A Holiday Toast ~ May you Know Peace in Your Heart of Hearts! And may it know you... when you wake it up in the wee hours of the morning.

“Everyone, 

at some point in their lives, 

wakes up in the middle of the night 

with the feeling 

that they are all alone in the world, 

and that nobody loves them now 

and that nobody will ever love them, 

and that they will never 

have a decent night’s sleep again 

and will spend their lives 

wandering blearily 

around a loveless landscape, 

hoping desperately 

that their circumstances will improve, 

but suspecting, 

in their heart of hearts 

that they will remain unloved forever. 

The best thing to do in these circumstances

is to wake somebody else up, 

so that they can feel this way too.”

  

– Lemony Snicket

*Life is in the journey!* ~ Choosing Peace

♥

Life's Inspirational Valiant Endeavors

~ Choosing Peace ~

I have yet to meet another human being who *doesn’t* live with worry, a modicum of regret or feel the steady downward pull of stress in their daily lives. If I could sit down to a cup of tea or even a warm doughnut, and discuss *The Journey* with the Dalai Lama himself, I would be most appreciative and humbled. I am amazed by his culture’s resilient spirit and their chosen path to peace and tranquility.

I, however, spent much of my twenties and thirties practicing the shadowy art of denial. My suffering eased, eventually, thanks to my younger brother’s keen intuition and love for me, when he suggested way-back-when, that whatever it was that I had been doing was apparently not working out so well, and that I might do myself and those around me a giant favor ~ and just do something about it already. Only, I didn’t quite understand what he was talking about at the time, because I was standing on the edge of that river, Denial, soaking wet, a deafening noise in my brain and furious with no one in particular.

Counseling seemed the answer in my early teens. The right someone (someone other than those closest to me, and whom I considered the source of my pain) listened to me for the first time in my young life. I see now it was on that therapeutic couch, literally speaking, that I first began to believe in the existence of my own voice.

Then Life happened. I grew up. I found my voice, but didn’t have a clue how to use it. Like a child with a new toy, I thought it was mine to covet. And rather than feel the uncomfortable process of self-actualization and accept peace into my life, I buried my head deep in the sand, eyes open for effect, and indulged my fears through self-preservation. Food, and the quest for love became my drugs of choice. I married my high school sweetheart. We had a baby, then two, then three. I, and my husband, lived relatively uncomplicated lives (outside of the pain still brewing inside of me, in the form of anger and resentment) on an artist’s meager but gloriously consistent salary, with a dog, two cats, a house full of kids, car payments, and a mortgage.

It was no Shangri-La, but looking back now, it was ~ Everything I always knew I wanted.

*Big Sigh*

Remembering the taste of sand 
between my teeth, makes me want to eat cake.

Here. Now. I am forty-three! My three children are immersed in those pivotal stages in their young lives, where I first entertained low self-esteem and self-deprecating behavior and attitudes ~ 13, 15 and 18 years old. And There, but for the grace of God, go they! It seems, one of my more modest life goals, has always been to try to live in a place of peace ~ without the aid of cake. Somewhere in my mid-thirties, (Yep, it only took me thirty-something years to access that part of my brain, folks.) I felt, for the first time, the irony of Life itself.

No longer drowning in the day to day monotony and the illusion of Life itself, and feeling reasonably confident that my voice would be heard by those closest to me, I lay my heart out on the table and took a leap of faith that no one would stomp on it.

And that is when I woke up. 

"A long time on a crooked road."

~ Joe, "Joe Versus the Volcano"

I awoke to the realization, that “Life is pain. You’ve got to scrape the joy out of it.” I was no novice, no stranger to pain. No one is. “Aye, there’s the rub!” (There, my friends, is the irony in Life. It is with little shame, that I just quoted Rod Kimble and William Shakespeare in practically the same breath!) 

Life IS in the journey! It’s a slow walk, naked, barefooted, and as if that weren’t enough of a lesson for us, bearing the weight in the struggle of those we love and those we despise as well, through ten-thousand miles of our own fear-driven conscience and consciousness. Hallelujah! Pass the gravy!

We are on one great, life-altering expedition into the unknown the moment our little hands and feet, and cheek, meet our mother’s breast, our father’s arms; and if we’re lucky, a warm blanket and a healthy sense of adventure.

