Thanks

It is the last day of November as I sit here capturing this thought.  The Christmas lights have been officially lit on 'The Plaza' and the Mayor's Tree is aglow.  The seasonal songs have long been playing on radio stations and in stores.  How we do love to rush our holidays in this country!

Oh, I love the nativity and the carols and the coming snow and the twinkling lights and presents under the tree, too.  But it is this holiday of food and family and parades and footballs games and gathering together that I am most thankful for.

Because?  Because of the promise that Thanksgiving makes to all of us.

It is the one day that, all family strains and cares aside, we really do understand we are expected to stop and reflect and be thankful for everything in our life.  Every wee thing.  Every major thing.  Everything.

And I am.  Boy howdy, I am!

At a recent writing workshop we participants were given a list of journaling tools to help our writing juices flow.  One of these tools is to keep a 'Gratitude Journal' in which we would write every day three things we are thankful for then answer why these good things happened to us.  What did we do to bring these good things about?  Then, once we understand what led to these, keep writing what else we are grateful for.

So, I wrote.

I am thankful for my family:  For my mother, who prayed me into existence and who lived selflessly all her life for her children.  For my husband who knows me better than (almost) any other human being on this planet.  Who understands my passions and moods and need to GO!  Who has loved me through the ups and downs of an often-tumultuous marriage and has stood by me when I needed encouragement and behind me (pushing or kicking) when I needed a little more.  And for my children without whom I do not honestly know how I lived before.  They are the reason I was born. 

What did I do to deserve these precious people?  This is a hard question to answer.

I lived and loved.

I am thankful for my healthy, strong body.  I am incredibly aware that I am fit and strong despite my years.  This isn't an accident.  I spent plenty of years being not so fit and healthy, just getting by, getting on airplanes, going from one hotel and one company event and meal to another and not really paying much attention to the toll it was taking on my body.

Then one memorable day I was in Colorado traveling with my young children and husband and looking at the sign at the head of a mountain trail deciding if I 'had it in me' to make it up what had been warned was a 'strenuous' trail.  I was saddened and dismayed that at the tender age of 40-something I was really questioning whether this trail was something I was capable of doing.

So, what did I do to bring this thing about?

I listened to my heart's desire and started walking.

At first I used my poor dog as an excuse to get me going.  He walked with me until he just couldn't anymore and would lie down in the shade getting his second wind, looking at me pitifully to just, please, stop already!  And I kept walking. Eventually I walked 60 miles in 3 days as part of a cancer awareness walk.  Then I walked 27 miles in one day just to know I could.  Now I am hoping to walk across my state of Missouri next year with a delicious band of Wild Women who will be walking across the U.S.A.

I am thankful for my mentors and teachers and friends.  They have instilled in me my wish - my prayer - to speak and live my truth with courage and wisdom and love.  They have encouraged me to use my outside, out-loud voice and not be afraid of what will come out.  I thank you Diane and Orlando, David and Charlie and Jim.  Thank you Kim and Jenny and Diane, Susan and Sheri and Helen.  Oh, the list is so long and I pray that I have told you who you are!

What did I do to bring this 'good thing' about?

I listened and I loved and listened some more.  

What other things can I think to be grateful for?  Oh, is there ever enough room to record it all?!  For wine and music and dancing.  For beautiful food and romantic movies and books.  For glowing sunsets and crisp sheets and snow.  For thunder storms, birthdays and soft April afternoons.  For trees on fire with fall colors and reflections in the water.  For last first kisses and whispered dreams.  For love and laughter and baby-powdered baby-bottoms.  For the ability and forum and freedom to write these words.

For enough days to say 'Thank You'.

It's really a great exercise.  I recommend it to everyone.

Shadows

Last week was one of those exquisitely beautiful autumn weeks.  The air was simultaneously warm with a light chill, the leaves were dancing circles on the breeze to the ground and the sun was coming at the most interesting angle through the remaining leaves on the trees creating a golden glow.

Everything seemed just a little magical and other-worldly.

I happened to be in Indiana, my home-state and where my mother and many of my friends can still be found and somewhere I go as often as possible to escape my now and step back, in many ways, to who I was a lot of yesterdays ago.  And as is my custom when I am home and have spent too many hours in the warmth and stillness of my mother's kitchen, I walk the country roads that are laid out in such grid-like precision that miles are easily stepped off and exact measurements of time can be given to worrying mothers so they won't, well, worry so much.

