Veteran's Day Volition

My baby brother went to war today.

He was anxious to go. He had been preparing and training for a long time to serve his country. I could hear the excitement in his voice as I spoke to him for the last time on friendly soil, waiting in the airport in Baltimore. He felt honor in his mission and pride in fulfilling his duty. He's a grown man, a new father, a pilot in the Air Force but somehow to me he will always be that tiny, chubby boy I held in my arms as an eight year old girl. When I first met my new brother I remember looking into his big brown eyes and wanting to protect him from the world. Those feelings haven't changed even though almost thirty years have come and gone since that day.

I grew up with strong feelings of patriotism. I remember as a thirteen year old girl walking the wall of the Vietnam Memorial in DC choking back tears. I saw so many, many names and felt I owed them an unfathomable debt. They gave their lives so I could be free. I had ancestors who had served in previous wars, but I grew up with a cloudy vision of soldiers. They were mostly symbolic to me, a vision of a mission of freedom. I felt gratitude for their sacrifices, but I could not fully grasp what the sacrifice of a soldier meant.

Until I married one.

I spent seven years married to an active duty soldier before we joined civilian life. We lived in cities where uniforms were commonplace and deployments routine. Our hearts ached with our friends and neighbors when their loved ones were sent off. Our children ate lunch and rode bikes with their children. We saw the strain and worry of wives, husbands and families. We watched them brave family life without the constant support of spouse, colored by the constant worry of their safety. We saw them shelter each other, support each others' children, and cling to camaraderie through difficult circumstances.

We saw their faces. Suddenly the symbolic soldier became real. He was my neighbor overseas while his wife received a diagnosis of breast cancer. He was my friend who witnessed the birth of his baby on a phone call. He was my friend's husband, coming home weary and thin and shaken from months in the field. He was a brother from church, worrying simultaneously about his wife's pregnancy complications and his unit's safety in the next engagement. He was the father of my daughter's friend, missing from their orchestra recital. He was a five year old's Dad on a plane to Haiti with 24 hours notice, absent from preschool pickup. He had a family. A home. A dog. A truck. A daughter. A son. A wife.

Soldiers. Brave. Honorable. Heroic. Serving our country willingly. What country? We the people. You. Me. Your child. Your sister. Your mother. Your friend. They leave and fight and serve, some of them even giving their lives so you and I could go to the grocery store today. So we could drive to work and hug our kids and go to sleep in peace. Without fear of war.

So as the day folds down here, I see my brother's face. His dark hair and brown eyes tucked under his crisp dark blue hat as he climbs on a plane in the desert. As he scans the sky and catches a glimpse of light shining over the horizon I hope he sees me. I hope he sees you. Not just a grateful nation, but a grateful person.

A soldier sacrifices self for the safety of all.

Thank you, Mike. Thank you, Max. Thank you, Scott. Thank you, Doug. Thank you, Mark. Thank you, Erik. Thank you, Malone. Thank you, Glen. Thank you, Frank. Thank you, Farrell. Thank you, Herb. Thank you, Irene.

Thank you, soldier.

I see you.

A Sight to Behold

I was a sight to behold.

I was scheduled to meet at a parking lot at 9:15 to carpool with some ladies to a nearby city. I had offered to drive since my vehicle would accommodate most of the group. I had mistakenly determined that I had time to workout before I left in the morning and by the time I left my house I was running behind. I threw my knee high boots in the car with my lunch and sped away, driving in my stocking feet.

I arrived just as they were gathering as a group before departure. I pulled up, threw my boots on my feet, turned around to the back seat and saw the stray magazines, rice cakes, puzzle pieces and booster seat strewn all over. I jumped out, car still running, and tried to hurriedly collect the embarrassment that had overcome my vehicle. As I was frantically junk collecting, one of the ladies came around to the side of my car and said they wanted to say a prayer before they left. Having already made them late, I tromped around to the group, boots unzipped, arms full of garbage and a car seat, laughingly stated, "Well, I'm a mother!" and bowed my head to pray.

