Friends

I continue to be pleasantly surprised during my conversations with a grandpa I’ve been getting to know.  He had a stroke several months ago, but is pretty lucid still, and he loves to talk, so we just visit.  I have a book I bring with me that has like 3,000 question prompts. I ask him all sorts of random things, and he’s such a good sport. He never remembers who I am and always wants to know what my research is for.  I’m mindful of his energy and offer to give him an out by asking if he’s tired and needs to rest, but he always wants to keep talking, which amuses me.  But what really gets me is how alike we are.  Everything from roller coasters (they scare us to death), musicals (I pulled up a whole list on my phone and we talked about them all), what value we think is the most important in society (honesty), what class we hated most in school (p.e.), proudest accomplishment (our families), favorite season (fall), to what he likes to do fo fun (hike in national parks and good conversation—what?!).  I have just been fascinated during the weeks that we’ve gotten to know each other how similar we are despite our age difference (he’s got to be around 80), gender, religions (he was a pastor at some point), time period of growing up, educational and employment backgrounds and obvious life experience.  I honestly feel like I relate better with him than most of the people in my life.

I feel this way with a couple of other unsuspecting relationships.  At face value we’re nothing alike.  But the more I spend time with and get to know this handful of varied women, I’m seeing that I have way more in common with and see the world much more like they do than the usual suspects in my life.  They like to garden and make bread and other food from scratch and use lots of vegetables and store their little food items in jars and enjoy doing puzzles and engaging in good conversation.  Camping, nature, frugality, pets and animals, not concerned about germs or high fashion or how their lives appear to others, on and on.  I had no idea I would come to love these women so much.  We were all thrown together in a pot, just interesting that the ones I thought I’d have more of a connection with, not really.  And these I assumed would just be superficial friends have wiggled their way into my heart by just being themselves and by us getting to know each other.

I was fascinated with my reaction the other day at a group gathering.  Usually I’m pretty comfortable with whatever these days, but this was a smallish gathering of like 10, and about half of the women were new to me.  I recognized that old sinking shy feeling from jr. high and got my food and retreated to a hide out on the couch with my old stand-bys instead of gathering at the table with the newbies.  They were so colorful and fashionable and young and talkative and comfortable with each other; the foods they brought were delicious and pretty and so out of my element.  I felt old and frumpy and grayish, not wanting to expend the energy to engage.  But we gathered to discuss in the living room as a group and after an hour or so, I relented and relaxed.  I couldn’t help myself.  They were great.  Yes, they were still confident and self-assured, but they were so warm and accepting and easy to be with.  We laughed together, obviously we all have a love for reading and ideas and discussing, they were just genuine and lovely. I silently asked for forgiveness for misjudging them and for closing myself off.  I think I already love them.  I don’t know why I felt resistant to new friends.  We can always use a friend, and it is so enriching to have a variety of women in our lives.  A valuable and humbling reminder/lesson.

I have found this to be true with nearly every single person I’ve encountered.  Yes, some I connect better with, even though sometimes at face value you wouldn’t think we would given our apparent differences.  But I have never truly gotten to known a person without developing a love for her.  Once I know her stories, what her passions and worries are, how she grew up, what her life has been like, it’s not even a question, I always feel love and compassion.  Though I’d like to get to the point where I feel that way without the benefit of having heard her story.  I think the older we get, the better we are at assuming everyone has had a rough time and is going through hard stuff; in that case, the older we get, the better we should be at loving.  All I can say is that I’m better at it than I used to be. :)

A young friend and I were just sitting in my living room one late afternoon this week and she asked about friends, confessing that she finds navigating friendships to be hard and that sometimes she feels like just giving up. So I asked her what she wanted from a friend and expected from her friendships.  And then she asked me the same thing.  I thought I’d have a quick and easy answer.  Not at all.  After thinking for a minute, I told her that, honestly, I feel like I can love anyone.  But when it comes to people I can actually trust, the list is super short.

I had to think a little more and was kind of surprised that what I wanted from a friend boiled down to just a handful of items.  Trustworthy tops the list obviously.  Respect for differences is huge too. But then dependability—like they’ll follow through when we plan something, that they’ll show up in a supportive way.  And a little give and take helps too so it’s not all just me and so I know they’re interested and invested.  But honestly I’m good with it being a little more lopsided, I have loads of time and energy to devote to girlfriends so it definitely doesn’t have to be equal. And I certainly don’t need to be called, texted, or coddled all the time.  I don’t need gifts or for people to do things for me or to go shopping with girlfriends. I’m happy with lunch every now and then, good conversation on our couches every so often. I’m good with weeks or months or even years going by; if I’m confident in our friendship, then I don’t require a whole lot of maintenance.  I will be a loyal friend forever, and I will give a million chances.  But I can also take a hint. :)

I realized, as I was talking with this little sister friend of mine, that the main thing I value in a true friend is connection, how open we can be with our hearts, how safe I feel.  And that’s where trust really comes in to play.  I am open to a fault—about things that I don’t care that everyone knows about.  But I am very guarded about the things closest to my heart and am very, very selective about who I share these things with.  I know it’s not really a gold standard, but I have noticed that I feel closest and most connected with my friends I can both laugh heartily with and cry with.  I have had experiences where I’ve just met a woman and within five minutes we’re sharing an intimate moment and one or both of us is tearing up.  And others I’ve known for years and years and I would never consider us to be close at all.  I think it’s vulnerability, opening our hearts, being authentic and real and genuine and imperfect and admitting we have no idea, this is what I’m looking for in a close friend.  This friend was asking why it’s so hard for women to do this, and I suggested that so many of us are afraid to look like we’re floundering or that we don’t have it all together.  Or maybe some just aren’t into that kind of sharing.  Or don’t want to invest the time; they have their families.  Or, as she offered, maybe we’re not the kind of person she wants as a friend, fair enough.  She also said she just knows she will be disappointed by some of her friends and she’s good with that.  Interesting observation and discussion.

