Inspired

Another Wednesday morning, the one day of the week my kids can count on me to drive them to school. And have a little less free time on the playground; I’m always racing the clock on Wednesdays (how do working moms do it?!)  I love this mid-week ritual of spending time with them on the way to school—usually their dad’s place.  And in a nonsensical way, it rejuvenates me to go to school again.

After years of floundering, not really sure where I’d feel comfortable, I’ve found my niche.  I tried volunteering with small groups back when my youngest started school.  We’d work on their reading and spelling.  One on one, sometimes up to four.  I was always relieved when recess came and I could just make copies instead.  So then I spent a few more years splitting my time between making copies and paper booklets and packets and working in the library; this year I said no to the rest; focusing on the library has been heavenly.  Just a few hours on a Wednesday morning to shelve the returned books and tighten the rows, to repair and reinforce the patients in the Book Hospital, to find just the right book for the littles who come asking. I have to admit, in a most nerdish way, it thrills me to find a book out of place, whales in the enjoyment section, a picture book in the fiction shelves.  For a type B person, I’ll admit I do have some A leanings.

I’m in my happy place, my glory even.  Enveloped in the smell of books, privy to learning from open-doored classrooms across the hall, immersed in upbeat chatter.  As one of only a handful adults in the library, I’m available to help the students, but mostly I’m invisible. Told you I was in my happy place.

This past week I started in the Book Hospital, bandaging those who just needed a little extra protection, reinforcing those who have become weakened by much love, glueing the innards back into their bindings, securing them with rubber bands while they heal, supporting spines with taped splints, noting bar codes and other identifying labels as they peel, replacing plastic lamination as needed.  The work is simple, holistic in nature, therapeutic, mindless.

I finish what I can and let the patients rest while turning my attention to the three carts: enjoyment, fiction, and non-fiction.  I start with the picture books, the most tedious of all shelving duties: skinny little books squished into messy rows, my cuticles rubbed raw trying to extricate the ones that have been pushed behind while holding a place for a new member.  Yet it’s a brilliant trip down memory lane, I feel like the little girl Caren and the young mom me all over again.  I can’t help but recall reading each of these small books myself as a kid and again with my littles over and over and over through the years. 

I move on and start scooting the novels forward, using my left arm to brace them as I straighten the rows.  I can’t help but peruse these titles as well.  So many familiar from my growing up years, others that I’ve discovered as an adult through book groups and Newberry Award lists.  So many I wish my kids would read, others that I’m glad they’ve read and loved.  I cherish this time of memories and hopes flooding over me with equal intensity.  I check a couple beloved titles out every now and then, with anticipation of my kids gleaning the same joy as I once did from these timeless classics.  And try to hide my giddiness when they do.

The non-fiction is just as thrilling, so many biographies, stories of how life came to be, theories of science and history.  Every week I’m reminded of my ignorance, and I wonder where I’ve been all my life to have missed so much.  Most of them aren’t that long or difficult (their school only goes up to eighth grade), but I made a goal years ago to read at least one kid non-fiction every week.  I’m not the best, but I’ve read quite a few on subjects ranging from prisons and rags to riches stories to Birds Eye Frozen Foods and expeditions to the far reaches of the planet.  I’ve read about Houdini and the building of the Panama Canal.  I’ve learned about the people and mail system of the Grand Canyon and I’ve taken a walk back in time as I learned about Steven Speilberg’s film career.  I’m always carting an armload home with me.  This week I took ones about Target and the history of sneakers, and 100 Most Disgusting Things.  I’m bad. And so lacking in general information.  I’ve looked at them over my afternoon snack and on the drive in the evening.  I have a thirst for knowledge; but to be honest, I’ve allowed myself to occasionally wallow as I’ve crouched up and down amid the rows of books I’ve never read, discouraged that there is still so far to go.

I come to the school library as just a regular mom every Wednesday morning.  But the three hours I’m there remind me of who I want to be.  Educated, well-read, knowledgable, capable, intelligent, conversant in a potpourri of topics.  Instead of succumbing to my inadequacies and ignorance, I grab a couple titles and add them to my stack in the back to take home for the week.  I might not get to them all, I might even forget what I’ve read, but I like the idea of exposure.  I love the lives of people I meet inside the pages of the books.  I love knowing the answers to questions I’ve always wondered about even though I could never explain them back to anyone.  I love being reminded of an event in time I knew about but never really learned about.

Just the other week, as I was finding just the right homes for the novels, I recognized how charged these mornings make me feel.  I knew I’d always loved my Wednesday mornings at the school, but I love every day of my life and maybe I assumed Wednesdays felt especially fine because we were half-way through the week.  