Now this was the first time I had met some of these women, the first time I would spend any time with most of them and I was a mess. But the reality was at that precise moment I could do nothing to change it. Yes, I could have gotten up a half an hour earlier to be sure I had time to work out, I could have skipped my workout and cleaned out my car and perfected my outfit before I left. I could have done a hundred different things to ensure that moment didn't happen, but I honestly had done the best I could that morning. And because I recognized that I had done all I could and still came up lacking, all I could do was laugh. I thought, well, if they don't like me after this, they never would have liked me anyway! I ended up having a lovely drive chatting and sharing with these women. I let the tragic moment go so that I could embrace the remainder of the future.

It's taken me years to have this kind of a moment. In the past, I would have been mortified for days, weeks over the fact I was so humiliated and my car was a mess. I would have avoided those women ever after, worried about what they had thought or still thought of me. But I've come to realize that perfection is overrated and there is too little time or energy to waste on worry - especially worrying about what others think.

As I was dropping everyone off later that afternoon, one woman chuckled that she would never forget how I looked standing there, boots unzipped, arms filled with vehicular overflow bowing my head to pray. I hope I never do either. I hope whenever I start to feel the panic of perfection rising up within me, I will take a deep breath, unzip my boots, laugh a little and bow my head to pray.

3:42 pm

The house is strangely quiet for a moment. A Saturday afternoon lull in the chaos of projects, chores and birthday parties. Gray clouds loom and swirl in the wind, threatening a deluge but withholding their splendor of moisture, sitting simply between my tired eyes and the sun. I look out my front window and see a lone flag blowing quietly in the wind.

My heart lurches, stirring in the silence of the memory. Cascading images suddenly fill my heart and mind. The shock, the uncertainty, the anger, the sorrow, the eerie silence of people huddled around television screens, watching, wondering, waiting - the image of a lonely flag flying in the wind.

I still feel a sense of sadness, of loss. It somehow never seems right for me to have a 'normal' day on this anniversary. I lost a friend that day, but I also lost a sense of innocence and trust in the world. I couldn't understand then how people who lived so far away could feel enough hatred to destroy families and lives in such a sudden, violent, shocking way. I still don't understand it. I sometimes wish I could go back to that morning when I dropped my now teenage daughter off at preschool and relish the innocence of that moment. It was such a lovely, simple morning until...

I feel simultaneously removed and connected to that day. Removed by time - years have spanned the days and weeks of normalcy returned since then. Removed by distance from the terror - recognizing that fear is only granted by permission. Removed by healing and children and inches indicating their growth and mine since then. And yet connected - connected to my fellow Americans who grieved and mourned and angered with me that day. Connected by loss and fear and wonder at the why. Connected by the waves of minutes and hours and years that slowly carried us each away from that terrible day and then back to it again each year as we remember.

The silent flag blows softly in the darkened, threatening sky. The wind blows my memories, twisting them into certain remembrance. The sorrow swirls and sudden tears drop unbidden down my face. I notice them only as they fall and begin to mix and mingle with nature's sudden agreement. The somber heavens finally open as the rain descends, drop by drop, soaking the flag as it circles in the wind.

Need a Hand?

On the way to school this morning, my son's bike chain came off. There I was, struggling to get it put back on having very little success when a man rode up. He was on his child's bike. I don't know who he was - must have been a neighbor - but I had never met him before. He asked me if I needed a hand. I told him I did, he showed me a little trick to get the chain back on, told me how to tighten the chain and rode off. He must have seen me out of his window and rode to my rescue. It was so kind, so unexpected and so needed.

Riding back home I couldn't help but think of the newspaper article I had read the night before. A homeless immigrant from Guatemala was working construction in New York City. He came across a man and a woman arguing and stepped in to try and help. He was wounded in the process and left, lying on the street. The article said nearby security cameras showed dozens of people simply walking by him. When firefighters finally arrived hours later, the man was dead.

How many of us see someone in need, know that we can help, and do nothing? I wonder what our world would become if we could be like the man I met this morning. We would see someone struggling, get on our bikes, ride across the street and ask, "Do you need a hand?"