Like I said, I believe with all my heart that we can love (most?) everyone.  It obviously gets easier as we get to know people for real, and it’s especially nice when we find common ground—which is inevitable the more we really talk and share.  I’ve found there are potential friendships everywhere, sometimes in the most unlikely places and people—we just have to get beyond what we think we see.  But, from my experience, I just feel that to have really deep, close friendships, we have to expose ourselves, to open our hearts, to respectfully share our innermost feelings, to be safe and kind and trustworthy.  I don’t think it’s a lot to ask from a friend.  But it might be a lot to ask from ourselves.  Which is where we need to start if we want that kind of friend.

Celebrating

So I guess it was five years ago this week that my cancer was removed.  I see friends posting these occasions with pink ribbon banners like it’s a birthday party.  And rightly so, now that I think about it, marking a second-chance at life, a rebirth.  Definitely.

I was just at my oncologist’s office this past Friday, and she wants to see me every three months instead of every six. She scheduled a pelvic ultrasound.  After five years on Tamoxifen, uterine cancer risk goes up; and, given my circumstances, she wants to be aggressively careful. The only ultrasounds I’ve had have been to see our babies, so this was only anxiety-inducing and not nearly as fun.  But it was sobering to think about why I was lying on her table.

I remember bits and pieces about those early days.  I lifted weights hours before my surgery, knowing it’d be my last time for a few weeks, and I washed with my special surgical soap.  I was blissfully calm in the little pre-op room, fully intact and unaware of how permanently the next few hours would change my body.  I remember waking myself up from anesthesia by snorting and seeing Kim and Tom beside me.  I remember putting on my lipstick the next morning and sitting up to write some notes.  I remember hobbling around the airport to get my mom and shopping with everyone for six hours a few days later with drains dangling from so many parts of my body.  I remember how sore it was to move about on the couch as I tried to sleep, how I missed being with Todd in our bed, how I hated missing fall, and of course how chopped up I looked.  Funny how I forget so many things these days and yet parts of that experience from five years ago are etched so clearly in my mind.

And so while I know most women celebrate their pink anniversaries, the actual day just came and went without me even noticing it. And maybe because I still struggle with survivors guilt and the low-threat nature of my case that I feel like I don’t have the same right as others to claim it.

And yet it’s not like I can really relegate it to the back of my mind because I’m still living with it.  Within four days, I had three appointments related to it.  I’m still getting deep-tissue massage a couple times a month to deal with the scar tissue from the surgeries.  I’m still stretching my chest and back with my weights and big bouncy ball.  I still wake up from my sleep from pain when I turn from my stomach to my back.  I still try to hide from Todd and myself all the time and am so sad that things have changed.  I still mourn the loss of what used to be, and I continue to feel ugly and broken.  But yes, also alive and well.  And so, as much as possible, I really do put it in the back of my mind.  But my massage appointments come around pretty fast.  And every May and November I find myself in that familiar office downtown getting my breasts patted down by my oncologist, who assesses my lymph nodes and asks probing questions to be sure.  I take the little while pill with my others every night and refill my prescription at Target every month, so it’s still part of my life even as I try to pretend it isn’t.

And maybe it’s because it’s just one of a million things I’ve “survived” over the course of my life that I view it so nonchalantly.  Do I keep track of them all and declare each day of the year a celebration for every hardship I’ve overcome?  Good grief, I can’t even keep track of birthdays.

Is cancer the heaviest trial?  I think for many people, yes, probably.  But maybe only maybe.  What about a broken heart?  Who says that doesn’t have the potential to kill a person?  What about loss of a love or loved one or a dream or a life you thought you were meant to live? Admittedly, I’ve barely had any really hard things in life.  But not one of us isn’t jostled around and bruised just by playing in the game.

So while I’m beyond grateful for the five more years I’ve been granted, I simply don’t see November 4th as one of my most life-changing anniversaries.  I guess if I had to celebrate a cancer anniversary, I’d choose whatever day it was that we found out.  And more specifically, I’d choose the few minutes in our tiny bathroom when we just hugged and cried.  Because it was then that our lives really did change.  That was when I told Todd that it would all work out.  Even if I died or went bald.  This is the day I knew my faith—our faith—was solid.  I told Todd that if God thought our family needed to grow and this was the way He wanted us to learn and be stronger, then I could accept that.  I admitted I still secretly hoped it didn’t have to go that way, but I also told him I would be ok with it.  That is still one of my most tender memories of the whole ordeal.  And while I would never think of celebrating it, it is probably my most cherished.

I wonder if we all have days like this that are more worthy of celebration than the anniversary of something as big as a surgery to declare us cancer-free.  Making it through a surgery does not always mean that the cancers in our lives are gone and that we are guaranteed to live.  Because living is more than simply breathing and existing from day to day.  And the cancers we harbor in our hearts are far more debilitating and deadly than those that can weaken our shells.

Can’t we, instead, decide to feel victorious all along the way, with every step of progress we make?  Doesn’t it feel better to celebrate someone’s life and all she taught you and the love you shared rather than her death and your loss?  Wouldn’t you rather not worry about the actual day of your divorce and instead focus on the person you’ve become since?  It just seems more positive and uplifting to focus on the good that’s come of a sad or hard experience instead of letting a past date haunt us or define us.

I wonder if there are days far more meaningful than even our wedding days, for instance.  Maybe it’s several years in and you realize you’re more committed and in love than you were even all dressed up and fancy, oblivious to the hard times to come.  Maybe it’s the day you decided to stay instead of giving up, the day you decided to truly give your whole heart to your spouse, knowing what marriage entails and how hard it will likely continue to be. While I’m sort of amazed at how fast time has gone when our wedding anniversary comes around each year, honestly I feel like celebrating more every time Todd and I make amends and connect again after a tense upset.  I love the ordinary days when I’m aware of how far we’ve come and how much we’ve gone through and how close we’ve grown.  Those ordinary days feel triumphal.