And I had my camera.

It was late enough that the sun was starting to sink in the west and the shadows were getting long.  I love that time of evening especially for the light and shadows, regardless of the season, but especially in the fall for the additional colors that are showing up on tree-tops and in field furrows.

As I walked this particular stretch of CR 800, I came upon a tree still standing but shattered by time and weather.  I am intrigued by trees.  One might say I am passionate about trees, especially when they have been defrocked by the seasons and are standing proud and strong, showing their species by their bare-boned limbs.  This one, though, had been standing naked for a long time.

I stopped to take in this tree, watching the play of light and color from the setting sun behind me and tried to find the best spot to capture the tree's remaining essence.  I also liked the idea of capturing me taking the picture via my shadow.

The picture was snapped, and I continued on my walk finding many other lovely Indiana fall images that would make it into my camera and, eventually, my photographic journal of this particular trip home.

Back home again in the heartland, I reviewed all my pictures and was particularly pleased with this one.  The colors were lovely, though the tree wasn't quite as singular in the picture as it had been the moment it was taken.  I am always amazed at what the human eye sees in the moment that somehow the camera never can capture.  Still, I liked this picture.  And it haunted me.

 I was reminded of the spiritual lesson of the continuous shadows in our life - the lesson to be conscious of the shadow, ever-present, that is really working for the accolades of 'job well done, good and faithful servant'.   When we work at the soup kitchen in order to show compassion for others who don't have the luxuries of plentiful food and dependable shelter, is the compassion shaded with the relief of 'thank God that isn't me' or the hope that this small kindness is building another step on our stairway to heaven?  When we write a check to the homeless shelter or the soup kitchen or the church, is it considering the need at the other end, or the tax deduction on ours?  When we ask for prayers for another, is it truly lifting that person up or is it a more acceptable, elegant form of gossip?

And my personal shadow game is that of jumping to judgment or conclusions about another only to honestly have to admit that what I am not liking in their actions is something I recognize and dislike in my own.  My lovely teacher and mentor reminds me again and again that we cannot see in another what we don't recognize in ourselves.

That lesson applies to the beauty and talent and specialness we 'recognize' in another as well as the ability to see and label bad behavior.  A friend of mine routinely flies into fits of road rage when fellow travelers aren't driving in a way to suit him/her, but is one of the worst drivers I know.  Another friend is  the first to love the gentleness of a human spirit, but fails to recognize their own gentleness.  Another announces they 'hate liars' but doesn't seem concerned about the small deceits that pepper their own reality.

If I am wounded by a lack of compassion or understanding, have I given any thought to my inability to empathize with the one who is the seeming perpetrator?

I have caught myself jumping to conclusions and judgments recently and thankfully am recognizing the sameness of those judgments and lingering guilt inside of me.  Not only is it time to release my opinions of others, it is time to finally let go of the corresponding sadness inside of me.

Shadows are everywhere in nature - outdoors and internal.  Sometimes they are nearly invisible, when the shining light of personal recognition is directly upon us, and at other times they stretch long into our horizon.  Shadows aren't bad or good.... they just are.  Just like that weathered tree.

So I labeled the picture - A mere shadow of her former self.

Searching for a Voice

Lying in bed listening to the birds begin to sing as the day dawned here in the heartland of America I thought about this new project/assignment to be an Empowerment World Mentor.  What a wonderful opportunity and what an amazing challenge to help another woman find her voice and to encourage her to speak her truth and change her world forever.

And what a tremendous responsibility.

It made me think, again, of the prayer I have been saying - the mantra I have been repeating - for several years.  'May I speak my truth with courage, wisdom and love.'  This prayer originated, really, with the second-guessing I continually put myself through either on my job or with my family and friends, or in my life in general.  It seemed that at the end of the day I would find myself questioning the things I had said and their impact on the people around me............  Did I speak wisely?  Was what I said fair and truthful?  Did I make a fool of myself or, worse..... someone else?

So much of what is written or said is through the emotional lenses of anger and fear manifesting often as sarcasm and contempt - which only seems to inspire the same in others.  My personal initial reaction to the expression of anger is to put up a wall and attempt to remove myself.  Not healthy, I know, but as they say in some parts of the country.....'just sayin'.