Mother Moment

Today was the Awards Assembly at my son's elementary school. The parents are invited to come to a little assembly at the end of each quarter where they honor students for grades, reading, writing etc. It's one of those times when you sit quietly for an hour waiting for your own child's ten seconds up on the stage so they can see you smile and applaud.

As the hour wore on, I clapped and clapped for other children, waiting for my son's turn. When his name was called for perfect attendance, my heart fell. I knew that he had missed four days early on in the quarter from an illness. They were handing out certificates for a free kid's meal to one of my son's favorite restaurants. He walked slowly up to the stage, reluctantly took the certificate from the principal and looked out at me in the audience. I knew that he knew he didn't deserve the award. As the parents and students applauded, my son turned back to the principal. In front of all of his peers, he told the principal that he hadn't earned the award. He wanted to give it back.

I would rather have been sitting in that assembly for that moment than to see him get any other award. He had been honest, in front of all of his peers, in a setting that must not have been easy for him. It was more important for him to live consistently with the values we have tried to instill in him than it was for him to eat at his favorite restaurant.

I got a little weepy and wished I had taken a picture. More than I want my children to be intelligent or successful or well liked, I want them to be good. It was one of those unexpected moments when the past nine years of full time mothering this boy suddenly seemed worth all the sacrifice.

Never give up teaching your children. You never know when they might surprise you.

9:22

9:22 am -

Dishes waiting. Laundry sitting. Writing pressing. But all I hear is the blissful silence of solitude. It is such a welcome respite from the chaos of the weekend that I hardly dare to disrupt its peaceful invitation to just sit and bask in its presence.

Silence is a longed for guest in the home of my heart, but all to often its invitations get blown away in the gusty winds of driving ambition. It is difficult to sit in the silence when your inner voice automatically moves to the mode of chaos management, listing carefully off all of the tasks to accomplish before some arbitrarily placed deadline threatens to create an internal implosion.

Listen. I can hear the clock ticking in the background. I feel the rhythm move in my heart. Is it an indication of time squandered or time savored? In the push to forever get somewhere else, I am missing the moments. The now. The silence that surrounds me in the absence of the rush of the morning, the weekend, the pressing push of time.

What happens at 9:22 in the morning, when instead of washing or sorting or anything, I simply sit? I'll tell you what happens. Acknowledgement of my own simple existence. Understanding of my singular importance within the spinning world of wonder. Recognition that my quiet self, my simply beating heart, my breath in and out, are enough. I am a wondrous creation, excepting any accomplishment or lack thereof.

To sit is to simply be. To marvel at my eyes that can see beauty, my mind that can recognize truth, my heart than continues to bring life to every portion of my body without any conscious effort.

In the stillness.

May I seek your company more readily, welcome guest. You rarely come uninvited, unintended. Your presence brings calm and respite. You must visit more often.

It is 9:22. You have somehow found me this morning.

I softly open the door to my heart.

Please, come in.

Another Blog

For my readers who may be interested more in my faith, I will also be posting at www.praiseworthywords.blogspot.com.

Thanks for listening!

I Lost My Balance

I was careening through my living room with the vacuum cleaner blaring. I had a class to teach at my home in just twenty minutes, I was still in my pajamas and had assigned my five year old son to do the dusting. He was dutifully dusting the bottom of the end table when I turned quickly, knocking over the lamp. As I rushed to save it from its impending doom, I started to fall myself and accidentally stepped on my son's hand. He started to cry and as I tried to comfort him I said, "I'm so sorry, I lost my balance."

As soon as the words left my mouth I recognized the depth of them. Boy, had I lost my balance. I am getting ready to move - again. For those of you who have enjoyed the tranquility of stability, let me assure you that moving to a new place can be exciting, but it is also one of the most stressful things a family can experience. With it comes lists of minor repairs, projects, sorting, packing and decluttering. Last weekend we started with the garage, clearing out all the muck and dust and unused items, sending all the sneeze inducing offenders to goodwill or storage. I caught the bug that day, the 'muck it bug' I call it. I reach a point in every move that I see everything as clutter and want to get rid of or organize every item we own. It can do wonders for showing your home, but it can also wreak havoc on your sanity. I worked for hours and hours this week, clearing out closets, thinning out bookshelves and sorting through clothing. My house is a showpiece, my soul is a mess.