People ask about our funny little house all the time. I suppose we could have a special dinner every year to commemorate the day we closed on it, but honestly we feel a deeper sense of accomplishment with each finished project along the way.  And what I celebrate even more is when someone tells me she feels comfortable here, that it feels like home, or that it just feels good.  No flooring or painting job comes close.  So no, the closing date means nothing; what our home has come to mean to us and how it’s been used makes me happier than even thinking about the day when we will finally own it outright 100 years from now.

Even birthdays are less significant than what happens between them.  I feel a lot of pressure to celebrate birthdays in an expectant way, and I’m always secretly glad when they pass.  And obviously it’s important that we acknowledge these occasions, for sure.  But I derive much more joy and feel even more celebratory in those ordinary times when we’ve come through the other end of a trial, when a child starts to say he loves us for real, when we see evidence of the person they’re becoming, when we overcome a misunderstanding, when I note what it really means to be a year older and wiser.  Those are the times when I feel victorious as a family and a person and like throwing a party.

While obviously I’m all in when it comes to acknowledging special days and wins, I think there is merit in noticing the small successes that happen in everyday life, in between the anniversaries.  I also don’t like being tethered to events, especially the sad ones.  I’d rather center my heart on what’s happened since and focus on the growth that it encouraged.

And so, yes, it’s a milestone, no doubt.  Five years is five years without finding more cancer.  And five years is five more years with my people.  I’m not saying it’s not.  But if all we do is commemorate a day and realize we aren’t different—and better—versions of ourselves because of it, what are we celebrating anyway?

A life worthy of recollection

I can’t help but reflect on the life of an older friend and her family as we say goodbye to a beloved wife, mother, grandmother, aunt, sister, and friend this week.

I guess I’ve known her and her family for nearly 20 years now.  There were times when we’d sit in my friend’s backyard when we had gatherings and dinners, back when she was a little more spry and communicative.  I don’t remember many of details of these occasions, just that she had MS, which limited her in some capacities.  She wasn’t always in a wheelchair, so I didn’t know what her abilities were, how much she could do.  Isn’t that how it is?  We try to draw conclusions by what we see overtly, rarely making a correct assessment.  I knew one man growing up who was completely engulfed by MS and incapacitated, while my teenaged best friend has lived with it unseemingly for over a decade.  I was tentative with Anna (and people I didn’t know well, regardless of their physical abilities) so I tended to shy away from greeting it and her much, uncertain as I was.  I was preoccupied with my young family at these gatherings.  Or maybe with just myself and my insecurities and inability to know how to be.  I’m afraid I retreated and quietly refused to engage as much as I could have.

But my memories of Anna always include Kim.  Kim is Anna’s daughter, but has also spent many years as her caregiver.  A common phrase was, “I have to take care of my mom” when there was a conflict in schedules or we wanted to get together.  It was a regular refrain, just as much a part of Kim as Dr. Pepper and canned frosting.  I never thought anything about it really.  And how could I?  I had no frame of reference, no context for anything like caring for a parent.  And, like I said, I was too preoccupied with my own self that it never occurred to me to open my eyes any further.

Over the years, this family became an extension of our family.  I didn’t see Carl or Anna very often, but they were there in the background, familiar characters in the story of Kim’s daily life.  Somehow, though, her parents seemed to know who we were too and welcomed us into their hearts any time our paths crossed.  Their warmth and acceptance were calming and we began to slowly know each other better.

It wasn’t until my kids were quite a bit older that I began to peek up from the mess and chaos I perpetually found myself in that I had the wherewithal to pay attention to others.

And maybe this corresponded with when Kim went back to school.  I couldn’t fathom how she managed to care for her own family as well as her mom (and sometimes additional parents) on top of her homework and studying.  I just knew she was used to taking care of her mom and that she seemed like Super Woman, able to juggle everything without a blink.

I always admired the respect she had for her mom and the positive light she portrayed her in.  Of course we giggled about her affinity for the mall and her buys on QVC; I knew her mom liked to go out to eat and to be with the family.  And although I’m sure it was taxing to make time in her schedule for such things, Kim always seemed happy to comply and to spend time with her mom.

I’m sure there was a time of grief—and perhaps it’s been ongoing—for the more traditional experiences they never had as mother and daughter.  Those thoughts made me feel a little wistful for Kim and I felt sad for her missed opportunities I felt were necessary.

But over the years I’ve come to realize what had really been going on.  I’ve noticed how much time Kim has been able to spend with her mom, probably more than almost anyone else I know.  Not the once a year fatastical trips around the world where the focus is outward and extravagant, but in everyday, close-up kinds of ways that most of us will never take advantage of.

I never actually thought about the care Kim’s given her mom until not too long ago.  I had no idea what it entailed; and, to be honest, I’m still not sure exactly what all she did.  I know she got her ready for bed and tended to her personal needs, but we’ve never really talked much more about it.

Kim’s not only been caregiver to her mom, but she seems to be the one in charge of the family.  Not entirely or officially, but the gathering place, the one the others turn to, the one who knows what’s going on and who seems to make arrangements.  And that could totally just be from my vantage point as the outside friend.  But sometimes the middle child acts as peacemaker and the connector among family; and, in my mind, she starred in that role.

But as I’ve spent more time around aging people, it’s hit me how devoted Kim has been, how much patience it takes to check in regularly, how much energy it takes to sit quietly and to listen and to consider ways to increase comfort or to anticipate needs.  She is a marvel, and I’ve commented so many times over the years that maybe she should’ve been a nurse instead of a teacher.  And we’ve laughed at times when her home became such a center of convalescing that if she had just one more patient she would have needed a license.