It appears courageous to share anger and fear when that seems to be what is really going on.  Whether it be the political situation or personal.  Maybe it is discussing religion or relationships.  The environment or education.  But is it really the truth?  And is it really effective?

I believe we have to look for the impulse behind the words that we speak - either out loud or in writing - to determine their impact.  When we speak from anger, righteous or not, we speak from fear and a position of weakness.  And people usually respond accordingly.

But, when we continue digging through the layers of anger and fear and keep looking for the kernel of truth we should eventually find it in love.....  there is something, eventually, based in love that motivates us.  Think about it - when we are angry or scared... isn't there always love threatened at the emotional center?

When we find the love based truth, then the words we speak can have the most lasting impact.  When we speak our truth with courage wisdom and love then we can never question or second-guess what we say.

I think the secret of being heard always is and will ever be in using the language of love.

Just sayin'.....

Handprints

I am just home from a weekend in the woods with a growing group of friends that have known each other, some of us, since kindergarten.  All of us from high school because we graduated together.  This is not some notorious group of friends that were inseparable then and have maintained the 'clique' all these years. No, this is a group of strikingly different individuals who have come together after 30 years and fallen in love with just being together talking and laughing, sitting around a campfire or a dinner table (or the occasional bar) sharing memories and stories. 

Sharing life.

When I came home, I felt a definite loss of air in my 'joy balloon'.  Coming home meant my sweet husband and warm bed and much healthier eating, to be sure.  It also meant several hundred miles between those wonderful people and months before I would be able to laugh and love with them again.  And I started thinking about the song from the musical "Wicked" that has always touched me deeply.  One of my favorite lines goes like this:

So much of me 

Is made of what I've learned from you 

You'll be with me 

Like a handprint on my heart

Handprints on my heart.  What an incredibly beautiful concept!  What a lovely way of thinking about all the people that have touched our life in some way.  And how completely true.  

So I started thinking about the handprints on my heart that have been left there throughout my lifetime.  This really correlates to the "Listen to My Life" class in which a group of women have gathered to listen to the telling of our stories and to help each other figure out how God/the Universe is working in our life through our experiences. I struggled last week with how to share my story, and now I know it will be telling the story by those very handprints.

Our hearts are covered with handprints.  Parents, siblings, friends, teachers, lovers have all left their marks.  Some are more gentle than others.  Some are more like bruises.  Each and every one of them has made an impression.  The trick, really, is in learning how to appreciate each of them for what they were.... for what they are. 

And now whatever way our stories end
I know you have re-written mine
By being my friend...

The people that come in and out of our lives are responsible for helping us rewrite the way our stories are to be told, if we only will take the time to understand the impact they make.  The parents who, though imperfect, were doing the best they knew how.  The friends who were wrestling with the same fears and insecurities.  The colleagues who had the same things to accomplish and prove.  The lovers that appear and then leave, but from whom we have discovered one more aspect of ourselves.  The spouses who appear and stay through thick and thin teaching us that commitment is a working gift.  The children who are born to us with their own lives to lead - joys to experience and sorrows to bare - and from whom we can learn much, if we just take the time to watch and listen.

 Thousands and thousands of handprints.  

And some of the 'prints' are not from hands, but from events.  Imprints maybe?  Some are from a whole list of the 'firsts' - first day of school, first time we learn our parents are fallible, first time a bat or a ball or a club connects with a ball so perfectly, first time we look into the face of our child, our first wish for a 'do-over' in life.

And some are historic events.... the assassination of a president, a war that leaves the world shaken and grieving, a car accident that leaves classmates dead or permanently scarred, a wall and a country that crumbles after a lifetime of being 'the enemy'.  September 11th, 2001.

I am learning to be thankful for all the prints that have been left on my heart - even those that felt more like a pinch - and hope to keep making room for more, because.... 

   

Who can say if I've been changed for the better?  

But because I knew you 

I have been changed for good.

I just want to make sure that all of these handprints are changing me for the better because I am recognizing them for what they are and learning from them.

And I pray that the handprints I am leaving are ones that translate to love.