You see, I got so driven to accomplish this 'very important task' that I forgot about all the other things that are important to me. I didn't spend much quality time with my family, outside of loading or unloading boxes from the truck. I didn't go to my yoga class at all this week - my haven of physical and emotional balance. I didn't read. I didn't write. I didn't eat well. I didn't sleep well. But man, my closets are clean!

I'm convinced that I have to learn this lesson again and again and again. For whatever reason, my intrinsic drive often pummels over my internal voice of balance and contentment. In yoga when we practice our balance poses, we have to concentrate dutifully but in a relaxed state or we fall over. That's not fun when you are standing precariously on one foot or upside down in a headstand. We must remember to breathe or the tension creates imbalance which can lead to injury.

I keep coming back to balance - this art of learning what to let go of, what to hold onto, when to breathe and when to rest. My body is begging for it. My soul is requiring it. My sanity depends on it.

Maybe one day it won't take a frenzied household appliance and a careening light fixture for me to recognize it.

On Contemplating the Meditative State

I was recently on a cross country flight. I had three transfers and by the time I boarded my last plane I was already exhausted. I usually request an aisle seat to accommodate my gangly legs, but due to a weather rescheduling, I was seated near the window. I sat next to a fragrant, unkempt man and just behind an enamored couple who couldn’t seem to wait until they reached their final destination’s hotel room to express their affection. My long legs were crazily cramped and I was in the full state of crankiness before the plane even left the ground. As the elevation rose, so did my irritation. I couldn’t wait to get off the plane I had just boarded, but finally convinced myself that the flight was short and it would all be over soon enough. I buried myself in my magazine, grumbling.

After we had reached altitude, I briefly pried my eyes away from my mindless magazine so the flight attendant could hand me my drink. Before turning back to deepening distraction, I happened to glance out the window. I saw deep crevices that stretched out for miles. It was breathtaking. “Is that the Grand Canyon?” I asked incredulously. “Yes, it is,” he responded casually. He apparently sees this marvel every day, but the flight immediately changed for me. I stared out my window, my magazine sliding forgotten down my seat. Miles swept by as I sat slowly sipping my drink, savoring the grandeur of nature displayed below me. What I saw out of my tiny porthole to the universe was remarkable. I realized I was up in the air tens of thousands of feet and yet the canyon seemed to go on forever. I studied the flowing turns, the mighty crevices etched into the rock over eons of time by a mighty river that from my perspective looked like a simple, flowing stream. Grace. Beauty. Wonder. Truly a canyon that could be called nothing short of grand.

As the plane began its descent, my mind again became rooted in reality, but one that had become altered somehow. As soon as I had uttered the words, Grand Canyon, I became oblivious to all of my immediate surroundings once I was focused on beauty. In an instant, I experienced feelings of calm and childlike wonder. My immediate irritations fled and I felt gratitude for the privilege of witnessing one of nature’s mighty miracles from such a unique perspective.

In that moment I understood a little better the beauty of being in a constant meditative state. It is not found only by becoming completely disengaged from present surroundings. It does not always require one to ignore humanity and close the eyes in a quiet, darkened room. In many instances the meditative state is one of choosing to be truly aware. As I sat on a soaring plane, I chose to fully observe my present circumstances. I could have become so entangled in my irritability that I would have missed the view of a lifetime.

The irony is that the canyon would have been there the whole time, whether I had chosen to see it or not.

On Humility

So, how do you graciously give a reading of a poem you have written about pride without being prideful? Don't worry - God has it covered. First, He'll be sure to schedule your reading at the same time as the Winter Olympics and a Billy Joel concert and in the same venue as a world famous dance performance. Then He'll send you a zit the size of Texas right in the middle of your forehead that refuses to be concealed with makeup. Lastly he'll make sure that your husband is sitting firmly on your skirt so that as you go to stand up in front of a room full of people, you have a split second where you are certain the entire audience will know whether or not you remembered to put a slip on that morning.

