time and again

"We meet ourselves time and again in a thousand disguises on the paths of life."  Carl Jung

This summer started out with a bang. - A hectic ending to my first school year as principal. Right into a week of campmeeting where I worked in Kindergarten, leading a tribe of 15 little kids.  Straight to the beach for blissful sun and rest.  And then back to school to pick up the unfinished pieces.  Getting Jake packed for his summer recruiting gig, appointments and meetings and on and on.

By the 4th of July I was in a full tizzy.  We were invited to a friend's farm to watch a huge firework show.  But Jake was gone.  Josh's birthday was on Sunday.  And on that birthday Sunday, I had to leave for a college in TN for two weeks to take a required class for my job.  I hate leaving my family.  My bursts of panic mimicked the exploding fireworks.

On Sunday evening I loaded my car with school books, a suitcase, blankets and towels, dvd's and an ice chest and hit the road.

Three hours later I pulled up at the university.  I had only been there twice in the twenty-five years since I was there to finish my junior and senior years of college.  I moved into a room on the bottom floor of the dorm Steve had lived in those two years, facing my old dorm.

And it was deja vu all over again.  1989-91.  Wondering if I would get a job after I graduated.  Where would I live? Would Steve and I stay together this time?  Would we get married? Would I pass my classes?  Would I make new friends?  I had to stretch my legs after the drive, so I tried to outrun my past worries by looping the campus and track, passed the religion building where I'd had most of my classes, past the church where I went to vespers as Steve's date, passed the girls dorm where I'd had roommate dramas.  And finally back to my little room - home for the next two weeks.

And then I started to relax.  In that tiny, sunny room I made up my bed, hung up my clothes, set up my desk.  I realized that I was excited to be a student in a class, studying brain function and learning styles.  My only responsibility was to learn.  

For the next two weeks I would get up quietly and leave my little room tidy.  I would walk to class.  I would take notes and brainstorm with interesting classmates.  After class I would walk to the village market to the delicious salad bar, and choose yogurt and fruit for my breakfast the next morning.  I would sit indian style at my desk for hours into the evening reading books and writing reports.  I would watch a movie at night as I fell asleep.

One day I met old friends at a Mexican restaurant in town.  Another evening I drove to another old friend's home and ate popcorn, watermelon and fruit shakes while I got to know his family.  One day for lunch my friend and classmate,  Susan,  and I explored a Peruvian restaurant just for a new experience.  Those were the only three times I used a car in those two weeks.  And then back to my quiet room to study.

It was an incredibly restful, enriching time. Every time deja vu anxiety popped up I got to remind myself that it would all turn out ok.  Way better than ok.  Steve and I would stay together.  We'd move to California.  We'd have a beautiful wedding.  We'd get great jobs.  We'd move to Asheville and have two precious blond boys.  We would have a wonderful, traumatic, interesting, adventurous life.

But today I am a 46 year-old sleeping for one more night on a quiet, dorm bunk bed.   I wish I could pop in on 21 year old Erin and tell her to relax, enjoy the journey, be grateful.  In lieu of time travel,  I will just remind 46 year-old Erin that.

lemons

So you think it is just an ordinary day.  Students heading back and forth from school to auditorium to practice for the big Spring concert.  And then it starts to rain.  I grab my keys and start to shuttle students back and forth so they don't get soaked.  I'm almost done when the last student realizes he forgot his music.  He jumps back in and I put the car in reverse and spin back around.  And then CRUNCH.  There is a horrible sound.  I stop.  And crane my neck  to see the previously invisible light pole on a cement base.  How bad can it be?  I was only going about 3 miles an hour.  The student jumps out to look.  "Oh, it's bad." he says shaking his head.

And it was bad.  My 6 month old, perfect blue car had a huge, deep dent. My passenger door wouldn't open.  I was sick.

There was nothing to do but fix it.  I made three phone calls.  I drove thirty minutes to have the car inspected and made an appointment to get fixed.  Then I had it inspected by my insurance for a quote.  Then I reserved a rental car.  Then I drove 30 minutes back to leave my car for 4 days.  Then I waited.  So much wasted time, energy spent, hundreds of dollars out of pocket, all for a stupid mistake.  I just couldn't shake the angry, uselessness of it.
The day I picked up my fixed car I made a quick Target run.  Walking past the kitchen aisle, a bright yellow ceramic lemon caught my eye.  It was on clearance for $3.00.

In the early 1900's someone coined a phrase "when life gives you lemons, make lemonade.  According to wikipedia this phrase is "used to encourage optimism and a can-do attitude in the face of adversity or misfortune. Lemons suggest bitterness, while lemonade is a sweet drink."

I love this 1940 poem called The Optimist.
"Life handed him a lemon,
As Life sometimes will do.
His friends looked on in pity,
Assuming he was through.
They came upon him later,
Reclining in the shade
In calm contentment, drinking
A glass of lemonade."

