Put On Your Hat

It almost killed me. Watching my beautiful teenage daughter walking to the bus stop this morning. You see, it's spirit week at her school and today is hat day. She was so excited getting ready this morning. She had chosen a darling knitted hat to wear that she picked out last year and looked adorable. She put on her jacket, backpack and walked out the door with a confident stride. As I watched her walk down the street, I saw her step slowly slacken. Her head turned towards the bus stop and she saw the other students- all of them hatless. She quickly reached up, grabbed the white cap with the brim off her head and stuffed it into her pocket.

My heart ached as she stepped onto the bus. How does it happen? How do we lose our sense of self slowly in the name of simply fitting in? When does the desire for conformity conquer our individuality? Why do we let others dictate our desires?

I remember being that age. I remember dismissing friendships I had valued all through elementary school so that the 'cool' kids might like me. I remember wanting specific styles of clothes and listening to music my friends liked. It's simply a time of life when we all have the challenge of uncovering our uniqueness. The difficulty in our discovery is that we often see our individuality in a negative light, instead of realizing that the light of our singular soul is what makes us who we are.

I had a friend ask me the other day what she should call me. I laughed because she called when I was scrubbing out a pot smeared with spaghetti sauce. I teach her daughter piano and she wondered how she should refer to me with others - as a master pianist, a composer, an author? I told her to call me Anna.

I don't want a title. I simply want to stand up and claim my own life based on the joys and interests of my heart. I want to write poetry and do yoga, read books and play music. I want to tap dance and rock climb and be the drummer when I play Rock Band with my kids. I want to write plays and share thoughts and make a difference in someone's life. I want to love my dog, walk on the beach and watch the stars. I want to be totally, completely, uniquely me.

And mostly, today, I want my daughter to feel the joy of discovering how unique and beautiful and priceless she is. Oh, honey, put on your hat.

How to Say "Yes" - in Moderation

In the past 24 hours I have heard from one exhausted, burned out friend after another. One is ready to run away to the beach for the weekend. Another just wants a good night's sleep with less to do. One didn't say much - she was too tired. I remembered this morning another friend asking me a few months ago how to do it.

You see, there are some of us who view a certain two letter word as akin to profanity - never to be uttered, only being heard in desperate times of complete exhaustion with extreme frustration followed by instant regret. So in deference to my amazingly talented friends and to avoid any confusion with profanity, I entitle this entry 'How to Say Yes - in Moderation'. I hope to share a few principles that have helped me in this difficult endeavor.

Yes means yes. You know the moment. You find yourself saying yes with your mouth while thinking in your mind, "Not right now, I am so tired and I already have to take dinner to the neighbor down the street who just had a baby and my husband is working a double shift and my toddler smeared lotion all over the bathroom just as I left"? The next time a request is made and your feel yourself at the breaking point, before you answer, take a deep breath. Count to 10. Pause to listen to what your mind and heart are saying. If your truly honest heart is crying uncle, politely decline. There is no explanation needed beyond, "I'm sorry. I can't today." If your heart is sincere, the other person will feel it and understand, "If I could, I would." Hang up the phone or leave the encounter, be silent and breathe again. What is your heart telling you? It will take some practice to really listen and hear. But if you have honored your truth, your heart will thank you. When we say yes, we should really mean yes. Being willing to say honestly, "I can't right now" allows us to be genuine in the times we do say, "Yes." Practicing this principle has allowed me make offers of friendship and service with sincerity, without feeling resentful. I tell people often, "I wouldn't offer if I didn't mean it," and they believe me. Because yes really means yes.

Remember, not now doesn't mean not ever. Often when we are presented with an opportunity, we overlook any potential conflicts or detriments to our routine or workload and seize the moment. We think, "Well, this will never happen again!" I've moved enough times to understand the principle that there will always be another house. Our first home purchase was during the great housing boom when houses were sold sight unseen. We spent an emotional week with pressing moving deadlines losing house after house. But we kept searching and sure enough, we found another house. I sincerely believe that when we have the courage to be realistic with our expectations, being willing to pass by opportunities in the name of balance, those opportunities are not lost forever. Just because you don't do something now, doesn't mean you can't do it ever. There are lots of years ahead. Life is constantly changing. There will always be another house.

Be patient. Some things take time. Often driven, motivated people have unrealistic expectations for progress. We think we should be able to learn or finish things without delay. We find ourselves getting frustrated when those accomplishments don't meet our expectations. Several years ago I learned to stand on my head. I joined a very challenging yoga class and had been practicing for quite a few years, so I expected to make quick progress in this class. But I had never seen anyone do headstands and when I watched several women make it look simple, I was determined to follow suit - quickly. Only I couldn't. My arm and upper back muscles weren't strong enough yet. I thought I could figure out how to do it in a matter of weeks. Well, those weeks turned into months and eventually, after a year of almost daily practice, I could finally stand on my head. It took lots of patience and lots of time, but I did it. Some things just take time - a lot of time. Be patient.

"You say potato, I say potato." We all have different talents and interests. We all have different strengths and weaknesses. I have learned that this means we all have different things that bring us joy. Once I learned to let go of worrying about other people's hobbies or interests and simply sought out ways to enjoy my own, I became a much happier person. The beauty of this truth is that it allows me to enjoy others' expressions of their gifts without feeling like they are an indication of my failures. For example, when my daughter was small I took a cake decorating class with a friend. I took it simply to learn the basics so I could not embarrass my children at their birthday parties each year. It was somewhat interesting to me and I did fairly well, but after spending hours piping a realistic looking Elmo cake for her next birthday I realized that cake decorating was not my bliss. My friend, however, took off. She spent years progressing, learning new techniques, and now has a business making fabulous cakes. I am thrilled for her, sincerely. She found her passion. I learned cake decorating is not for me, so I let it go and never looked back. I found words and writing instead. Potato - potato. Discover what you love. Pursue it. Embrace it. Let others do the same. Amazing. Liberating. Joyful.

I need a nap. I canceled on a friend the other day. We have been trying to coordinate our schedules for a writing session for weeks. We had a terrible thunderstorm the night before and my dog and children were spooked by it and up most of the night. Needless to say, I wasn't at my best the next morning. I knew that if she came over, I would be useless to her because I was completely exhausted. So I rescheduled. I needed a nap. So often we neglect our physical needs in the name of productivity. And yet, our bodies are the vehicles that allow us to accomplish everything in life. Sometimes we don't get enough sleep. Sometimes we are sick. Sometimes we need to eat. We need to listen better to our bodies - honor the things they are telling us. When we listen and honor our physical needs, we are more at peace. We have more energy. We are more able to be patient with others.

I often wonder what would happen in our fast paced society if everyone were willing to say yes - only in moderation. I think we would all smile more, we would be better rested, we would be more willing to help each other with sincerity and we would be more patient. Say yes - but only when your heart tells you to. Remember that not now doesn't mean not ever, there will always be another house. Be patient. Find your own passion. And take a nap. Have the courage to find the place of balance, listen to what your heart is really saying to you. You just might hear it tell you 'YES!'

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.