How to effectively teach a lesson on how to not be prideful? Never fear - He has it all under control.

The Business of Busy-ness

Life sure seems to get in the way sometimes. I heard once that I should be grateful for all the experiences I have in life that distract me from my writing because they give me something to write about. I wonder if that means when I am eighty I will finally find some quiet time to work on the projects that keep haunting me. You see, I have all these ideas floating around in my mind. They speak to me at random times, while I'm rinsing dishes or stirring soup or folding laundry, and I worry that if I don't capture them now while they are dancing freshly in my mind that they will wander off into the dark and scrambled recesses of my mind and disappear forever.

So I keep my laptop handy. I try to carve out a couple of hours here and there when I can. But mostly I hope - I hope that when the chaos of everyday life settles to the point where I find myself without busy children and schedules running amok the glimmers of light and inspiration will still be there.

Off to fold the laundry. Pirouette anyone?

Violence is...Violence

The clock read 12:43. The screaming outside my window had woken me up out of a dead sleep. My heart started pounding and I felt the familiar fear return. The elevated, angry voices of men and the desperate, pleading voice of a woman reverberated through the windows and sent panic into my soul. I didn't know what to do, again.

My mind raced back to my childhood home. I was eight or nine years old and had the singular privilege in my home of having my own room for a while. I had been soundly asleep when I heard the screaming, the voices raised in anger and hatred outside my window. My eyes popped open, and I checked to feel my racing pulse. I felt frozen. I don't know how long I stared at my ceiling, willing the voices to stop their horrible tirades, but at some point I slipped quietly out of my bed onto the floor next to the window. I peeked quietly through the metal blinds on my bedroom window, only to see a woman waving a gun crazily at a man. It was the neighbors two houses down, whose house I instinctively avoided. Whatever courage I had found to crawl out of my bed instantly failed me at the sight of the gun and I slumped to the floor in horror. The noise was so deafening to my childlike ears that I couldn't believe it hadn't awakened anyone else in my home. I wanted to run as quickly as I could to my parents room that was just across the hall, but my body felt covered in thick ice. Somehow my young mind told me that they had seen me look out the window and if I moved, I would be shot. I was paralyzed with fear. I don't remember how long I lay crumpled next to my window, freezing, but that memory is etched with precision on my psyche.

The clock read 1:04. The anger was escalating. I got up to call the police, but neither of my cordless phones were in their chargers. I was afraid to turn on any lights, unsure if the police arrived and emotions escalated any further they would somehow be able to determine the source of the caller and direct the anger to my home. I checked on my sleeping children, my husband was snoring soundly, even my dog was oblivious to the chaos nearby. So I went back to my room to pray. It seemed the only logical solution at that point. I needed to feel comfort, so I turned to the only Source of comfort that has never failed me. The pleading girl finally convinced the tirade to return indoors. The voices became more muffled, but no less violent.

My mind fled to our apartment in a huge city. My husband was attending graduate school and we had rented a place in the nicest area we could afford. It had its drawbacks, but in general I felt safe at home with our little daughter and newborn son as long as I had all the doors and windows locked. I was constantly aware of my surroundings and learned to live on the edge of fear most times. It was one of the things I disliked about city life as compared to my simple, small town upbringing. It was the middle of the night again, this time the challenge of a shared wall brought the violence right into my home. I could hear the woman screaming, pleading for the man not to hurt her. I heard his rough, bellowing voice threatening with hatred and horrible intentions. This time I had a husband laying next to me. I woke him up and we listened to the terror, again unsure of what to do. Surely we weren't the only ones hearing this. Surely someone else would call the police. If we did call, would we be safe? Would the situation escalate further? I didn't doubt the malice of his intent or the sincerity of his demands. My babies were sleeping in the next room. As the glass started shattering through the wall, I couldn't stand my proximity. The fear so enveloping, I grabbed my pillow and escaped to the furthest end of my little apartment away from the anger. The next day as I was leaving to take our daughter to preschool, the woman was outside her door waving a gun, a policeman there told me to go back inside immediately. I watched through cracked blinds again until the situation was under control. I went outside to ask the officer what was going on and he told me not to worry. Not to worry? The woman was evicted shortly after, but the fear lingered. I felt so relieved to move away from that place.