I bought that Target lemon.  I carried it to my pretty-again car and decided to be thankful for people who fix dents.  Now it is on my desk.  It's shiny, happy yellow reminds me that life will always have purposeless challenges and unplanned bumps.  My dog will have fleas, students will have unhappy parents, my favorite blouse will get stained, and occasionally I will dent something big.  But I will always have the choice of growing bitter, or plowing through with "calm contentment".  It's all about making lemonade.

small exchanges

It's possible to get from our house to school in 7 minutes.  If we hit the light right.  If we don't get behind a school bus.  If it's not trash pick up day.  Today we left the house with 9 minutes to spare.  But it took 13 minutes.  I tried to direct the speed and direction of the other cars on the road.  And I fumed, and sighed and rolled my eyes.  Why didn't I iron last night?  Why did I push snooze?  Why did I ask Josh if he wanted hot chocolate with his breakfast?  I hate being late.  Again. ARRGH.

And then I looked over at Josh sitting quietly in the passenger seat.  Josh is not a morning person.  But he will make conversation as we drive.  He will point out a colorful hot air balloon overhead, laugh at my jokes about downtown Candler, count wild turkeys at the side of the road. Today he sat quietly, looking out the window.  I suddenly wondered what effect my 13 minutes of road rage and impatience would have on my boy's day.

Twenty years ago, I heard a lecture by Daniel Goleman on Emotional Intelligence and bought his book.  These three paragraphs are the main thing that stuck with me from either, but I never forgot this picture he painted.

Say a two-month-old baby wakes up at 3 a.m. and starts crying.  Her mother comes in and, for the next half hour, the baby contentedly nurses in her mother's arms while her mother gazes at her affectionally, telling her that she's happy to see her, even in the middle of the night.  The baby, content in her mother's love, drifts back to sleep.

Now say another two-month-old baby, who also awoke crying in the wee hours, is met instead by a mother who is tense and irritable, having fallen asleep just an hour before after a fight with her husband.  The baby starts to tense up the moment his mother abruptly picks him up, telling him, "Just be quiet - I can't stand one more thing!  Come on, let's get it over with."   As the baby nurse his mother stares stonily ahead, not looking at him, reviewing her fight with his father, getting more agitated herself as she mulls it over.  The baby, sensing her tension, squirms, stiffens and stops nursing.  "That's all you want?" his mother says.  "then don't eat."  With the same abruptness she puts him back in his crib and stalks out, letting him cry until he falls back to sleep, exhausted.

These two scenarios are presented by the report from the National Center for Clinical Infant Programs as examples of the kinds of interaction that, if repeated over and over, instill very different feelings in a toddler about himself and his closet relationships...All the small exchanges between parent and child have an emotional subtext, and in the repetition of these messages over the years children form the core of their emotional outlook and capabilities...outlooks that will flavor their functioning in all realms of life, for better or worse.  Goleman, page 195

Our world is geared for the Big Deals.  Top stories on the news in the morning.  Squeakiest wheel at work gets the oil.  Vacation highlights go on Facebook.

But life is really made up of thousands of unnoticeable, unremarkable small exchanges.  Making lunches for my boys, feeding the cat, greeting students when they are dropped off at school, hugging my husband when he gets home from work.  Small exchanges that, according to Goleman, form and flavor all realms of life for people I love.   If it's true then I want to make the most of the small exchanges.

I only have a few more years of driving to school with Josh.  7 minutes a day.  Or if I'm lucky - 13 minutes.

oxygen choices

I have a thing for sweet, off-beat movies.  That Thing You Do.  Salmon Fishing in the Yemen.  Larry Crowne.  I play them over and over again while I'm unloading the dishwasher, loading the washing machine, cooking.  The boys groan "not again." But then they forget their protest and at some point we end up sitting on the coach watching the end together. Again.

My latest repeat is The Secret Life of Walter Mitty.  About an ordinary man who breaks free from his limited life and becomes who he wants to be.  I have lots of favorite parts, but one that has become The Quote in our family.

Walter Mitty: [taking on cell phone while climbing a Himalayan mountain] Hey Todd, I'm gonna keep this short. I have to make oxygen choices. 

Oxygen choices!  I love that.  For Walter Mitty there is a limited amount of oxygen available.  Does he want to use it to make it down the mountain alive or to talk to the salesman from e-harmony?  It's really a life and death question.  There is nothing wrong with talking to Todd.  It's just not going to help him reach his goal.  

Last night Josh wanted Jake to play a video game with him.  Jake said "Nope, I have to finish my homework.  Oxygen choices, Josh."  