Peace lies within, like a flower eager to open itself to the sun.  It has always been there inside of you. It flows through the life blood in each and every cell in our bodies, before we are even aware of the world outside of us. Its purpose ~ to teach us something profound, something we cannot live and thrive without. To teach us how to love ~ ourselves, and others.

It is my wish that, *Life is in the journey!* will serve all those who visit, as a most important and profound reminder, through Laughter, Tears of Awe and Joy, and through Peace... that there is comfort to be found in this journey we share.

We have only to choose to live our lives, "...awake and in constant, total amazement!"

~ 

 

Alexander Tsiaras’, “Conception to Birth” is, perhaps, one of the most beautiful and awe-inspiring stories we, as humans, have to tell. A mathematician by trade, Tsiaras shares his expertise and his talent for minute detail, with humility, in a lecture given ~ Here. 

~ Life is in the journey! ~

 

Peace My Friends!

“The best way out is always through.”

~ Robert Frost

☮It is not my wish to debate in this forum,
when *Life* begins.

It is my intention to celebrate *Life* in all stages and all forms,

here in this place among friends, and with a healthy dose of humility.

~ Thank you!

 Love!

Towanda!

 

  

 

 

My Little Girl

 

 

"You don't have to dumb her down."

The best parenting advice I ever received was to take the time to love and cuddle my kids. And, even though I thought this would be the easy part – the part where I would overlook a tantrum, a child’s artwork on the living room furniture or a lie – following this simple instruction has been the driving force behind my love affair with them.

I naively followed those who came before me into the insane world of Mommy, like a lemming to a cliff. I jumped with both feet onto that hallowed ground, prepared to embrace parenthood with a bear hug, where some fell into it with an ambivalent nod. But, somewhere along the way, I found my own footing and set out with my husband on a road less traveled . It is with few regrets that I confess I have followed that advice to the best of my ability – most days.

As the mother of three, I watch now as our oldest child balances precariously on the edge of manhood, while our youngest is determined to squeeze a lifetime of fun into his dwindling childhood. Then there is our little girl, the very center of my universe. Sandwiched between one brother who keeps a watchful eye out for her honor and the other who keeps a disapproving eye on his missing wardrobe, she lives and breathes with an abandon most envy. Unfortunately, for her, I think, this free spirit is a bittersweet reflection of me in my eyes.

Me

This brings me to the second best parenting advice I ever received. If I have absorbed anything in my years of raising kids, it is that wisdom is often found in the most unconventional and unlikeliest of sources – and so it was with a smile and a wink, that my nephew, still a kid himself in his mid-twenties, leaned in to me, nodding toward our daughter and said, “That one there, she’s somethin’ special!”


In my failings as a mother to my daughter, and honestly as a woman in my own right, I dismissed his thoughtful praise before, even I was aware that the words had come out of my mouth.

“Yeah, she can be a real handful,” I confessed. (Maybe he’ll see that I’m embarrassed by the compliment, I harbored silently. Quick – say something, anything. You know he thinks you believe, she is the most perfect child on the planet. If she is perfect, then you are perfect – and you, my dear, are not perfect!)
 
“She’s a hard headed little thing, that’s for sure,” I offered as an apology.

He grinned then and nudged me, his shoulder against mine. My nephew is a strapping six foot, five inches, give or take – with a smile so genuine that one does not have to look twice to feel it land on their heart with a thud. The youngest of three boys, big brother only to their younger sister, I would say he knows plenty about wild and free.

“You don’t have to dumb her down,” he offered with that smile. “She is awesome, just the way she is!” There it was – the moment I had been waiting for, since I first recognized myself in my daughter.

The bond, born between mothers and their daughters, is like no other. Often plagued with hostility and mutual discontent, the two cannot help but see themselves in one another. Mothers, still little girls themselves, in heart, search for their own fulfillment through impossibly difficult and unrealistic expectations they place on their daughters – as their daughters spend a lifetime trying to be something other than their mothers.

“If you’re looking for me I’m in the closet.”  ( A note from my daughter ~ 8 years old)

 
Through my sons, I am reminded of how right it feels to be strong in character, to seek the courage of my convictions and to accept who I am with honesty, a few tears and a good, hardy sense of humor. And, though my daughter is equally strong, courageous, independent and positively sparkling with wit, it is she, who I am eternally grateful – for unlocking my wounded heart, healing my jaundiced eye and indulging my love of self.

Through my little girl, I've learned that forgiveness waits within.