I'm Listening

A couple of weeks ago I started a class entitled 'Listen to My Life' that has been run several times in the past by one of my dearest friends.  Penny is a pastor at one of those monster churches - we fondly refer to it as 'Six Flags Over Jesus' - that is attracting people by the thousands.  She has more work to do than any 3 people normally can manage AND she worked with this group of women who were gathering to tell the story of their lives and listen to the tellings. 

Penny, knowing me as well as she does, knew that this class would be something I would be drawn to and fall in love with.  What's not to love, really?  Women?  Gathering together to talk about the things that matter most to them?  Talking about their life stories?  Talking about how God has worked through and played in their lives?  Learning to listen exquisitely and ask questions - not for clarification, but to help others better understand their story?

Eating brownies, for God sakes?!

Yeah, that sounds like me, alright.  Penny knows me well.

So, last night was the beginning of the reflection of lives, not just the 'meet and greet' that has been happening the last two weeks (in which this WOO thrives, by the way...)  I knew it could be awkward.  I knew it would be hard.  I knew there would be tears.  And laughter.  I knew some people would be uncomfortable.  I knew my heart would open and break at some of what was going to be shared.  I knew that we risk much telling these stories.  (We have all sworn to confidentiality, so there won't be any sharing here, unless it is my story.)

What I didn't realize and am now processing is how much the stories of others would unlock places inside my heart and my mind and my memory.  I had a journal there with me and was quickly writing as others spoke, remembering things that needed to also go into my story.  I didn't want to miss a word of what was being said and didn't want to work on me as others were sharing to the depths of their souls.  But, I was surprised that I could forget some really important events that made such a difference in my life.

So I scribbled furiously, listening as attentively as possible and wondered at the forgetting.  Why would I forget the jobs?  College?  Talking about my father?  My mother and brothers?  Odd things, really, to leave out of a life's story.  And then the pit of my stomach started churning.... really hurting in a fear-like kind of way.

I took a picture once that reminds me of this familiar feeling.  We had been hiking in New Zealand with a tour and were told that early one morning our guides would be going to the river and feeding the eels.

Really.

So early the next morning I hiked down to the river and watched as the chicken scraps were thrown onto the river bank.  Within moments, the water was churning and writhing with these eels, all black and sinewy and slithering over each other. 

It looked like my definition of Hell.  And it reminded me of the way I feel, sometimes.  

I recognized the feeling I was having during this Tuesday night class as a stage fright kind of feeling, but didn't know why I should be suffering from anything like that.  I didn't have to say anything that night, I wasn't going to be 'on' with a less than complete life story... I had another week or two to be able to fill it out more completely.  And, besides, no one in that class would know whether I had really done my homework or not.  I had nothing to be afraid of.

If that was what it was.

What was I feeling?

Ah, yes.  The sadly too-familiar feeling of not being authentic - not really being 'true' to myself.  This prayer for authenticity I have said for years continues to be answered in opportunities to 'be' my prayer and here it was.  Again.

I have spent so many years being 'the strong one' - in my family, in my church, with my friends.  Goodness, even as a little girl I felt like I needed to be 'strong' for my mom.   She had gone through so much heartache in her life that I decided at a very young age never to do anything intentionally that might hurt her. 

And here I was, again, presenting the 'strong side' of Ruth.  Although the story I had mapped out was one that had ups and downs, I recognized that I had left out anything that might show me as fragile or flawed or weak.  I was mapping out vulnerabilities... but I was leaving out the stories that might really show some of the inner rooms of my heart that had never been truly explored.

There is a reoccurring dream I have that puts me in a house - a familiar house in my waking - that, in the dream,  I live in.  The house changes occasionally, but thematically it is the same.  I am walking through a house I know intimately, but keep opening doors to new rooms or finding stairways to new levels that I had never explored or discovered before.  Mostly, the dream house rooms are crowded with the trappings of life - furniture and clothing, dishes and pictures.  And cobwebs!  But occasionally, those rooms are painted white and pristine and echo-y empty.

Always I wonder, in my dream, how I could live somewhere and not know all that is there to know about the house and the rooms and the things in them?!  How could I occupy something as important as a home and not know everything in it like the back of my hand, not explore it and open all the doors and the closets and the drawers?

And clean it up, for pity sake?