Looking back, maybe as we would all conclude, obviously I should’ve visited more.  But that’s a lesson to apply to future friends because regret should do nothing more than propel us to better action ahead.  And yet I’m grateful for even the sparse interactions we had.  I couldn’t imagine my busy and full and varied life’s activities and wants crammed into a shared room with just a tv for company.  Visiting her humbled me immediately and I felt almost ashamed of any complaints I’d voiced recently, kind of like a confessional.  I realized how much I had as far as material comforts as well as diversions, and I vowed to appreciate it all more once I left.  It was easy to let her talk, to listen to what she had bottled up, to ask questions about all the characters in her life’s story, to notice the family pictures collaged on her wall, to determine what made her proud in life.  She never spoke without referring to her family, her kids and grandkids, and of course Carl, the love of her life.  She would tell me the story of how they met, how long it’s been that they’ve cared for each other, and how devoted Carl’s been to meet her every day for lunch.  The love they share is evident and palpable, something to envy in this day of disposable relationships.  Her oral memories became my pep talk, and she was my cheerleader, subtly reminding me to take care of my own people so I too could look back on my life with them with fondness and satisfaction that I’d loved fully. 

It’s interesting, at funerals, as we reflect on the people who have come into our lives.  Many times I haven’t really known the person and as we spend an hour talking and sharing, I’m always regretful that I didn’t make more of an effort to become better acquainted.  And I end up wishing I’d invested a little more, for I realize I missed out, that these are amazing people, that everyone has a story that we assume we already know.  But I’ve learned that we can learn from absolutely everyone, that when we learn to invest and come in close, we are taught and inspired and better off for the time we spent together.  I’ve also come to believe that we are in one another’s lives on purpose.  Maybe we wonder why or we suspect that it’s all just coincidence, or, more likely, we don’t give it a thought.  But maybe we should pay attention to the people in our circles, in our lives—even those on the periphery.  Because maybe there are others like Anna—and Kim—who are meant to be right where they are, to enhance and enrich and to teach us in specific ways we weren’t aware we needed.

And so I’m grateful for this lovely lady, full of spunk and life and honesty, who opened her frail and failing arms to me, just another friend of her daughter.  She made me feel like she wanted me there, that she was glad I’d come, even though our connection was a tiny thread.  She taught me to find the good, to open my heart a little more to the potential friends in my path, to honor motherhood and marriage, to prioritize family, to share my faith, and to appreciate the tiniest slivers of joy around us.  While I’m sad for this part of Kim’s life to change, I’m so grateful for the example she’s shown of unselfish love, devotion, and long-term care.  I’m a more aware person, and I hope to become more thoughtful as a result, because I’ve been a bystander to this most loving of mother-daughter relationships. 

Drowning in the past

I think Avery was trying to persuade me to do something water-related this past summer; I can’t remember the circumstances exactly.  But I fell back to my pat-answer excuse as to why there was no way I’d be able to do that.  Forgetting that she’d heard it all before, I told her the story of when I was young.

I’d been on a little blow-up row boat in the San Diego bay, just paddling along, doing just fine.  Till I was done.  I stepped out of the raft and, instead of landing on the soft salt-water flooring, I became completely immersed, way over my head, deep (it felt).  I floundered and panicked, not knowing how to swim or how to help myself.  I was terrified and alone, unsure what would become of me.  Thankfully, my uncle visiting from Scotland noticed my plight from the shore and came to my rescue, pulling me from my peril.  I simply explained this to Avery, “I almost drowned when I was little, and I’ve been nervous around water ever since.”

To which she replied, “So did I.”

Taken completely off-guard, I realized she was right!  I had totally forgotten that.  We were staying at a hotel with some friends and were swimming with the kids in a great pool with a waterslide.  They were pretty young and needed to be caught at the end of their rides, which we were happy to do.  But at one point we turned away, distracted, and forgot to look for them as they took another ride; maybe we didn’t realize they had gone back up.  Callum and Avery were together, with no one to catch them at the end.  So when they went under without us to bring them up, they panicked, petrified, submersed, unable to swim.  Avery, as the big sister, was doing her best to hold Callum up while she stayed under the water.  She told me later she remembered reading some quote on one of our walls or the fridge about putting our family first.  So she took it upon her to save him above herself. You can only imagine the flood of emotions that surged through me when she told me that.  When we realized they were struggling, we were stunned and terrified, not knowing what exactly had happened.  When we finally reached them and got them out, Avery was blue.  They were fine, thank goodness, but everyone was shaken.  Rightfully so.  I felt intense anguish, and a pit in my stomach formed.  Whenever they mentioned it over the years, I felt that same shame, regret, sorrow and pain.  They’d almost drowned.  On my watch.

So when she matter-of-factly told me she’d experienced the same thing I had and I noticed she was happily moving forward in spite of it, I felt a little abashed.  Then humbled.  She was right. She had almost drowned.  But she chooses to leave that experience in the past rather than cart it behind her, letting it weigh her down, whenever she has an opportunity to enjoy a new water activity.  She is not tethered to her fear; that event doesn’t define her as mine does.

Ever since that morning on the bay so many years ago, I’ve hesitated around deep water.  Yes, I boogie-boarded throughout my youth, but I’ve felt uncomfortable on boats ever since and avoid any water craft and activity related to deep water if I can.  That tiny scare all those years ago has effected so much of what I’ve allowed myself to do.  I’ve never been water skiing or off a diving board.  I hate going under water at all; instead of feeling free, I feel claustrophobic, like it’s closing in on me.  Yes, I learned to swim and spent much of my summers as a young girl in San Diego in pools and the ocean, but I’ve shied away as much as possible over the years.  And I’ve always hated watching my own kids out on the lake on rafts, afraid they’d endure the same trauma I had or, worse, that I’d have to go rescue them.