As the weeks of my life go by faster and faster, I feel like I’m finally learning to enjoy the everyday moments, to be more present.  A habit Todd’s been after me to embrace for years.  And so, instead of trying to hurry through and get home to my list, I’ve simply set aside this time in the library each week to spend on whatever chores need some attention.  I’ve started to just savor these hours as I’ve shelved books and contended with the glue on my fingers.  I’ve basked in the school scents and sounds.  The familiar tone of different ages and grades.  And noticed that I’ve felt something familiar and comfortable every week working in the library.  It took me some time to place it.  And then I realized our little school library and my tiny contributions were coalescing into feelings of inspiration.  I realized my few hours here and there weren’t lost as the work would inevitably unravel during the week, but they were actually an investment.  They were persuading me to elevate myself, to seek learning, to revel in how much knowledge there is to absorb.

And I couldn’t help but think about other activities or moments that inspire me.  Occasions in nature and my hours at church came to mind.  But there have been times when it’s been as simple as a free concert downtown or a even an Amish quilt show, a college dance performance or a particularly beautiful and tasty dinner Todd’s made. 

I used to leave dance recitals or concerts feeling a little gloomy.  (Is that the word?)  Maybe more like amazed, but also discouraged that I had so little to offer in the talent department.  Maybe I felt less gifted, lacking, compared to the performers.  But I sense I was missing the real message intended for me as a member of the audience.

From wood working displays in the 4-H booth at the fair to the bagpipe band back in high school, from BYU Ballroom dance exhibitions to seeing my friends’ sewing projects in their homes, from being surrounded with a million books I’ll never get around to reading to being encased in a spirit of peace at church that I’m not sure I’ll ever comprehend, I’ve been inspired nearly every day of my life by the people I’ve known and the experiences I’ve had.  It’s just that the older I get, the more determined I seem to be getting.  Instead of pitifully thinking I have nothing to offer, I’m realizing it’s up to me to get up from my concert seat and do something.  I might not ever be fantastic at anything, but I figure none of these displays is meant to make us feel inferior.  Certainly they are intended to uplift us and to encourage us to share our own talents, to look for new ways to express ourselves, to try something out of our comfort zone, to focus on what makes us unique.

I admire this about my husband, who is constantly trying out new hobbies.  Lately he’s been whittling spoons and bowls.  I love how my daughter likes dabbling in water color, a hobby she simply wanted to try.  They remind me it starts with a desire, finding an interest, and in simply starting. I don’t have any fancy talents that I could display in a building or perform on a stage, but now when I see others who do, I feel a spark of excitement instead of sadness.  I’m encouraged to seek out my own abilities and interests instead of worrying that they won’t be show-worthy or that I’m too old to start now or that there is too much to learn.

So as I head to the library again this week, I’ll be bringing back some of the books I’ve borrowed and I know I’ll take another armload home.  I’m not an intellectual by any stretch, nor do I ever expect to be; but I relish reading and learning.   Neither am I a scriptorian, but I can keep asking questions and digging for answers; and I know I’m stronger than I used to be.  I’m not a musician or artist or dancer or even really a writer, but people who are inspire me and I’m optimistic that I can develop whatever embryo of a talent I have with a little perseverance just as they have.  Whether I’m at a concert or a rodeo, the library or a church service, relaxing on a log by a fire when we’re camping or sitting in a squished fold-up seat in a college basketball arena, I know now to expect to be changed.  For good.  That these simple times away from regular life will continue to spur me to action.  No longer do I leave in shame, but emboldened with purpose.

For mom

I totally get it.  A few weeks back I realized our mom’s 70th birthday was coming up and, like most of her holidays, I had no ideas for her.  But then I did.  I knew, as well as I know myself, she’d like something written.  I’m always telling my kids, just write me a note; they’re my favorite gifts bar none.  Little kid notes on the chalkboard, construction paper with hand drawn pictures of mom and me, booklets with lined paper on one side to tell about the picture they drew, the little cards with prompts to write what what they like about mom, letters from our missionary son, a random card from my teen daughter.  I’ll take it all.  And I’ll tuck them away in my old-fashioned suitcase from earlier last century.  Knowing her, I had a hunch that’s all she’d really want anyway.  Easy peasy.

Until I realized the problem, even for someone who will write about anything.  Once I come up with an idea, I can run with it; but where to start, how to sum up a life, a relationship with one of the most important people in my whole life, what slant to take, how to be concise but thorough? I’ve put it off for so long partly because of unanswered questions like these, and partly because I’ve somehow plugged more things into my days than I’ve had time slots available lately.  But here we are, deadline looming, my thoughts a jumbled heap.

