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.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
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.
How to effectively teach a lesson on how to not be prideful? Never fear - He has it all under control.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
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?
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?
Monday, January 18, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
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!
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!
Friday, November 27, 2009
Tradition, Tradition
I am a traditionalist. I grew up in the same town, in the same house, in the same room until I left for college. I had the same friends from preschool all the way into high school. I grew up in a family and a town where change was a rarity and I liked it that way. Holidays were especially important, entrenched in moments that repeated themselves year after year. I remember the stir it caused in my extended family when we moved our Christmas day celebration to a new location - it was big news.
When I got married almost fourteen years ago, I had no idea that my traditionalist ways were about to be greatly tested. My husband decided to pursue a career that required lengthy and varied training. This meant transferring to many different schools, all of which ended up being in different states. After just a few years, we moved thousands of miles away from any family member, making it even more difficult to carry on the traditions I had loved as a girl. I tried to make the best of every occasion and learned to adapt to the existing circumstances of my life, but a part of me still longed for the upbringing I had known for my own children.
Last week, thoughts of turkey dinners, extended family, hot pies and tradition started haunting me again. We had planned to travel several states away to visit with friends who have become like family for the Thanksgiving festivities, but they had an unexpected flood in their basement. Our sleeping quarters were under water and they needed the time for home renovations, so we were left without plans. I was inclined to stay home and host another dinner myself - not unlike many I had done in the past where we invited others without family to join us for a feast. But my husband really wanted to get away, so he started looking at beach houses to rent. It's cheap to visit the beach in the winter - too cold, too windy. He found a beauty of a cottage at a beauty of a price and suggested we travel there, turkey, trimmings and all for this traditional holiday.
Accustomed to variance in my visions of tradition, I agreed. I, too, love the beach. I just never anticipated celebrating Thanksgiving there. Packing the morning we left, filling paper bags with Thanksgiving foods, suitcases with sunscreen and swimming suits, my mood swiftly declined. Where was tradition? Where were the memories? What kind of heritage was I giving my children? Who has Thanksgiving at the beach by themselves?
We schlepped everything, dog included, into the van and drove the few hours to the beach. We arrived just before sunset. I suggested we stop by the ocean before unschlepping at the cottage. As we parked, set foot on the sand, and saw the waves rolling gently inward and outward, the sun sinking in crimson delight, my tension melted away and I thought, who gets to have Thanksgiving at the beach?
The sun rose slowly through the fog on Thursday. Forecasting over 70 degree weather, we decided to buck tradition altogether, seize the sun filled day and head to the sea and sand. We read, we jumped waves, we tried skim boarding, we dug giant holes and we walked along the ocean. We ate cheese sandwiches for lunch and snacked on licorice and gummy bears on the shore. We stayed until the sun was waning and the cool breezes licked our faces, reminding us it was November after all.
We cleaned up at the cottage and drove through the sleepy beach town trying to find anyplace open to eat. As we heartily downed potato soup, fried shrimp and salad I couldn't resist one last try at tradition. I asked everyone to share something they were thankful for. My daughter said, "I'm thankful we could spend Thanksgiving together at the beach."
I realized then that I was giving my children memories. I was giving them a wonderful heritage. Not one where the dishes and company were always the same. Not one entrenched in sameness and solidarity. Not one that they would necessarily continue generation after generation in their own homes as they grow and leave me. But I was giving them the heritage of love. I was leaving them the legacy of spending time together having fun as a family. I was giving them the ability to be grateful for time away, the ability to celebrate a holiday based on gratitude by being grateful for the moments they had, however untraditional they were.
They, in turn, were giving me the gift of a new definition of traditionalist.
When I got married almost fourteen years ago, I had no idea that my traditionalist ways were about to be greatly tested. My husband decided to pursue a career that required lengthy and varied training. This meant transferring to many different schools, all of which ended up being in different states. After just a few years, we moved thousands of miles away from any family member, making it even more difficult to carry on the traditions I had loved as a girl. I tried to make the best of every occasion and learned to adapt to the existing circumstances of my life, but a part of me still longed for the upbringing I had known for my own children.
Last week, thoughts of turkey dinners, extended family, hot pies and tradition started haunting me again. We had planned to travel several states away to visit with friends who have become like family for the Thanksgiving festivities, but they had an unexpected flood in their basement. Our sleeping quarters were under water and they needed the time for home renovations, so we were left without plans. I was inclined to stay home and host another dinner myself - not unlike many I had done in the past where we invited others without family to join us for a feast. But my husband really wanted to get away, so he started looking at beach houses to rent. It's cheap to visit the beach in the winter - too cold, too windy. He found a beauty of a cottage at a beauty of a price and suggested we travel there, turkey, trimmings and all for this traditional holiday.
Accustomed to variance in my visions of tradition, I agreed. I, too, love the beach. I just never anticipated celebrating Thanksgiving there. Packing the morning we left, filling paper bags with Thanksgiving foods, suitcases with sunscreen and swimming suits, my mood swiftly declined. Where was tradition? Where were the memories? What kind of heritage was I giving my children? Who has Thanksgiving at the beach by themselves?
We schlepped everything, dog included, into the van and drove the few hours to the beach. We arrived just before sunset. I suggested we stop by the ocean before unschlepping at the cottage. As we parked, set foot on the sand, and saw the waves rolling gently inward and outward, the sun sinking in crimson delight, my tension melted away and I thought, who gets to have Thanksgiving at the beach?
The sun rose slowly through the fog on Thursday. Forecasting over 70 degree weather, we decided to buck tradition altogether, seize the sun filled day and head to the sea and sand. We read, we jumped waves, we tried skim boarding, we dug giant holes and we walked along the ocean. We ate cheese sandwiches for lunch and snacked on licorice and gummy bears on the shore. We stayed until the sun was waning and the cool breezes licked our faces, reminding us it was November after all.
We cleaned up at the cottage and drove through the sleepy beach town trying to find anyplace open to eat. As we heartily downed potato soup, fried shrimp and salad I couldn't resist one last try at tradition. I asked everyone to share something they were thankful for. My daughter said, "I'm thankful we could spend Thanksgiving together at the beach."
I realized then that I was giving my children memories. I was giving them a wonderful heritage. Not one where the dishes and company were always the same. Not one entrenched in sameness and solidarity. Not one that they would necessarily continue generation after generation in their own homes as they grow and leave me. But I was giving them the heritage of love. I was leaving them the legacy of spending time together having fun as a family. I was giving them the ability to be grateful for time away, the ability to celebrate a holiday based on gratitude by being grateful for the moments they had, however untraditional they were.
They, in turn, were giving me the gift of a new definition of traditionalist.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