That echo'd in my ears this morning when I got an invitation to be part of a panel discussion at a University 3 hours away.  Interesting.  Informative. Networking.  But also time consuming in an already really busy time.  Two days away from work.  Two nights away from family.  So I said no.  I have to make oxygen choices.

Best over good.  Here is how Steve Jobs described it.

“People think focus means saying yes to the thing you've got to focus on. But that's not what it means at all. It means saying no to the hundred other good ideas that there are. You have to pick carefully. I'm actually as proud of the things we haven't done as the things I have done. Innovation is saying no to 1,000 things.”

Best over good.  No to 1,000 things.  I just found two articles on line that talk more about this.  They look so interesting.  But it's 60 degrees out, the sun is shining and my tennis shoes are waiting.  I'm headed out.  Oxygen choices....

speaking office

This story starts on Christmas Eve and ends today.  A little before Christmas Eve actually....

There is nothing that motivates me to finish house projects more than company.  I had family coming in for Christmas and that meant stuff was getting done.  Our six dining room chairs for example.  Ten years of two boys eating spaghetti marinara, strawberry jello, blueberry pancakes and chocolate ice cream had done them no favors.  They looked like seats from a war zone.

I bought new material.  I borrowed a staple gun.  I just hadn't had time to re-cover them.  And then it was Christmas Eve morning.  The boys and I had the day off.  Presents were wrapped, food was made.  Just time to chill and play together. And re-cover the chairs.  Which should only take like 45 minutes right?

I hadn't counted on how long it takes to pry out 600 former staples and stretch the fabric.  And re staple. Two hours in, I was sweating and had two chairs done. I was getting faster, but a mutiny was forming.  "This is suppose to be a fun day." the boys said.  I had to finish the chairs.  And I wanted it to be a good day.  I had to think fast.

The boys had had a recent conversation about pranks. And I had told them about the show The Office we used to watch. How Steve and I had cracked up over Jim's constant pranking of Dwight.  And then I found the first few seasons of The Office that we'd been given as a gift.  I grabbed Season One and pushed play.  From the moment Dwight's stapler was found encased in Jello, my boys were hooked.  Four episodes later, the chairs were recovered, clean and beautiful.  The boys were laughing.  Christmas Eve had officially started.

So did our new tradition.  An episode or two of The Office when we got home from school each day.  Curled up on the couch together, laughing as we watched every day people, in an ordinary office, form life-long friendships.  I had forgotten how, underneath the funniness, the show had such heart.  The characters learned to see past each other's quirks, to value each other, to forgive and appreciate, to become loyal and grow together.  Without easing up on the unending stream of little tortures and practical jokes of course.

Nine seasons later, we loved them too.  Josh and I finished on Saturday night.  (too fast I know, but what else are you going to do through a long winter if not binge watch TV with your children?...)  We waited until Monday night when Jake got home from a school trip, to watch the finale.  Yes, I cried again.  And was touched by profound statements like Andy Bernard's "I wish there was a way to know you are in the good old days before you actually left them." So true Andy.

Speaking of the good old days....when I started Chaplain school, our supervisor taught twelve of us about the Enneagram, an ancient personality test to navigate workplace dynamics and spirituality.  He told us it would help us understand ourselves better.  And that it would help us see each other's strengths more than our differences.  Most of all, he said that it would take twelve strangers and quickly give us a common language to speak as we learned about each other.

I feel like the boys and I have new common language.  We are speaking Office.  We tease each other about being a Michael or so Dwight.  Any cockiness gets a Ryan label. And me trying to recover the dining room chairs on Christmas Eve?  Such an Toby move.   We are also trying to be more aware how much joy and value are lurking all around us every day.

Or as Pam said at the very end of the show,  "There is a lot of beauty in ordinary things."

spring punch

My friend Barbara was having a party at her house last Sunday.  A Spring Shower.  Women from our church would gather at 4, bring appetizers and desserts, share recipes, talk, laugh and celebrate the end of winter.  It sounded like just what we needed!

 I found a recipe in Better Homes and Gardens for Spring Frocktails - a pretty pink and orange punch with juice and soda and sherbet.  Barbara had a punch bowl so I just needed to bring the ingredients.  I began brainstorming for the most delectable appetizer I could bring.  Stuffed mushrooms?  BBQ meat balls? Mini quiches? A savory cheesecake with crackers?

Sunday morning flew by and I still hadn't decided.  I waded through all the black and gray sweaters in my closet to find a floral blouse and a green sweater.  I was going to look like the first day of spring after a long winter.

I was on call for hospice all weekend.  There was a family meeting at 1:00 pm.  Then I would stop at the grocery store on the way home, make my food, change my clothes and get to the party early.  Plenty of time!

The meeting was right on schedule.  Thirty minutes and done.  Whew!  As I was driving out of the parking lot I got another call.  A family needed a chaplain 20 minutes south.  And then another call. Another patient.