She is me, as I was once as she.

Now, if I can only convince her to clean her room.

Enough said.

 

"My Life"

(By Colleen, age 10)

I am from the soft warm covers

And dressers cluttered with toys

This is my safety from my brothers, or the boys

From the turtle tank to the messy floor

And my brothers knocking on the door.

I am from Home ~ where privacy is hard to find.

I am from the sweet smell of honeysuckle in the summer

And chickens scratching in the dirt

While watchin’ butterflies flit and flirt

From dogs barking, to watching ponies run and play

And watching my sweet kitty lie in the sun all day.

I am from Home ~ where wildflowers grow.

I am from fiddle tunes and Cardinal games

And down the highway a bluebird sings

From the home of The Arch to Jefferson City.

I am from Home ~ Home-Sweet-Home.

I am from the country of Freedom

From the Statue of Liberty to the Liberty Bell

And freedom rings, can’t you tell

From the American flag to the White House

And the Mississippi River runs swell.

I am from Home ~ Freedom.

I am from German, French, Scottish and Irish

Don’t forget, I do speak English

From Kentucky to Missouri, my family is all here

And to me they are all very dear.

I am from cars, bikes, airplanes and rafts

To flying cars and hovercrafts

From love and happiness, the future is true

And the best part is it’s up to you.

Towanda!

Joy! It's complicated.

Joy is found in the little things. Is that true? ‘Cause I would like my JOY in the form of a Krispy Kreme doughnut, please. Smothered in a sugary glaze. And just off the line warm. I understand this request is only temporary joy, but I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth – especially if it comes with a glass of milk.

Finding JOY is, something akin to, Yukon Cornelius taming his Bumble. Sometimes you just have to wrastle (yes, I said wrastle, auto-correct) this Life into submission, knocking out those sharp teeth, that would just as soon eat you as greet you. If you’ll recall, Bumbles are BIG, not little. There was great JOY, if not an eerie sense of merriment, to be found in that raging, toothless, fluff of white – after our perky little prospector helped him out with his anger problem. “Didn’t I ever tell you? Bumbles bounce!”

Sometimes, I feel like a Bumble.

Finding the Joy in that?

Well, it’s complicated.

Joy is found in the little things.

It’s in that extra few seconds of sleep you begged God for this morning.

It’s in that moment of terror when you found the mouse in the toe of your boot.

It’s in the humor you found today, that escaped you yesterday.

It’s in a friendly wave and a nod from your neighbor, and that unexpected phone call from a friend.

It’s in the smack warm hug you witnessed between two brothers.

It's in your kids and every last bone-headed thing they do.

It's in a song. Not just any song. But, Your song.

It's in the spelling of your name, with your butt, to hear the birthday girl laugh.

It’s in the look you shared with your husband when he danced in his underwear.

It’s in the funny bone you hit on the corner of the shower this morning.

It’s in that look the dog gave you when she caught you drinking from the carton.

It’s in every last twinkly light and handmade ornament hanging from your tree.

It’s in that cup you're drinking out of now. You know, the one that says, JOY, on it!

It is in our desperate search for Serenity, Courage and Wisdom in our lives.

And, It is in all of those things we forget to look for when our eyes are looking down.

JOY!
Is inside of You. 

May you Find It and Wield It with Reckless Abandon!

                                              

                                                             The Joy of Tree!

                                                         

                                                             
                                                     The Joy of Baby Love!

Are You Awake?

On any given night, in this house, uninterrupted sleep is something we only dream of.

"Am I keeping you awake with my breathing,” I ask, readjusting my pillow – better to feel his breath on my face.

"No, honey, your talking is", he answers, feigning a smile.

The house is still, but for the quiet, rhythmic thumping of a foot on the little girl's bedroom wall.  "Wait for it", I sigh aloud, shifting my legs to breathe above the covers.  "There is no such thing as, 'a last goodnight' in this house", I say too loudly. 

Her younger, less tactful sibling answers the call with a resounding thud on the other side of the barrier between them.  Indeed, he is still awake – unless mommy sticks her head in the door, then he is asleep, but breathing heavily under the covers.

"If this is allowed to continue,” I think aloud, "one of us is going to have to do something."

A choked snore escapes my exhausted husband, who when prodded insists that he is, "...not sleeping, only resting his eyeballs", and is ready to go back downstairs as soon as I am, so that we may at least pretend we have a life.