But Avery’s observation was an awakening for me, now in my late 40s, maybe 35 years later.  She is so right.  Why do I allow one instance to limit me and to influence so many of my decisions?  Why have I not filed that memory away properly instead of leaving it on my desk as a constant reminder that water can potentially be dangerous?

As I’ve thought about my wise little girl and her confidence, I’m so relieved.  And proud.  She is not defined by her past.  She refuses to let something like that change her future or what she wants to do.  And I’ve wondered how many of us in the world are like her.  Or like me.

I hate to admit that I’ve let this affect me for so long.  And, to be honest, I doubt I’ll ever fully embrace water fun.  But I know I’m not alone.  So many people play the victim card and refuse to get back in the water after a traumatic event.  It’s comfortable to stay on the shore, to slap down the explanation about our pasts as an excuse to sit this part of life out, to refuse to engage because of fear.

We’ve all been hurt, so cliche, such a catch-all phrase; but truly we have.  We’ve endured break-ups, rejections, losses, misunderstandings, being called out, fails, not being chosen, health crises, lost hopes, being misjudged, whatever; it’s all part of the human experience.  But why do we sometimes insist on hanging on to some of these negative experiences and weave them into our beliefs about ourselves and what we’re capable of?

My daughter’s quick retort caused me to reflect.  Are there other pieces of my life I’ve decided about based on past experiences?

I remember being judged as a younger person as being self-righteous and stuck-up and shy.  Tough labels to overcome.  I was so insecure and inward-thinking.  I always felt so un-cool, not athletic in the least, unsure if I had any talents—certain that I’d missed that line.  I could definitely produce supporting details for each of those bullets if I were writing an English essay.

But some people I know have experienced genuine hardships—real or contrived.  They may harbor a word to encompass what they’ve gone through: abandonment, rejection, or abuse maybe.  But the question that comes to mind is, what good is that doing?  To stifle our progression simply because we’re too stubborn to relegate earlier life events to the past seems counterproductive.  It’s as if we’ve built a shrine and are continuing to collect relics to place at its base as penance or like we’re creating a case and are constantly looking for supporting evidence for our spiral notepad.  Which, by the way, we will always find.  We see what our brain tells us to look for.

Just an interesting observation, this interchange with Avery. I’ve been asking myself some hard questions as a result of her comment and am encouraged by her no-nonsense, forward-thinking approach to life.  And while I may or may not decide to don a suit and certify as a scuba instructor anytime soon, I’m anxious to see how else I’ve been subconsciously limiting myself simply because of past negative experiences—actual or imagined.

A season without sports

I just can’t help but wonder how we got here.  And if here is a good place to be.  I wonder what we’ve given up, what we’re trading to be here. Not that it’s necessarily all bad.  I just wonder if we ever stop to think about it.

Super sensitive topic, I hesitate and delete and try again and erase and pause and pick it up later.  I hate the idea of hurting anyone’s feelings, and I’m aware that I’m definitely in the minority. But I’ve thought about this for years now and I feel even more strongly about it than I did when we first made some changes back when the kids were in elementary school. Because I’ve seen so many kids grow up, I’ve talked to friends intimately and honestly, and I’ve heard regret. 

And possibly (probably?) I lean this way because the culture in our family isn’t super athletic.  But our background is similar to many of yours.  We did our share of sports growing up (tennis, track, softball, t-ball, swimming).  Our kids have all done sports.  They did community soccer from when they could barely dribble between cones.  We tried karate.  They’ve nearly all done cross country.  One did tennis.  A couple have done track.  A couple have done volleyball.  It’s not like we’ve been on the sidelines.  And yet I feel as if we may as well be up in the bleachers. 

I know I’m out there, but I’m just wondering aloud if we push competitive sports too much in our culture. And if there’s a way to invite them into our lives without letting them take over.  I wonder if we could go back to making it a little less heavy and intense.  What about just for fun? What about going back to being able to play a variety of sports because you didn’t have to specialize in just one?

Most of us are living pretty tightly scheduled.  With a bunch of kids of different ages, I get that.  I’m right there with you.  (Kind of.)  But I wonder if we can ask ourselves and our kids some questions when it comes to their activities.

How important is this to you?

What are we giving up as a family to make this work?

What do you see yourself doing with this in the future?

Do you have time for the really important things in life? Do we as a family?

Do you have time for people?

How’s your stress level? How are you emotionally?  How’s your school work?

Do you have unstructured time just to be?

Will this add joy and happiness to your life?  Is this fulfilling?

Could we achieve some of these objectives in other ways?

What are we learning from coaches that we couldn’t learn from parents?  In other ways?

Is what we’re sacrificing for sports worth it?

Are there other ways you might like to spend your time? Would you consider taking a break to try something new?

I guess I just hope we’re being mindful.  That we aren’t just signing up because we can.  Yes, we may have time.  Dad or mom is the coach, we’re doing it with them. Yes, it may be his God-given talent.  Yes, it may pay for college.  Yes, he’ll probably even play in the pros and yes, if we work hard enough she’ll have a shot at the Olympics.  Yes, we know how much you loved athletics when you were her age. Yes, there are a million great things we can learn from participating with a team and all that entails.  Yes, coaches can be awesome mentors.  Yes, teamwork, commitment, follow through, dependability, life skills, exercise, yes, yes, yes.  But is this the only way? And is it the best way?

What if we worked as a team in the garden? Or to build a greenhouse? Or to build someone else a house?  What if we didn’t have practice or a game and could just go up to the mountains all day Saturday or for family night picnic on a long summer evening? What if we just read a book in the hammock or played tennis with a sister since we have a free afternoon? What if we invited friends over and played volleyball or football in the yard?  What if we used our yards? What if we didn’t have to stick around all of June and could go camping instead? What if we didn’t have to fundraise? What if we used even a little bit of the thousands of dollars (hotels, gas, eating out, fees, equipment) and saved it for college in case, for some reason, she doesn’t end up getting a scholarship? Or used it to go on a family vacation that didn’t require sitting on a soccer field?  What if we didn’t have any idea what we’d do with the extra time and money but we just said no?  Just for a season.  Just to see what would happen.