And how is it possible for me to occupy my own life and not be opening all the doors and climbing all the stairs?  And yes, even cleaning out the cobwebs if need be.

So, life.... I am listening.  Truly, lovingly listening.

And I know what you have to teach me will be profound.

Continuous Loops

I just finished watching a movie called "Happy Accidents" with Marisa Tomei and Vincent D'Onofrio that neatly fits in my all time favorite love story category of 'love through space and time'.  My fascination with this kind of story started with 'The Ghost and Mrs. Muir' when I was a little girl and was later fed by 'Somewhere in Time'.  Other notable offerings in this genre are 'Ghost',  'The Lake House', 'Sliding Doors' and, most recently, 'The Time Traveler's Wife'.

The all time great, though, (in my opinion) is 'Groundhog Day' with Bill Murray and Andie MacDowell.  This movie qualifies on so many levels of the requirements of love transcending time and space that it almost represents its own category.  It also represents, in my opinion, one of the finest lessons on Buddhist teaching made available for mass audiences to 'get' (or not).

In a nutshell for anyone who may not be familiar with the story; the hapless hero so despises his life that he shows nothing but disdain for himself and others.    He wants only what feels good immediately and has zero empathy or compassion for anything or anybody.  So, life (that great equalizer) conspires to make him repeat the same day - ad nauseum - until he 'gets it right'.....

He gets to do the same day - the exact same things - over and over again until he learns to make the best of it all.  Until he learns his lessons - compassion, loving-kindness, empathy, balance, joy.

In other words, he gets to relive that one day of his life until he learns to 'love' enough.

A movie-primer on reincarnation, the greatest of continuous loops.

I happen to believe in reincarnation and always have from probably my earliest thoughts on life and how we came to be here.  I have never accepted the premise that we 'only go around once'.  My mother always told a story of looking into my newborn eyes and marveling on the wisdom they contained those first precious days.  She recited this poem to me often....

Baby

George Macdonald (1824 - 1905)

Where did you come from, baby dear?

Out of the everywhere into the here.

Where did you get those eyes so blue?

Out of the sky as I came through.

What makes the light in them sparkle and spin?

Some of the starry spikes left in.

Where did you get that little tear?

I found it waiting when I got here.

What makes your forehead so smooth and high?

A soft hand strok'd it as I went by.

What makes your cheek like a warm white rose?

I saw something better than anyone knows.

Whence that three-corner'd smile of bliss?

Three angels gave me at once a kiss.

Where did you get this pearly ear?

God spoke, and it came out to hear.

Where did you get those arms and hands?

Love made itself into bonds and bands.

Feet, whence did you come, you darling things?

From the same box as the cherubs wings.

How did they all just come to be you?

God thought about me, and so I grew.

But, how did you come to us,  you dear?

God thought about you, and so I am here.

How could I not believe that I had come from something and somewhere else?  Continuous loops are just in my personal programming.

Some have told me that reincarnation is just an elegant and convenient way for us to 'get away' with (literally) murder - amongst other things - here and now and never really get 'caught'.  They argue that if everyone believed they could just come back and get another chance at life as opposed to fearing an eternity of punishment, then we would be giving ourselves permission for all sorts of gratuitous and bad behavior - why would anyone live their lives with any decency or morals if there aren't immediate consequences to fear?  Personally, I think that argument speaks more to individual feelings of repression than a true sense of human decency.  And I know that argument has made most of the world's religions a lot of money over the centuries.


(I also happen to believe that reincarnation was an early accepted tenet in Christianity......  after all, we Christians have always talked about and continue to expect 'the second coming' of Christ and we are NOT referring to a different guy!)

But.  The continuous loops that got me writing today are the ones we experience in this lifetime.  Everyone has them.  Call it karma, if you want, but it is dealing with the same nonsense over and over again; the same obnoxious boss or co-worker, getting stuck - again - in the slowest moving line, dealing with the same kind of relationships again and again.  Basically, running into the same reoccurring storyline with different situations and people.  Same stuff, different day.  Over and over again.

For me there are a couple reoccurring story-lines that I just know are mine to figure out in this lifetime. (No, not sharing what mine are, just that they are....)   Even though there was always a 'deja vu' quality to them, I was floored by them each and every time and they left me - often - devastated or flummoxed or both. 