At 3:15 I sat in my car in the hospice parking lot.  The party was in 45 minutes and 35 minutes away. I had no food.  I had no punch recipe.  I was wearing black. I contemplated driving off the nearest cliff.

And then an Elizabeth Edwards quote came to mind.  I think she was addressing people who had recently lost a spouse, or were being fitted for a prosthetic, or had just been driven from their homes.  But my situation felt comparable at that moment.  So I rehearsed it.

Resilience is accepting your new reality, even if it's less good than the one you had before. You can fight it, you can do nothing but scream about what you've lost, or you can accept that and try to put together something that's good.” ― Elizabeth Edwards

I decided to stop the rapid breathing.  I reminded myself that no one at the party was watching the windows in hopes that "Erin would wear something besides black."  I chose to believe that really anything can be an appetizer.  And I drove to the nearest grocery store to put together something that was hopefully good.

I grabbed Dole Orange Peach Mango juice, cherry 7-UP and rainbow sherbet.  I found a frozen loaf of my favorite brand of Gfree Rye and a block of dill havarti.  A tomato, a cucumber and a tempting selection of olives from the deli.  I threw the bags in the back of my car and sped across town.

Let's skip to the end.  The party was a blast.  Better than good.  Delicious food.  Easy conversations.  My little grocery store offerings looked pretty on Barbara's glass plates.  The punch was fruity and refreshing.  

And brown.  Oh yes, orange mango mixed with green and pink sherbet turns a very unspringy shade of brown.  We talked about ways to serve it in the future so we could enjoy the taste and not have to see it!

I drove home smiling.  Girl friends make everything seem better.  So does a dose of resilience, creativity and humor.  And getting over yourself.  That's a big one.  It's only punch...


The correct recipe for non-brown Spring Frocktails.
3 cups ginger ale
4 Tbsp grenadine
4 Tbsp orange juice
3 scoops orange sherbet

grit and glory

I was about five years old.  A little girl with a blond bob.  Sitting on the floor in a yellow gingham room, sun streaming in. I was playing "grown up", my very favorite game.  My mom had given me a stack of unused check deposit slips and I was signing my name with a flourish and making check marks in various boxes.  I couldn't wait for the day when I would have a real job and do this all the time.

Today, forty-one years later, I'm sitting in my blue office, sun streaming in.  I have a stack of forms in front of me and I'm signing and checking boxes.  And that's when I had my little yellow flashback.  I'm still playing grown up, and I love this job more then that five year old could have imagined.  I like writing articles for the newsletter, filling in to teach classes, creating board agendas and art curriculums. But it's also harder than I would have dreamed.  Disciplining, hard conversations, budget struggles,  refereeing.  Somedays I don't feel like signing the slips.  There is so much more grit and glory than any five year old can imagine.

I was in 6th grade.  Several of my girlfriends and I made up a game where we wrote letters to each other from our future selves.  We imagined our lives as very mature twenty-three year olds.   Most of the scenarios involved our handsome, made-up husbands taking us to TCBY every evening.  What else would there be to do as grown ups?

Today, thirty-four years later, I can't remember the last time my husband and I went to TCBY.  My 6th grade self would be devastated.  She would also be horrified to know that handsome husbands often come with contrary opinions, and that so much of our evenings involve grocery shopping, playing with our boys and homework.  We have to make a real effort to get out on a date occasionally.  But it's all so much better than those letters ever hinted at.  I didn't know how nice it is to walk hand in hand through the neighborhood with an unmade up man.  Or how safe you feel, curled up watching TV with someone who loves you forever.  There is so much more grit and glory than any 6th grader can imagine.

I was living in the dorm in college when I visited a newly married friend.  She and her young husband had just moved into a brand new apartment that was very 1990's modern.  All grays and purples, sleek lines and minimalistic furnishings.  It was the most sophisticated place I had ever been.  And was immediately the epitome of all my "when I get my own house" fantasies.

Today, twenty-six years later, I see a lot of gray throughout my house.  Mostly in things that once were white and have been used and aged til they are dingy. My style is teenage-aged-boy-lived-in.  Not very popular in the house magazines I pour over.  The washing machine and dishwasher hum constantly.  From where I am sitting I can see a clump of cat hair and a streak of mud.  But it is my favorite place in the world.  The couch where the four of us flop on together at the end of the day.  The table we gather around for Steve's famous Saturday breakfasts.  The porch where we watch lightening storms.  It's where we pack friends from top to bottom for sleepovers, cook Thanksgiving dinner and toast our Christmas tree with egg nog.  There is so much more grit and glory than any college student can imagine.

I still like playing grown up.  Someday I may redo this post by adding to the paltry imaginations of my forties.  Until then I am grateful that life is so good.  And I will soak up all I can of this gritty and glorious life!