I touch his warm foot with my cold one. "Are you too tired for 'that'", I offer shamelessly.

One eyelid cracks open to determine the validity of that offer, then lazily shuts again. "I'm never too tired for that" he says, playing along with this ruse.

It's early on a week night and this is our life – stealing sleep whenever possible, making promises that tomorrow night, when the kids are in bed, we will do something, anything creative.

We will draw.
We will paint!
We will write!!

We will discuss sex, religion and politics in an opinionated, but friendly manner, say we're sorry for that last comment and then change the subject. I will finally match up that pile of socks, searching in vain for mates that vanished into thin air– or embroider them into sock puppets. We will sit down, he in his chair to sketch his next masterpiece of a family that is growing too fast, I with my book, my computer, my needle and thread.

"Are you still awake", I whisper.

"No", he answers.

"Love you."

"Me too."

When the lights are turned out for the last time, thick open-mouthed boys breathe soundly, having finally given in to their drooping eyelids. Their quiet rumblings are the only response to the persistent thumping still resonating against the little girl's bedroom wall.  I pay no mind, minutes later, to the familiar creeping at the foot of our bed.  She eases her head between my pillow and her daddy's with a stealth that would impress me, if I were more alert at this hour, and lies perfectly still, trying not to breathe, until I pat her on the cheek.

"Tonight", I whisper.

'Tomorrow is another day,' the child quietly, wisely ponders.

Furry members of the family yawn and stretch, as they begin their nightly routine of wrestling from room to room. On the hunt, they will miss the small mouse taking up residence in our kitchen, attacking the toilet paper instead, dragging it out through the hallway and down the stairs, stopping to cry outside of the closed shower doors for a drink – a personal favorite of my husband's.

This nightly ritual reminds the biggest critter with the smallest bladder in the house that she has to go outside – Right now!  So begins an uncharacteristically early bedtime in our house.

Like I said, on any given night, in this house, uninterrupted sleep is something we only dream of – if we're lucky.

“Get to bed said Sleepyhead,

Wait awhile said Slow.

Put on the pot said Greedy Gut,

We'll eat before we go." 

"When I Start"

Yeah. Yeah. 

That’s right!

Listen to them scatter.

Ever have one of those moments when your mouth shares, aloud, exactly what’s on your mind? It was suggested to me recently by a trickster, a sh*t stirrer-upper, a woman of both class and crass – that I simply explain my dilemma to the lawn tractor dealer behind the counter, by way of complete honesty, which ironically was neither complete, nor the honest truth. 

“Tell him,” she stated, “that you need that part today – because you’re starting your period tomorrow.”

“But, I’m not starting my period tomorrow,” I replied, giddy with fear. For, I know her all too well.

“That is not the point of this exercise,” she insisted.

“What is,” I wanted to know, laughing now at the absurdity of her suggestion.

“Just tell him – and then say nothing.”

“Nothing,” I aped.

“Nothing,” she replied, insistent. “Just wait for it.”

“For what,” I asked, considering how freeing it might feel to entertain this deviance.

“For the blank stare that will follow when you simply tell him, ‘I need this part no later than five pm today... because I start my period tomorrow’.” 

She grinned.
“What can he, possibly, say in response to that?” “It’s brilliant!”

Now, I’m not one to be so blunt. Shock value is highly overrated. Nor, am I one to mislead a poor, unsuspecting sap by making up lies. But, I found this funny. Not so funny, mind you, that I seriously considered embarrassing, both myself and the unfortunate victim, in the lawn and tractor service department. Enough, I will say, that I can agree the look of confusion, followed by terror, might have been worthy of a small lie, if only I were as deviant as she. 

What is it, honestly, about we women that makes us want to share this most intimate of details with men anyway? It’s a “Sure Thing” with our male counterparts. Ask them to add tampons to the ‘Honey Do Grocery List’ and you are almost guaranteed to see the man before you, morph into the boy he once was, complete with mumbled protestations as he shuffles his feet and lowers his eyes to the floor. You would think they worry the cashier will suspect they are for his use and not yours! 

C’mon people, I don’t know how many times I had to stop into the ‘hardware’ store, with a baby on my hip, to pick up another box of Trojans. You don’t hear me complaining – much. 

Here is what I find fascinating about Men:

They’ll pierce a rusty hook through a wriggling worm with nary a flinch.