I recently heard a sermon on prayer that discussed the possibility that an answer to a prayer is not being given what we have prayed for, but being given instead the opportunity to be what we are praying for - to live into the prayer, if you will.  If our prayer is for courage, the answer is being given the opportunity to be courageous.  If my prayer is to be authentic, then maybe I am continuously being given the opportunity to choose authenticity.

To go back to the movie 'Happy Accidents',  the character played by Ms. Tomei has a need to fix people - boyfriends in particular - and is seeing a therapist to try to break the legacy she has made for herself and feels she is making progress, repeating her self affirmations into the mirror day and night.  Then she runs into Sam who seems healthy and normal, until he starts telling a story of being a time-traveler who has come back just for her and she just knows she is in her continuous loop.  Again.

(Just in case anyone wants to see it, I won't be giving any spoiler information so keep reading.)

The therapist has convinced her that until she learns her lesson she will continue to doom herself with picking wrong men and ending up broken and alone every time.  The solution to her reoccurring storyline is to learn her life's balance and to look for her joy without letting anyone invade her boundaries and upset that balance.

(Okay, one spoiler.  All things aren't as they appear.  There is another continuous loop playing out.... and there is a happy ending.  I guess that really was three.  So there.)

In my current love-through-space-and-time life story, the great good news is that I have started to see these story-lines for what they are as they are beginning.   That doesn't mean I am always responding differently, but at least I am beginning to recognize them for what they are - one more opportunity to work on something that I still have to do in this lifetime that will make me stronger.  The chance for me to - again and again - live my prayer for authenticity and truth.  I think that when I figure out how to live consistently into the opportunity presented, maybe the deja vu of that loop will cease to be.

So, there may be Grace in continuous loops.

Who knew?

First Day of School

I wonder how many books, essays or stories have been written about the first day of school? Probably a daunting number, but no matter.  That's what was on my mind today as I was walking and that's what I want to think about here in this out-loud, online kind of a way that is a blog.

Today was the first day of school here. School buses were out early stopping traffic to pick up their passengers clad in shiny new everything - clothes, shoes, faces, book bags.  Everything.  As I watched those kids board those buses, I started thinking about all the first days of school that have been a part of my life and all the emotions that accompanied them.  And so I write.

That real 'first day of school' - the one with no prior experience of anything having to do with school other than what my brothers and mom said - was probably one of the most emotionally charged days of my life.  The pure excitement and joy about a new human experience.  The first steps of independence - of growing up and walking away to do and be without mom's help.  Anything could happen and everything could be accomplished!

Mom has a picture of me walking down the lane to the bus following my brothers like a baby duck with a handkerchief pinned at my shoulder.  I remember it so well... even the embarrassment of that handkerchief.  Climbing on that bus was entering a new world.  There were children of all ages.  A few were my age, obvious by the very wide eyes (and handkerchiefs or notes pinned at their shoulders).  Others ranged in age just like my brothers up through high school.  Even though I had a 16-year-old brother, the teenagers frightened me at first, but ended up being kind and helpful probably remembering their first day of school, too.

Our bus was driven by Charlie who owned a small country store and had been driving a bus almost as long as all the kids on it had been riding to school.  Charlie was kind and strict and everyone on his bus knew his rules and obeyed them so we all felt safe and our parents knew we would be okay.  I recently heard that Charlie finally retired at the age of 80. 

I wonder if anyone drives a bus anymore for 50 years?

That day was the first day of being in love with teachers and classrooms and circles of kids like me.  There was a snack time with graham crackers and milk, and nap times lying on the floor like little puppies on rugs with the lights dimmed.  Did we sleep?  Could we manage being still long enough?

I couldn't manage being quiet.  I was moved every day for the first I-don't-know-how-many days because of talking.  Well?  Everything and everyone was so interesting and I had something to say! Probably today little people like me are considered attention deficit something and medication is recommended to keep us still and quiet and focused.  Back in the once upon a time of my first days of school my teacher just loved me enough to quietly move me and remind me that talking caused that.  I talked therefore I moved!   A lot.