I guess somehow I thought that if we finally lived in a certain zip code or obtained a certain income level that those haunting voices could finally be put behind me. As I lay in my bed listening to the violent screams coming from the home next door, the home with a swimming pool and hardwood floors, I realized the universality of pain and anger. I wonder what had happened so many times before in that home, for it to finally reach the point it did last night. The moment where the anger and pain spewed outside of the walls and into the proximity of public perspective. I wonder why such terrifying displays are referred to as 'domestic violence'. The word domestic to me invokes visions of June Cleaver, freshly baked bread and white linens blowing crisply on a backyard clothesline. It doesn't bear any relation to what I heard outside my bedroom window last night. It should just be called violence.

I never know what I should do in those moments. Succumb to the fear that permeates my soul, race to the phone to call authorities to stop the horror for the people I'm hearing, drop to my knees for comfort and plead for everyone's safety. In that moment of now all too familiar terror, I found myself in mourning that I was there again - amidst the anger, too near to the violence, too close to danger. When will it ever stop?

I guess you never really know what people are dealing with. Tread lightly. Walk softly. Speak kindly. You never know what the voices were saying or what hearts were hearing the night before.

Helpless in Haiti

I sat at my kitchen table yesterday morning staring at the newspaper. Pictures of bleeding children, suffering people scrabbling through the rubble of what was once their lives, tears streaming down their faces. As their tears quickly became mine and I felt the moisture touch the pages of newsprint, I couldn't eat my breakfast. My half eaten bowl of cereal sat suddenly unwanted off to the side and I looked at my glistening glass of pure, clean ice water. People were dying from lack of water, the reporter said. Water. And all I had to do today was turn on my tap, place my glass underneath and drink from the fountain of life. I sat feeling helpless and guilty. How could I eat when people were dying, bleeding, suffering?

I heard of some religious leaders blaming the earthquake on wickedness in Haiti. Now I don't pretend to understand all the ways of God, and surely this natural disaster can be placed in no one else's hands but His. But the God I know would hardly punish an already poverty stricken, suffering nation with more calamity to humble them to recognize His hand. The Haitian people are decidedly religious, one report I read of a woman running down the road screaming, "We know you are the greatest, God. We know. You don't need to show us again!" So I wonder if in the midst of this horrifying devastation, God is not testing the faith of the devastated, but ours.

He surely has heard the cries and prayers of His suffering children there, even before the earthquake started. But have we? I wonder if God allowed this to happen so that we could no longer ignore the wearied, broken hearts of His children - their cries and sorrows suddenly front page news. I wonder if He is forcing us to finally see what so many of us have been choosing to ignore. I wonder if the calamity could have been stayed by His loving hand not if they had repented, but if we had.

I have been plagued by these thoughts, wondering what I could do to help. I have given my donation to the Red Cross. I contribute regularly to my church's humanitarian aid fund which has already begun to send hygiene kits and basic supplies over to Haiti. My husband will be working all day tomorrow, Sunday, to ready more soldiers to leave for Haiti. So many around me here in the military city where I live are giving more, yet again. I spoke with a neighbor who, with guilt in her voice, expressed her hope that her husband would be spared this assignment. You see, he just returned home from the war. He has already been gone for months and months, sacrificing himself to protect the innocent. The thought of having him leave already, even in the midst of the visible suffering, is incredibly difficult for their family. Yes, the soldiers are trained. Yes, this is why we have a military. Yes, they will go if they are asked to go. They will continue to sacrifice again and again to not only keep our country safe, but to provide hope and comfort and protection to weary nations throughout the world.