They’ll smash their finger with a hammer and talk about how cool it looks for days.

They’ll slice through their shin with a newly sharpened blade on a chain saw without any sign of a whimper.

They’ll scrape the lifeless body of a gnat onto the side of their plate and continue eating.

They’ll turn their underwear inside out and sideways to avoid doing the laundry.

They’ll skin a rabbit and all its kin with the precision of a surgeon and still name their child’s pet, Sweetie Pie.

They will watch as their children are born with tears in their eyes, even as they try to escape the horror of what just happened to their wife. Yet, they will not go along without a fuss, at the mention of “When I start”.

I’m a big girl. I know when I’m trying to lead a horse to water ~ and I know, there is No Way, That Horse is Gonna Fall For Any of My Old Tricks.

I also know I like to talk a lot about me, especially about “…my heart, my brain, my smarts, my medical charts and when I start”! 

A girl can dream.

I didn’t follow through with our little psychological experiment. I do still have to look this man in the eye, when I pick up my part next week, after all.  Though, I do still think, fondly, of her suggestion that I separate myself from my inner monologue, if only once in a while.  A life lived in fear... and all that.

On second thought ~ a little talk of feminine hygiene might be in order, if it doesn’t arrive in a more timely manner.

                            

                            Let's Talk About When I Start!

A Clean House

You know you have been living in squalor when your kid comes home from school and says, “It feels good when the house is clean. Thanks, Mom.” I mean really, how many times have you heard “thank you” from your kids for clearing a path through the house, much less from your teenagers? My point exactly.

My response was cool and thoughtfully calculated, at a time when my premenopausal urges sometimes border on the insane. Cry or kill—those are generally my options. More often lately, however, it is wallowing in nostalgia for my lost years with my babies.

So, I made no sudden movements, like tearfully yanking the kid in for a hug or anything, which would have only denied me any further glimpses of gratitude. I did not crumple to the floor, though my pride took a step forward ready to defend my honor and a somewhat precariously perched feeling of self-worth, despite the generous compliment I had just been handed. I also, mind you, held my tongue and did not roll out a list of the minutia that made up my day, a day which, between you and me, started on my hands and knees beneath the toilets and ended in scraping at least ten years of scum from the shower walls and floors. And, with a modicum of self-pity, I did not even voice what had me lugging the vacuum cleaner from one room to the next or excavating mountains of laundry, or staring wide-eyed at a stack of bills and managing my family’s school, work, and social calendars, or removing enough dust from a ceiling to knit a sweater. These daily rituals would only bore them. Besides, most days they stand patiently aside as I scurry about the kitchen, the laundry room, and the closet anyway, while they text no less than a small army of friends and then casually ask, “So, what’s for dinner?” If little else, I suppose I have taught them to run quickly and to fend for themselves.

I ask myself this question: Woman, what has you tied up in a knot so tight that you are spending your days making a list of the lists you have to make? For those who fail to see my point, allow me to clear it up for you and for me. 

I am so busy always trying to get ahead of the laundry that I might as well pitch a tent in what is arguably the highest trafficked room in the house. This is due to the fact that said laundry, though folded and hung, rarely makes it to its “rightful” place.

I am so busy running … to the human food/toiletries/hardware store, the feed store, the mechanic (this is where any one of our vehicles resides at any given time), the doctor, the emergency room, the doctor again, the football/baseball/basketball/soccer practices and games, and just for fun … more practices... the old school, the new school, the old front of the new school, the dark and creepy basement of the old school where I, and a smattering of other mothers, dig for/plan for/and complete an ungodly amount of holiday ornaments for those most fortunate young souls who will make our hard-earned volunteerism all worthwhile for a low, low price … and, that place you take your dog when he’s getting old – is officially old – isn’t coming back... that other place you take other people’s dogs, cats, whatever when you cannot possibly house/clean/or feed even one more … well, maybe one more.

I am so busy that my kids take notice when I clean house. 

I am so busy that I have forgotten, as I sometimes do, why I do it at all.

"A clean house" is a clear mind, a fresh start, an opportunity to remind myself that …

A)  Dusting isn’t so bad, but is perhaps better left to those who give a rat’s …

B)  "Life", is indeed, "what happens while you’re making other plans."

And... C)  Raising kids is very much like being pecked to death by a chicken, but what cute little chickens they are who sometimes say, “Thank you.”