, but there was more.  A new thread.  A new discovery about herself.  And the world.  “I understood most of the book.  Maybe not all of it.  But I finished it, and I enjoyed it.”

A pause.  Thoughts swirling in her head.  I don’t push.  I don’t try to fix it or comfort her.  

“You know, I don’t think I would have read the next one anyway.  But,  it doesn’t feel good being told that I can’t read more.” 

Oh so thats how you feel.  Wow.  I might have expressed those feelings more like this:  “Expletive you.  It’s a free country and I will read it if I want to.” 

I am not going to let this one sentence take over, but it deserves a nod.  There is so much in that nugget.  She took the information, and processed it.  Chloe trusts her teacher immensely, so values what she says. Instead of letting her defenses take over in a vulnerable time, she chewed on it.  She may have realized that her teacher was right.  She moved on, acknowledging the teacher’s authority.  She acknowledged her feelings, but was able to stay objective.  She would not read the series just because her friends were reading it. She tried their suggestion, and realized it didn’t work for her, for whatever reason.  Their is so much valuable information in her observation: trust, insight, strength, processing, expression, courage.  

Man, am I glad I don’t allow electronic devices in our car these days.  I may not have had this conversation with her. 

Within a week, my son, who is also dyslexic, had a similar experience with his teacher.  He was walking up to check out a book in the library and his teacher asked to look at it.  According to him, she shook her head and said, “I don’t think so, Chaucer.”  

He is not as much of a reporter as my girls, so the mere mention of this lets me know how it has affected him.  He had started the conversation with, “Have you ever heard of a book called The Fourth Stall?” 

He doesn’t like to talk too much about these things, so I casually acknowledged, “That doesn’t sound like it felt very good to you,” and I googled it on the computer and pulled up a You Tube video of the author answering questions about the book.  We watched the interview, his attention never wavering.  At the end he said in an apparently sassy tone, but I know the voice was protecting him, “Yeah, that sounds good but too bad I can’t read it.”  

He was still hurt.  I couldn’t kiss this one away, so I continued.  I pulled up sample pages on Amazon, pulled him in my lap, and asked him to read.  It took less than a paragraph for him to realize that his teacher was right in her assessment, if not soft in her delivery.  

“O.K. This is too hard.  Could we get the book and you read it to me, Mom?” 

Of course, my son.  

Art Therapy

I remember reading a blog for a while and enjoying her posts and insights immensely.  Until one day, in trying to depict everyday life, she wrote something to do with boogers.  I  have never seen her in the same light.  Today, I run the same risk.  I am not actually saying anything about them.  I just want to make sure you can read the quote from the cartoon my son drew when he was upset with my husband.  It says, "I love to pick my boogers."

My youngest daughter created the following piece of art last night:

She amended it this morning.  She explained she would just use the same paper, but change it to whoever is being mean that day according to her current feelings.

I am grateful that they are able to express their feelings, rather than keeping it stuffed inside.

Why I Have Been Writing Only Emails and Making Love to My Calendar

A few weeks ago, Lindsey posted about Life’s polarities.  I’ve often thought of this before, but haven’t written or talked much about it.  This could be one of my biggest roadblocks to becoming a good, authentic author.  Many times, I don’t understand that I think or feel certain ways until I hear other people expressing it.  But sometimes, like this time, I am scared to admit it.  Scared to put it out there.  Scared of being grouped with the "flip floppers". Scared of being called out on my ambiguities.  Scared that people will think I am nuts and throw me in a psych unit.  Because that’s how I would phrase it too. 

I started this post with the admission that I am schizophrenic.  And I didn’t like it.  Using real frightening words in the wrong context or with humor scares me too much now. Much as Attention Deficit Disorder or Plantar Fasciitis or Dyslexia used to do. I didn’t want to use that word because I don’t want the universe to teach me a lesson about what that word really means.  

My grandmother, the feisty one, loved music.  She appreciated music, and appreciated those who appreciate music, more than anyone I have ever known. She said there would be far less good music in the world if there weren’t those around to appreciate it. I use this as a preface to say that I am often so frustrated that I can’t express what I am feeling as well as others can.  Why can Lindsey come up with  this:

I’m particularly aware right now of the intensely opposed polarities that exist, both uneasily and audaciously, in every single minute of my life.  It is by turns exhausting and reassuring to hold these contradictions in my hand.

 and I come up with this:

For the last couple of months I have only been writing emails and making love with my calendar, but whenever I can shift into my other personality, I will be back to writing some great stuff. 

Honestly, I meant what she said.  I just can’t get my exporter to work like that.  Instead of throwing in the towel when looking my mediocrity in the face, I will appreciate her words and insights.  I will be thankful that she can express it where it makes so much sense to me, even if it  doesn’t look all that neat and packaged in my life.  

Anyway, my polarity of the moment.  The past couple of months, not only has this blog for the five of you seen little writing, my books have seen less. And  my photography. I am beginning to miss them, the beauty, the ambiguity, the no right answers.  