To be agreeable, I’d say one sport and one music (or whatever works for each family) at a time is plenty for a kid.  Even at that, with several kids in a family, it can still get out of control.  And so maybe we need to ask some hard questions and make some sacrifices. Maybe we need to rotate who can do what each season.  At least while they’re young.  I love the athletics at the schools, with practice right after, close, convenient.  A few games or meets, a short season, doable, I’m in.  I’m also completely fine once they can drive themselves.  But I still think we need to be mindful.  And talk about the impact sports are having on our families.

And this is why I even broach such a controversial topic.  Because I feel like the world is already influencing our kids too much.

Schools have our kids all day and then sports seem to be taking up the afternoons and into the evenings and even spilling over into the weekends.  Social media seems to be filling in all the gaps.  I just feel like to be able to teach our kids and to influence them and to share our values we need to spend more time with them while at the same time allowing them time to figure things out on their own (with more unscheduled time away from teachers and coaches even).

I doubt anyone disputes the fact that our families require our attention.  Look around.  Families are flailing and failing.  And they desperately need us to be engaged in significant ways.  Our kids need us.  They don’t need good coaches more than they need parents.  They don’t just need other young people their age to keep them company, they need to develop strong relationships with their siblings and extended family. More than team spirit and comraderie with girls on the volleyball team, they need to forge lifelong connections with their brothers and sisters who are growing up and leaving home; these are the people who will carry them through life and who will always have their backs, not their teammates from jr. high.

And, to be honest, we simply don’t have time for it all.  I know we think this season is short.  This is temporary insanity.  We laugh knowingly when we talk about our schedules with other moms. It will be over in another month.  Until it’s time for the next sport.  But stop and really play it out.  When do we get back to real life? Are we tricking ourselves into thinking this isn’t real life?  That this isn’t how it always is, that this just happens to be an outlier, just one particularly hard, crazy season.

When we started soccer, it was an hour practice across the street from our house with a short game on Saturday.  When we started karate it was an hour a week.  But then it all started becoming more competitive and demanding and, without realizing it, we were sucked in to more than we signed up for.  What started out as a fun way to get some exercise and try something fun changed over time.

Are we splitting up the family to go to games in different parts of the region? Just to meet up again Sunday as we hit the new week?  When do we have dinner around the table as a family? Maybe Sunday? What about the other six days of the week? When do we have time for leisurely conversation about the mundane, the nuances of relationships the kids may be grappling with, the questions about life and their place in this world?  Yes, in the car.  Yes, while we eat our sandwiches on the sidelines.  Yes, I’ve been there; I lived there for years.  I know how it works.  And it does work.  To some extent.   I just wonder if we can give our kids something better.

Where will they learn the intricacies of working things out among peers without a coach to mitigate every conflict?  What happened to back yard play time or simple unstructured self-directed play with the inevitable, “I’m bored” whine? Why is that something we want to avoid? What if it actually propelled them to get creative and problem-solve and figure out their own fun without a paper schedule to dictate what they’re to do next? What would happen if we allowed or even encouraged loads of free time? What if they got a job? Worked more on family projects? Had more time to serve? Discovered a new hobby or learned a new skill? What if we simply cut back even a little?

What if we just talked about it as a couple? What do we really want for our kids? What role do we want sports to play in our family’s life? Are they enhancing our family life in long-term, valuable ways or are they depleting our already scarce resources of time and money and energy? Do we have time for the cornerstone activities: dinner, spiritual time, un-rushed time to talk, one-on-one one time with the kids, dates? And bring the kids into the conversation.  How do they see things? Is this how they want to play out the rest of high school? Do they have time for everything? Will these sacrifices matter long-term? Are they creating and keeping strong relationships outside of the team? Especially with their family? Will they regret how they spent these years?

And maybe the answer will be, We’re great! This is working for us! We’re thriving as a family, we’re fitting it all in, everyone’s good.  It’s crazy, but in a good way.  This is what our family does and we love it.  And that would be fabulous.  I know lots of families who somehow manage to do it all, kudos!  You’re the kind of family who could run circles around ours, you make me tired just listening to your schedule for the week, I’m in awe.  And if that’s you, carry on!

But I just wanted to at least bring it up.  I feel like our culture has swept us away in a sea of sports options starting very early and becoming ever more intense and involved, taking us away from other worthwhile pursuits and activities, which may include nothing more than a lazy afternoon on the grass and a pillow and her thoughts.  And if we’re not mindful and cognizant of the choices we’re making, we may inadvertently be missing out on other valuable, even critical, parts of life as a family.  I just wonder if someday, even many years from now as we look back on it all, we may have regrets about how we spent the tender, formative, and fleeting years of their childhoods.  And I wonder if we would've chosen a little differently if we had just given it a little thought.

Good, Better, Best talk by Dallin H. Oaks

Snapshots of contentment

A young friend was trying to paint a picture of one of those perfect days, “You know.  Like it’s 70 out and we’re just hanging out on the deck and the kids are playing.”  I knew exactly what she was talking about and agreed that those are some of my favorite days to be a part of.  In fact, I was feeling that way right there at my kitchen table on that lazy Friday afternoon as she was talking to me, early fall, big kids back in school, a breather from all the responsibilities, burdens, and cares we sling around with us as moms, a refreshing couple of hours, just the six of us, no place we needed to eminently rush off to, catching up from what we’d missed this summer, laughing, and just knowing each other.  Splendid.  Of course I know what she was talking about.