Then, subsequent 'first days' came into being, bringing sights and smells and sounds that are ancient history now.  Purple print on slightly damp pages being one in particular.  Brand new leather shoes.  Girls in frilly dresses and boys in dungarees.  Children playing red rover and on monkey bars.  I imagine the smell of freshly sharpened pencils and new boxes of crayons are still wafting through the classrooms today, but that may be obsolete soon, too.

I wonder what scents from today's classrooms will be remembered years from now?

And I wonder when it was we started being more worried about what others thought of us than of what we thought of ourselves?

Maybe for me it was when we moved from the house in the country to live in town with my grandmother.  The new school was only blocks away from our house, so we walked to school and even home for lunch because it was assumed that most moms stayed home.  My first day of school there was my scariest because this time everything was new to me, but known to the rest of my classmates.  And I was in a full length cast and on crutches.  That was the first time I remember feeling like everyone was looking at me.  Maybe they were.  Probably they weren't.  May be they all felt like they had something stare-worthy. 

That twisting, tugging, self-conscious phase lasted through middle school when on that first day of school I was more concerned whether the cute boy who sat behind me in home room would notice me (he didn't) than what class I was taking.

I wonder if that kind of preoccupation is the fodder for the life-long dreams of getting half-way through a semester and not remembering what or where the classes were?

Lots of 'first days of school' followed, through high school and, for me, college.  Music will always be a major anchor through those first days;  'War' (Huh! Good God, y'all!), 'You've Got a Friend', Brandy (I didn't say I always liked the songs!) and my all time favorite.... 'Let's Get It On'.......  because by that time, of course, I was.

Then the first days of school were those of my children (not immediately, though from the previous sentence it might appear possible...) and I was the mom waving bravely at the bus keeping the separation tears at bay until the little person I loved most in the world was safely on his or her way.  I wanted Charlie to be driving.  I wanted to pin handkerchiefs to their shirts.

I should have pinned a note to my little boy saying he was NOT a walker because his first day of school ended with him coming through the door having navigated the mile-plus of busy streets and no sidewalks on foot.  I learned what a courageous little man I had and hugged him hard against me, imagining all the things that might have happened but didn't.  Then I learned the touchy role of angry parent with a school system that could determine my child's attitude toward school for the rest of his life.  I trod gently.

I remember watching my pre-teen daughter walking into her middle school for the first time and tugging on the hems and tails of her clothing in obvious self-conscious discomfort.  And I remembered it again.  I remembered thinking I was the one others would be watching critically and determining 'un-cool' before I had a chance to prove myself.  I ached for her.  I wanted to run up and put my arms around her to tell her she was completely beautiful and, more importantly, smart and talented and didn't have anything to be self-conscious about.  I didn't, though, because that would have made it worse.

She wasn't alone.  I watched every other girl her age twisting and tugging and looking to see if anyone was watching.  And I knew there were other moms and dads out there remembering and hurting for their little girls.

And guess what?  My children were 'talkers' too!  Unlike the teachers or my mother from long ago, I knew that talking would NOT be the curse that was impressed upon me.  Their teachers were kindly told that, though I would indeed discuss appropriate contribution in the classroom with my kids, I would never see it as anything but a blessing.  I would always prefer that my children have the confidence and courage to speak out as opposed to sitting and watching silently on the sidelines.  And the teachers couldn't  - and fortunately didn't - disgree!

I wonder if I did the right thing?  I will probably always wonder if I did the right thing when it comes to raising my kids.

So, today was the first day of school and for the first time in my life (almost) I didn't have any connection with it.  My daughter is a college educated woman with a loving husband and no longer tugging on her shirt tails (mostly) and my little walking boy is newly graduated and now commuting to his job in a town more than a thousand miles away from me.  It is an end of an era.  And the tears are close to the surface.

Except.

This past year has been my year of being 4-years-old with nothing to do but wake up and look forward to a fresh, wide-opened day of discovery.  I loved being 4 now as I did then.  It has been a freedom and a joy.  And just as I was excited then about being 5 and looking forward to my first day of school, I am joyfully looking forward to this next great adventure, whatever that may be.

I am, though, entering this next stage with the full knowledge that there will be emotions of every kind to explore along with new ways of being in this world.  There will be fascinating people to know and love as well as so many places yet to explore.  And there is much work to do which I consider to be our love made manifest in this world.  

All this while I am still learning not to tug at my clothes and worry what other people think of me.