I have been busy, not too busy, but the perfect amount of busy keeping my life in order.  I have been working on a school project and I am ON TOP OF ALL OF THOSE EMAILS. I respond to 80 percent of emails that need it, and even to some of those that require no response.  I have missed some appointments, but not because I was spacey or over scheduled.  Apples little conundrum introducing icloud erased my calendars and I simply didn’t have everything in my head.  Our calendar has been perfectly balanced for the most part.  I put much thought into every single item I type into our calendars.  It takes more time, up front, to think through the implications.  I have not been overwhelmed.  I still don’t think you would mistake me for a Type A person, but maybe.  Just maybe. (Who am I kidding?)

I like this person.  I like being the one who knows where things are, gets to places early, responds right away, knows that the projects are all running along smoothly, all papers filed, all documents written and edited, budget all set, checkbook balanced to the penny.     She doesn’t play a lot, and is always “doing” something.  She is on top of all the paperwork for the kids at school, but may not know if they had a good day or what they learned or if their feelings were hurt by a friend.  This me makes sure all the kids homework is done and ready to be turned in the following day.

My other self has ideas swirling all the time, sort of like the Pigpen character in Peanuts, except the dirt is ideas.  Seriously, one day my husband asked me what I wanted to do that day.  I explained that I always have so many ideas that I don’t know where to start.  He told me to write them down.  In less than five minutes, I had 96 ideas on the paper.  He just looked at the paper, then looked at me, then back at the paper.  He wasn’t reading it.  Then he looked back at me and said, “Is this stuff in  your head like this all the time?”  “Yep.”  He shook his head, put the paper down, and walked away saying, “Wow.”  

This person has 15,000 emails, and millions of pictures on three hard drives and one novel and one memoir started and hundreds of stories.  But not much finished.  This person walks in the woods with her kids and plays games with them and sings and laughs with them, but may forget to make dinner until we are all starving.  She laughs and giggles and keeps the kids up late on nights their dad is gone and sometimes has sleepovers in her room on school nights -- but hates the mornings after and is short tempered when the kids are crabby from too little sleep. This Mom tells the kids it doesn’t matter if they do their homework if they are playing outside in the fresh air, because these days are numbered and in November in Minnesota we are living on borrowed time before the snow comes anyway.  

My husband really likes the me I have been the last couple of months.  As I said, I like it like that too.  But I am missing the other me.  The one who writes and takes pictures and has a little more fun.  You know, the one with the really messy house and is unorganized and sometimes tells the kids to grab a dirty pair of jeans to wear to school because I didn’t wash any yet. She is begging to make an appearance.  

Yes, this is my current, as well as steadfast, polarity.  I have never been good at honoring both sides of me simultaneously.  I swing from one to the other, simply unable to be both at one time.      

The Mississippi Delta

It never fails - as I drive the last curved lap of the hills heading down into the Mississippi delta, my first glance of the flat, beautiful land that stretches as far as the eye can see gives my heart a big tug.

I Write to Find My Way

Last spring, I went through some dark months.  I trudged through it, and found a happier way to be.  I started writing again, and discovered truths that, apparently for me, could only be discovered by writing, and digging deeper.  

I found some online friends that probably didn’t know how much they helped carry me through that time. I wasn’t able to talk to anyone in my real life for several reasons.  One of the reasons was that I couldn’t even identify what was wrong.  I was fighting ghosts.  These ladies helped me identify some things, and I felt a little more anchored by seeking out their writings.  (This is my first holiday season "knowing" these ladies.  In this week of gratitude, I am thankful for Lindsey, Pamela, Christa, and Christine. Thank you, thank you for your help this year.)

After a couple of months of focusing on myself, I expanded the circle to my family.  I created the Take Back My Family initiative, which, like life, morphed into something different than I expected, bringing unexpected peace, with a less tangible explanation. My initiative started with very specific guidelines, like eliminating most extra curricular activities and cleaning out our house.  

Roughly three months into Take Back My Family, and six months into my own journey, we are absolutely reaping the benefits.  It is far from perfect, as I’ve learned to accept most things are. We are happier than we have been in a long time.

I have long said that I hope no one finds all my writing when I die, because they will think I lived the most miserable life ever.  I have learned, mostly in the last couple of months, that I write more when I am not well.  Perhaps I write first to release, but secondly I write to find my way.  

I have blazed trails before, and it is hard work.  Sometimes I go through with a machete like tool and hack at the easier stuff, as a first go through.  Some trees have to be cut, and thrown aside.  Some take heavy lifting.  Some things grow back quickly and have to be taken care of for a second time.  Some have to be removed from their roots.  

When I write, especially this last year, I find things that I didn’t know were there.  It may appear to be painful writing, and undoubtedly it was excruciating at times. I have never (intentionally) shared my release writing, but have posted here much of my writing that helped me find my way.  