Her sentiment has stayed with me this week, and I’ve thought of so many other times where I’ve felt at one with the world and—as my sister always says—in my happy place.

And so I started making a list.  I thought I’d have a few highlights from my life, days that stood up a little taller than the rest.  But after two pages, I realized it’s just life. They’re everywhere.  And every day.

When we pay attention, when we put away our phones and decide to just take a mental shot instead, when we decisively allow ourselves this moment, it’s quite humbling to note how many opportunities we have to feel this quiet peace, this happy-place feeling.

It was noticing Andrew on the wooden swing under a leafed-out summer tree, just talking to his girlfriend in the warm afternoon away from the ears of his family, alone with her voice, warming my heart to its core.

It’s a little time-out, a pause in my day, when my mom or a sister or a friend calls. Sometimes I’ll just sit down at my special table, so happy for some time with my puzzle.  But I’ve also curled up in my plush, brick red chair my dad made years ago.  It’s textured, velvety stuff, still soft and caressing after all these years.  I’ve spent so many hours just cradled in its arms, bridging the span of miles and weeks while I gaze out at the spring leaves or the gathering snow listening to some of my favorite people.  Heavenly.

It’s seeing the kids or my sister so comfy and cocooned.  One of our living room couches is cornered with windows all around it, showing off glittering leaves shaking in the summer breezes or branches littered with first snows.  The perfect napping spot.  I point it out to my visiting sister, who claims it every day, agreeing that it’s the ideal spot for her siestas.  There is nothing more relaxing than the clatter of everyday life going on around her while she rests.  I totally know the feeling.  I feel myself smiling as I settle into my naps there myself.

It was walking along the shore in Oregon, early morning or at dusk.  The seals, the shells, the fishermen, the kids.  Barefoot, carrying our shoes, getting our legs wet as we both avoided and chased the waves.  The sand was warm; the air, cool.  Coming home to our rental and cooking dinner for real and cuddling on the couches.  No distractions or places to go.  Just being together as a family maybe one last time before college started up again.  I paid attention.  And sighed with emotion.

It’s being around to watch the kids do their things.  I’m not a runner, but my kids are.  And so I’ve loved the cross country meets at the lake.  So many trees and fallen leaves, breezes and voices. I just love watching my kids enjoy themselves, to see them interacting with their classmates and friends, to note how grown up they’re becoming, to see them trying to outrun themselves, to be out in autumn with friends.

It’s late nights in bed with Todd watching a movie on our little DVD player.  I know we could go downstairs to the big tv, but this is so much better: cozy, close, nestled, propped up, sleepy.

It’s walking with my mom around the graveyard on early summer mornings before anyone is up.  I have cherished these times for years and years and sometimes it occurs to me that one day it will change. And even though we can’t go as long as we used to, I think I appreciate these slower walks more each time I visit.

It was so many summer nights last year, interspersed with some Saturdays, during which we turned the radio up loud and simply painted the house with our brushes.  All the kids working alongside us, dogs running around, each of us taking a turn on the ladder, moving around the exterior and taking note of our progress.  At the time we grumbled, especially the kids.  And when we had to have all the siding ripped off and replaced, we complained a little more.  But I only look back on those times with fondness (and a little questioning), grateful for the family time we had before Avery went off to college.

It’s long walks with Todd.  I texted him last Friday at work, asking if we could walk around the Country Club later on since we once again had the night to ourselves.  Always up for any semblance of time away and alone together, he agreed.  We meandered up and down the hilly streets, commenting on improvements we’d make if we owned the houses, comparing yards and rooflines.  The sun faded and twilight settled in.  His arms produced little goosebumps, it felt like fall.  But our hands were warm, entwined as they were.  The kids were all away for the night and so we had nothing to get home to but the honey harvest.  We lingered a little longer.

It’s hotel room stays as a family. Todd and me in one bed, the kids all huddled together in the other until it’s time to sleep, all tuned in to Myth Busters or Home and Garden, doesn’t matter, we’re just happy to have tv channels.  We’ve learned to bring microwave popcorn, and they still like to try out the pool and hot tub, even at this age.  A cold and dark respite during a mid-summer road trip or a cozy, soft retreat after an evening walking the snowy small-town streets decorated for the holidays.  I fall asleep easily on these nights, so comforted amid the bodies of all my people.

It’s watching the Alaskan documentary with the grandparents on a late Sunday night, all in agreement that this is what our family does. Not even having to negotiate or ask if everyone wants to watch this, a given. It’s every Sunday night with popcorn and ice cream.  It’s knowing that this is what will happen, just like our Sunday night walk.  It’s having traditions like these as our cornerstones. 

It's making jam, picking raspberries, playing games, walking in the snow, harvesting the garden, eating dinner on the back deck, curling up with a book, cuddling with our dogs, decorating for the new season.

And so I’ve tried to figure out what it is.  What is it about these times, these memories, that create a contented feeling, a temporary respite from our worries and concerns, a wash that centers me and allows me to breathe and remember that this is the stuff that matters?  That life is good.  That it’s not all heavy.  I’ve realized most of these memories were just pieces of regular life.  They were simple times.  Most didn’t cost a thing. Almost all of them were with people I adore; although sometimes it felt good just to be alone.  Easy, ordinary, carefree, spontaneous. An awareness is all it is really. I wonder how it would lift our spirits if, instead of always reaching to take pictures of what we’re doing, we just used our minds instead, if we gave more of our attention to the experiences themselves. I admit I’ve probably missed out on some photo ops, and maybe I’ll wish I had taken more pictures.  But as I recall these random occasions, and so many more just like them, I’m grateful I took note and that I was present enough to have captured the moments forever in my heart instead.