I just hope she realizes that the time she’s been on the earth hasn’t just been a joy ride to see the sights, she’s made a significant impact on me and my sisters and our family, like most every mom I’ve ever known.

I see now why her head would bob come 8:30 or 9 at night as she sat at the table letting her nails dry.  I’ve been known to take naps at 7 or even 8 in the evening just to get over the last hump of the day.  We fall asleep at movies, we get up early, we hit the day running, and we peter out just after lunch time.  We need loads of sleep; I rarely get it, yet I love the way she’s always made it a high priority.  Even when I was growing up and she was working full-time, the house would mostly all get to bed around 9.  And she’s still that way.  Which I appreciate to no end when I go visiting; one thing I look forward to more than I should is going to bed early and getting the extra sleep that I so often go without.  Heavenly to just sneak downstairs and turn in early.  Just like her.

In a similar vein, she reminded me as a young mom to take care of myself.  She always told me it was up to me because “no one else will.”  She was talking more along the lines of pampering ourselves, taking time not only for sleep, but for our nails and hair and looking our best.  Which advice you know she takes to heart.  Obviously, I never completely adopted her stance and am still waiting to the nail fairy to swoop down, “Hon-ney!!! Look at those cuticles! Let’s go!”  She sets a standard that even after 44 years I fail to live up to, and yet it amuses me and inspires me to no end.  Everyone’s comment is, “Your mom is so beautiful!”  I already know.  I grew up with her, I love that she’s always made the effort to look her best.  I was always proud of that, that she took care of herself and made herself a priority.  Truly, who else is going to care about you more than you?  Great advice.

Along those lines, always making me chuckle, is her line, “You don’t have to be rich, you just have to look rich.”  I always found that rather shallow advice until I realized she just wasn’t using a word choice that resonated with me.  A simple swap and I figured she was telling us even if we didn’t have a lot of money, we could make the most of what we have.  She taught me to buy quality clothing, to wear colors that work best, to “look presentable” when we’d go shopping, to dress nice when traveling on an airplane (it’s true, you really have no idea who you’ll end up meeting), to be modest, to be appropriate, that classic never goes out of style, and to adorn with essential jewels; in her case: the bolder the silver, the better.  And to always, always, always have your lipstick.

I’m impressed by the way she surrounds herself with other forms of beauty as well, from the music she plays and the movies and books she entertains herself with to the furnishings and wall touches in her home and the way she dresses and does her hair.  I love that she’s always dressed and decorated in her own style, never really heeding trends simply because something’s said to be “in style.”  As a result, she’s always been in style because she’s classy and classic.  Her ways lift me and make me want to try a little harder to embellish my life with the beauty she invites into hers.

Her commitment to looking her best is more than skin deep, although she did always tell me to start young so I wouldn’t have wrinkles.  She walks on her treadmill and she’s always up for an early morning walk around the graveyard when I visit.  I love her pantry and nearly-empty fridge when I go see her, yet it’s hardly enough sustenance in my book: raspberries and grapes, bananas, yogurts, a few eggs.  And plenty of baking supplies and chocolates.  I think she subscribes to the philosophy that if we eat well and exercise, there’s always room for a little treat.

Speaking of food, she taught me strictly by example that dinner mattered.  That Sunday dinners were special and worth the effort.  Even working full-time, that was just a given.  They weren’t fancy during the week, just normal stuff we all ate in the 70s and 80s, but Sundays she went all out and we ate till we were stuffed.  All my friends still think she is a great cook, and I love it when she cooks for us.  It still feels like home.  I love that she instilled in me a desire to cook for my family, to carry on the tradition of reuniting over the dinner table each night.  A small tradition with proven carry-over.  She always told me three things worth splurging on were air conditioning, heating, and good healthy food.  (However, I’ll admit the only one I agree with her about is the food.)

She taught me the merits of old-fashioned manners, from using our forks “right” to bringing hostess gifts.  She’s always been generous, from making sure there’s plenty of food when we have people for dinner to buying thoughtful gifts.  I never remember her telling us about thank you notes, we just somehow picked up on the idea that they were part of the gifting process.  I’m continually grateful that she instilled that habit in us.