The past couple of months I haven’t written as much.  I have been living.  I have been very happily involved in some activities at my kids’ school.  I have been working on our house.  (ie: trying to ensure we don’t end up on Hoarders, the show I have never watched.) I have been slowing down.  I have been working on homework with the kids, and spending much time navigating their  learning disabilities.  I have been learning new ways to eat, much easier with more time at home.  I have been watching the kids build forts in our woods.  We built some fires at the fire pit this fall on Friday nights, and have already had many fires inside this fall.  I have watched my three dyslexic children develop confidence in their reading skills, and actually enjoy reading some books. I have lessened, if not eliminated, social obligations that weren’t fulfilling.  I have played many games of Uno and Mario Kart.  I have even read books that were not self help or memoirs.  Mindless murder mysteries just for fun.  And I finally had a birthday party for my daughter.... who turned six last May.  

I am enjoying my family and my life.  I am not in a rush to work on my book, or really in a rush to do anything.  When I start to breathe fast and worry that I am not doing enough, I take a deep breath.  I wanted to do more family excursions, but we are home most of the time.  We are nesting, I guess.  We are enjoying peace, and embracing change.  

Just Write (from yesterday)

This morning, I woke up and all the kids were awake.  The little ones were working on a project for Santa.  They were using green and red duct tape to make giant letters that said, To Santa. They started this project last night and were excited to finish it this morning.  My oldest daughter was sitting close to them and chatting with them, while she was chatting on skype with a friend.  

This juxtaposition, for me, exemplifies the tween stage.  Being close to her siblings, but not working with them, while I am in bed four feet away on the other side of the wall.  Having the stability and comfort of family, while venturing out into the world.  This feels perfect to me - healthy growth and expansion, yet still close and safe and protectable by me.  

The light was shining bright and made the room feel warm and cozy.  It was the perfect kind of warm.  The kind you appreciate.  The light’s trick - making us think it was warmer outside than it really was.  

There was, unbelievably, no quarreling, no fighting, no teasing, no aggravating.  I’ve heard these are normal, but I honestly believe this stuff is worse in our house than most.  The attention deficit disorderd kids just move their bodies and mouths twice as fast and twice as loud as most.  Not today.  The little ones were working together as if world peace might be just within grasp.  

They went to get dressed and gather their things for school.  I made them toast and a smoothie and fried eggs because they were being so delightful.  

Sally said her feelings were hurt because her big brother didn’t say hi to her when he passed her at school.  He tried to make excuses, but I know how he gets caught up and likes his own life at school.  We talked about how close these two are, and how family will always be there for us, even when friends aren’t.  He said, “I’m sorry, Sally,  Next time I will say hi.” She nodded, silently communicating that that would make her feel more secure in this world.  

We sang together on the drive to school, and Chaucer helped Sally read a book.  I was so lonely when I dropped them at school.  I wanted them to stay.  I wanted it to last.  

I wrote this as part of Heather at The Extraordinary-Ordinary’s Just Write exercise. Head on over if you want to learn and read more.

The Good 'Ole Days

Children accumulate multitudes.  I intentionally and with restraint rarely buy my kids toys.  First of all, they have plenty.  They have always received many gifts from many people and are the recipients of many second hand toys of friends and relatives.  Somehow, we are still bulging at the seams. 

Then there is the paper and art work and books.  I am a book lover and have not cleaned out their books EVER.  My oldest is eleven.  Thats eleven years worth of accumulating children’s books.  I always said that we were saving them for the youngest.  I would not let them get rid of any books, even if all the pop ups were torn out, some pages ripped, bindings falling apart.  I don’t have any of my childhood favorite books, and I wanted to make sure theirs were saved.  

So, last weekend I cleaned out shelves and shelves and boxes and closets of all of our children’s books.  I threw away (horrors!) the books whose bindings were done and that were falling apart.  I saved a few of the baby/toddler favorite books for each child.  (Honestly, sadly, I can’t remember any many of my third child’s favorites, so I made up some that were her favorites.)  We saved a bag of good ones for the new nephew/niece coming in March.  We fixed up their bookshelves with favorite sections - Diary of a Wimpy Kid, American Girl Series, World’s Record Book, Captain Underpants, and Baby Mouse.  And I made sections for two of them with “just right” reading books that they could turn to when needed.  And I have about 10 bags of books to donate. 

Guess what happened?  They want to read all the time.  They love how neat the shelves are, and now the shelves seem like they are for them, not a bunch of younger kids. 

You see, I was holding on to a time and years that have passed.  I thought I could stop time by keeping these favorites around. Some of the ones that I really liked didn’t become their favorites.  I held on to the hope that they could love what I loved.  While doing this, I was holding them back from finding their passions.  

We are still Taking Back the Family.  We are cleaning, purging, making room for who we are now, not the family we were several years ago.  We are making spaces and steps for growth for all of us.  Even if their childhood looks different from the way mine was or what I had pictured for them. 

I wished I had read more to them.  We read all the time, every night at least.  Often several times a day.  I loved reading to them and wanted more of that time back.  

Now they read things that I don’t read and it is hard to find a book that all four of us want to read.  It is also hard to find time for all of us to read together - with homework and even the limited activities we have now. 

Since the purge, my little ones have been asking for story books that we can read in one sitting again.  Sometimes they let me read, but often they want to read.  The cool nights have come and we are spending many nights reading by the fire before bed.  

These are, still, the good ‘ole days.