Advice from an old friend

I came home from a week at my mom’s. Her house is muffled and chilled, a soothing and inviting respite from the oppressive outdoor heat.  Scented.  Like Bath and Body Works.  No dishes in the sink waiting for another day.  Manicured lawn. Bathmats so fluffy that they get in the way of closing the doors.  Towels straight out of a Downey commercial.  Even the toilet paper is plush.  The coordinating room sets allow us to name the rooms: the yellow room, the blue room.  Quality comforters an inch or so thick.  Carpet throughout.  All of it feels a lot like a hotel.  The nice kind.

It’s both easy and hard to come back.  Obviously, I love being with Todd and the kids.  I like the quiet of our area.  I feel refreshed, ready to be home where my heart is; it’s comfortable.  But you know what it’s like to be gone on a trip for a week.  You kind of get the chance to look at your life through a new lens, maybe a little less biased, a little more objectively.  So as I took it all in, scanning, taking note, I was surprised to feel a little saddish.

We have hardwood floors mostly.  Our living room is sort of long and spread out; I wondered if my mom’s felt a little cozier.  I like our style because it fits us, but my mom’s is traditional and vibrant, full of reds and blacks and yellows.  Ours is mostly brown.  I couldn’t help but notice how unfinished everything was as I walked around.  Trim is absent or partly finished.  Same with the paint.  Bathrooms are from the olden days (not the cool olden days), all the toilet seats are askew or flimsy.  The sinks don’t have plugs, nor do the bathtubs.  The wood is antiquated and gummed from many previous tenants having primped in these very same corners.  The showers are crumbling and etched from years of well water usage.  No doors on any of the closets.  That was just inside.

The driveway is gravel and dirt mix when it’s warm; a mud hole when it’s wet. An oversized industrial shop with a brown roof and a lighter brown wall set greets new arrivals.  Nothing at all like the shops our friends have built on their properties that coordinate with their beautiful homes.  So, so, so many weeds.  All over the driveway.  Along the shop.  Vines poking up through the cement.  Chickens and their food scraps scattered.  Yard piles and projects everywhere I turned: trailers, old boat frame, pallets ready for the dump, landscaping rocks, shutters that haven’t worked out.  It just all felt a little overwhelming to come to home to my work, to notice the un-done-ness of our property and all that we still had to get to.

I took pictures of what I saw and admitted I just felt tired, not exactly depressed or dejected, just weary.  Imagine my surprise when an old friend quipped back with a short reply, “Don’t be tired. The fun part is fixing it up, enjoy it while it lasts.”  So unexpected.  But I was touched that he would even respond to my whining.  His simple words affected and inspired me, and I’ve thought about them ever since.  Todd and I have always tried to make ourselves feel better by asking each other what we would do with all our time and money if we already had a perfectly finished house.  And we admit that we would rather buy a fixer-upper than have a brand new home; we remind ourselves that we chose this.  And while we plugged as much as we could into our summer days and nights and made headway on some of the projects on our list, it can feel a little heavy thinking about how much we still have much to do.  But every time I find myself feeling weighed down, I think about Mike’s advice.  And I try to remember that it actually really is fun to be able to see the transformation take place, to see the renaissance happening right in front of us.  His reminder motivates me to put on my gloves again and quit crabbing.

I’ve thought about how true this is in so many facets of our lives.  Sometimes we just want to sigh and feel tired.  Sometimes we just want to be done and move on, telling ourselves that surely this isn’t part of the journey we are supposed to enjoy, we want to curse whoever came up with such a dumb line, this couldn't possibly be what they were talking about, this here is just a hiccup in the road on the way to where the real fun starts.

Unless it isn’t.  Maybe the mess, the chaos, the unfinished-ness of it all is ok.  Maybe even more than fine.  Maybe it is the fun part.  When we reflect back on the days of our lives, we recognize that our memories weren’t always comfortable as we were making them. But with a tidy, cleaned-up perspective, we realize that it was in the mayhem and the floundering that we created these cherished recollections we so eagerly try to dismiss in the very moment they’re happening.

Certainly, we’ve lived long enough to know that—even when it’s trying and tiring—we’re going to miss this.   Because when we really think about it, how many days of our lives do we get to nurse or cuddle with a one-week-old? And be up in the middle of the night with our sick three-year-old who just needs to be held and reassured?  How many summer evenings will we really have with our teens listening to an old country radio station and painting the house till dark settles on us?  How many more nights will we have them for family dinners or late-night pow-wows? How many times will all the furniture be in the living room—even the beds—providing the perfect backdrop for a family sleepover?  How many times do we get a fresh start with a yard to do anything we want?  Why do I wish so much of this away, declaring I’m just tired.  He is so right, this is the fun part.

It sounded like I was giving up.  And maybe I’m ok with that—temporarily.  I think every now and then it’s ok to take a night off and regroup; I love those evenings without a project, when Todd and I sit together with our puzzle or maybe a show and some popcorn.  But to be too tired to get back to it all, that’s not the kind of person I want to be.

And so I love that these words would transcend time and miles to bless my life with renewed perspective and peace.  Along with energy and excitement for all that lies ahead in our todays and tomorrows.  We’re nowhere near Bed and Breakfast status, and our projects loom over us like a cloudy day.  But I choose to feel grateful.  For ventures that keep us occupied, for work that unites us as a family, for the ability to decide what we want our home to look and feel like, to watch it all come together over time, and for the strength and ability to make it happen.  The most satisfying kind of tired comes at the end an industrious day as we look back on what we managed to get done.  And that’s just it.  The fun is in the creation, in the conversion, whether it’s a staircase, a flower bed, a freshly painted bathroom, or a relationship.  And as I start again with this perspective in mind, I’m fulfilled as I simply handle what today brings with a better attitude.  I don’t need to wish this stage away—whether it’s dealing with a tough toddler or teen or making my way through college or lean years of early marriage or living without a kitchen or living room for several weeks—I think I'll follow Mike's advice and simply choose to think of it all as the fun part.  Because I know—looking back—this is what I’ll call it anyway.