I love how she didn’t fuss over things she simply couldn’t get to.  I don’t recall a single photo album in our home, just that huge box of random shots, an occasional Polaroid mixed in, like the prize at the bottom of a Cracker Jacks box.  She didn’t save special baby clothes or art work or other memorabilia; she left that up to us.  There just wasn’t room in our apartment for the unnecessary, so if we wanted it, we had to store it.  Love it.  Practical, realistic.  I know we’re not the most sentimental women around, but I’ve discovered that I feel less anxious when I have less stuff.  I have loads of good memories, like the photos in the big box; I just pick one out every now and then.  I don’t need to feel the little dress I wore when I was three, the pictures suffice.  I know we might be weird, but if you know my mom, you know we don’t care what people think.

I love that she read constantly.  She’s like me in that we teeter between novels and non-fiction, but we especially love biographies.  She’d drive down the street on a Sunday afternoon to read in her car alone.  I guess she felt she needed that after working a full week in the bank.  I likewise look for pockets in my day to read simply for pleasure, taking a cue from her.  She pored over the newspaper and continues to pile up her papers until she can get to them.  She loves being informed and one of my favorite tidbits from her life is the way she constantly tries to improve her vocabulary.  I bought her a dictionary one Christmas and it sits right next to her computer.  I guess that’s why I have a little book for all the words I should (but don’t) know with their definitions written beside them.  I’m impressed that she does this after all these years.

I love how tidy she is, her mantra always, “Clean as you go.”  I hardly ever remember to keep up and am usually left with an unsightly kitchen, but she still inspires me and I see the wisdom of her ways.  Except for her paper stacks, there is a place for everything in her home.  Little dividers in every drawer, boxes for bows and ribbon, special plastic bags for her blankets and beach towels.  She makes me rethink how I could corral my items more efficiently and I can’t bear the thought of throwing out the zippered bags that bedding comes in, thanks to her.  She’s still cleaning houses and thrills at the chance to clean my blinds with me when she comes to visit.  My sisters and I have spent a lot of time over the years cleaning all sorts of houses with her; I don’t know if it’s in our cells or just habit we’ve picked up from her, but we’re all pretty into our cleaning and organizing even though none of us can compare with her.

I can’t help but notice how she interacts with others, best friends with her seat-mate after an hour-long flight, a warm leader managing branches of the bank in California, a grandma to all the kids she’s cleaned for over the years, a friend to my friends—sending them Thinking of You cards and letters and texts across the miles.  I love how she isn’t desperate; she accepts when people aren’t interested and she moves on, something I’ve grappled with over the years; I admire her confidence.  To me, she’s a comfortable mix between an open novel and a locked diary, depending on your relationship with her and if she can trust you.  I can appreciate that and I guard my heart more than I used to, thanks to her.  And I’m more willing to let people in than when I was younger, also thanks to her.

I love her no-nonsense approach to living, her guilt-free attitude.  She just shrugs and says, “I did the best I could.”  She doesn’t stress about a little indiscretion here and there, which amuses me and makes her laugh because in some ways we’re just so different in our thinking.  She’s always telling me, “It’s all about how you treat people,” which mantra I wholeheartedly embrace.  It’s just interesting how we can be so much alike and so different at the same time.  She makes me think about my motives, and I feel so much lighter when I admit I have done what I could, there’s only so much of me, only so much energy I can expend before I need to refuel.  I appreciate that she knows her limits; it’s help me find and protect mine.  And to worry way, way less about the things that don’t matter, allowing me so much more freedom for the things that do.

In a million ways her example lingers in my heart and mind even though we’re miles apart.  I imagine her in my kitchen and the vision propels me to be a little neater.  I remember her reading to my kids and I want to hold on to the tradition myself.  I think of her stacks of newspapers that she saves and eventually gets around to (it usually takes a road trip to fully catch up) and I likewise look forward to traveling partially for that very same reason.  I think of the way she puts herself together and I try to instill that care in my own kids, like dressing a little nicer when we’re going somewhere for dinner.  I think of how hard she works when she’s awake and how deeply she rests when she’s asleep.  I see a little bit of her every day whether it’s because I’m reading or enjoying a show with my feet up, savoring the sweetness of whatever delectable treat I’m in the middle of, or worrying less about the shoulds and instead living according to my own dictates.  Because of her, I see ways we can care about people all around us and try to act on those impulses the way she would.  I can hardly let a friend’s birthday pass without acknowledging it; I can’t help but think of her mailing shortbread to a friend in San Diego and a blouse to a friend in Ireland.  Her ways have leeched into my soul until I hardly know where she left off and where I began.  In so many ways she’s taught me that every life is worth examining, every one has a story, and we can learn something from every one we encounter.  But especially from a parent, and most especially from a mother.