But I wonder. I wonder if every person in the world could view this tragedy for what it really is - a human tragedy. I wonder if instead of sending in our obligatory donations to the Red Cross, relying on our wonderful but wearied soldiers, and then turning off the news so we don't have to hear about the horrifying conditions in Haiti, we each rise up and do something. Something significant. Something of sacrifice. If God is testing us to see how we will react to His suffering poor, are we willing to get on our knees? Are we willing to humbly ask Him what we as individuals, with our unique set of talents and resources can do in this moment to make a difference?

Could we who have medical training leave comfortable homes and incomes to sacrifice our time and talents to help the wounded? Could we who are patients of those individuals walk into their offices with resources or donations or skills to keep their practices afloat in their absence? Could we who are their employees, their neighbors, their friends rally around them and send them over to help? Could we offer assistance to local firefighters, rescue personnel and those trained to deal with such significant situations so that they can go and help? Could we carpool their children, walk their dogs, shovel their walkways, buy their groceries? Could we forgo a dinner out, a new suit or a family vacation to contribute more? Could we fall to our knees in gratitude for our own blessings and then get up and go to work to share those resources with those in need? I wonder what would happen if suddenly private citizens everywhere were willing to sacrifice in significant ways in order to help those in need?

What can I do? God has given me the gift of words and I felt impressed to write today. What can you do? I don't know, but God does. We can each ask God that question, and when we ask with a heart willing to follow what He whispers, He will guide us. He will lead us to the resources and people and places where He can best use each of us. He wants us to help. He needs us to help. He can use you with your unique set of skills and circumstances to bless the poor and needy in every time, but especially now. When the cries of His suffering children can finally no longer be ignored.

Balancing Act

It's days like these that make me remember when I was a little girl. I grew up in a small town with not much going on from day to day, so it was a huge deal when the circus came to town. I remember how excited everyone would get and it would build for days before the actual event. I wasn't anxious to see the clowns, the lion tamers or even the man being shot out of the cannon. I remember being mesmerized by only one act - the tightrope walker. I remember my heart pounding as he walked up the enormous ladder to the tiny landing. I was flabbergasted when I realized there were no harnesses or safety equipment for him, just a very long pole. I sat transfixed in my seat, watching every careful step forward, waiting as he wobbled at times, using the enormous pole to recorrect himself and keep from falling. I'm sure I held my breath from the moment he stepped onto the wire until he made it safely to the other side.

I have had to learn how to be more careful in my life. This past year I have been plagued with illness and injury. As a woman who has never failed to find intrinsic drive to motivate myself to push harder and reach higher, I've had to return over and over again to the principle of balance. I have a fetish for calendars and lists. I love getting a new calendar each year and turning over a new page each month. I used to look forward to filling it all with with neat, organized events that were designed to help me accomplish my goals. I've had to learn to let go of much of that this year and simply focus on getting from day to day. As my health has slowly returned to me, I have found myself gravitating back to my old ways. It's been especially difficult at the start of this new year. It's time to set goals! It's time to make lists! It's time to fill up a new calendar!

I spent the morning yesterday making a six month plan, complete with daily, weekly and monthly goals. I was so excited and motivated. I was even feeling proud of myself that in the goal setting session I recognized some limitations on my time and decided to postpone several large scale tasks that will require some significant chunks of time that I simply cannot carve out for a while. So I just set them aside for now. I felt like I had found a happy balance between drive and realism. Then as I went to bed, I started feeling unwell again. That led to another sleepless night, another difficult morning just trying to accomplish the mundane, leaving me with a list that today felt impossible and unrealistic, even with the edits.

Perhaps it's my pacing. Part of the tightrope walker's ability to actually cross without tragedy was that he moved slowly, deliberately. If he had simply bolted out, he surely would have tumbled to his demise. He would take a step, then wait to let the rest of his body adjust to the new position, using his pole to help him find that place of quiet calm before taking the next step - and so on and so on until he reached his goal.

Guess I'm just in a state of constant adjusting, waiting for my body to get used to this deliberate pace and granting myself the time to find a place of balance before trying to move forward any further.

Just a daily balancing act...welcome to the tightrope!