At Home With Spirit

Lesson Learned

2011-01-17T11:25:00.000-08:00

I often slip in subtle words of advice, perhaps a life lesson or two or a nugget of motherly wisdom that’s been dug from deep within and shined with my own spit. Their tearful accounts of hardships, dreams of what may be, and rage against the unjust all trigger a little lever that lets flow the abundant knowledge and training I have acquired over the years.

“Well, perhaps you could look at it like this” I offer.
“Remember to treat others how you like to be treated” I remind.
“You don’t know the whole story” I point out.
“Give them a second chance” I encourage.
“It’s best to simply focus on today” I advise.

But on one particular occasion, while in the middle of preaching life lesson #42, her 8 year old head turned on its side and her puzzled face looked at me a little too deeply. I felt myself edge toward the fridge as I do in times of unrest. I had become trapped by her gaze, and feared that all I held true was about to be torn apart, shredded into unrecognizable pieces and left strewn across the foundation of my ideals.
She proceeded in a clear and precise voice announcing to the world,
“You say things that you never did as a kid”

Yep, she got me! She saw right through the words and into my core. (As children do) Nope she was spot on, I didn’t do any of that stuff as a kid. And truth be told, I still don’t do half of it as an adult either! So when it comes right down to it, all the mini lectures and teachable moments are not always meant for her. Because in the day to day running of our lives, whether it’s through the accounts of an 8 year olds day, or one simple question, I am both teacher and student.
As is she.

Please note that I now write for www.soulseeds.com . Come and check it out, you'll find me on the "grassroots" page! This site has many life affirming resources for you, your family and community. Visit the Greenhouse where there mindful activity books for children, "Secret Agents of Kindness" cards (home and school editions) and Wooden Seeds to increase love, peace and kindness in the world. Together we can plant possibilities and seed the change in the world!

Summer Break

2010-09-13T08:24:00.001-07:00

Missed me? Well, I’ve missed you.
It’s been quiet round these parts over the summer break. (A term I use lightly, “break”. Clearly defining the child and teachers status, not so much the parents)
Yes, I’ve been rather involved in my other life, the one I actually live and not just talk about. The life from which I steal colourful anecdotes, and twist them into meaningful metaphors for the sake my sanity and the lives of my children.

So here is a quick rundown of that life in 20 words or less, but most likely more.
The two younger kids learned how to sail and starred in the musical “Joseph” The 10 yr old took up cooking, the 7yr old turned 8. We had barbies, swam, and I rekindled my summer fling with “mike (‘s” hard lemonade) My especially sexy talented husband spoke at a week long conference, my parents stayed with us for six weeks from Australia and our 15yr old went to Vietnam with another 15yr old to work in a disabled children’s orphanage. Oh and what did I do? I started a business.

Which brings me to my point (I usually find one eventually, even if I have to make it up or steal it from Oprah)
If you have ever winced, smiled, cringed, nodded, cried, laughed, looked away embarrassingly or had any reaction of any kind (other than hives) to my blog, then I encourage you to check out my new home at Soulseeds.

The digs are a little fancier but I’m sure you’ll feel right at home with spirit. Feel free to have a little nosy around the site while you’re there and let me know what you think. I’ll keep posting from here for some time until you feel comfy over there. So kick your shoes off and put your feet up.
To keep receiving all this and much much more, simply sign up at Soulseeds ! (Sorry, no free steak knives) You know we’ve got a lot of catching up to do, for there’s sure to be a story or two from summer for me to tangle myself up in ….you won’t want to miss a minute!

Copyright (C) 2010 By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.

A Sinking Feeling

2010-08-03T13:57:00.000-07:00

I learnt one of my biggest life lessons at the kitchen sink.

I stood there. At the kitchen sink. Me and my yellow-gloved hands mindlessly going through the motions.

My kids arguing.
My husband out.
Me washing up.
Nothing new.

Could it be any more boring? Is this it? All there is? My mind wandered off to far-away lands where mothers felt fulfilled in daily tasks, and pigs flew.

And then there was a little tap-tap at my mind. Awareness begged "Let me in" in a faint faraway whisper.

I had been reading a book on Buddhism, and how to meditate. Not the type of meditation in a darkened room, with the lights low and candle in a corner. Not the meditation that required silence, stillness. No, this was about meditation during the ordinary moments. The everyday stuff, right in the thick of it. And this moment was surely one of them!

Right, I inhaled, what did it say? My memory opened slowly as I concentrated for lost thoughts.

Focus. Be present, and say out loud each and every movement and thought. This is silly I told my self. “It wont help.” I frowned into the kitchen sink irritated by the slow leak in my left glove.

But I took a breath; I stood, and meditated right there at the kitchen sink.

I began in a quiet mutter “I am picking up a glass, putting glass into sink, hands are in sink, sink is my world right now. There is only the sink. I am the sink (Well, no I didn’t quite get to to that place)
Rinse and repeat.

Then what? You may ask.
A miracle, stillness crept in. Not into the room, not into my children's room, but there it was, right down deep inside of me. A gift left by an anonymous friend. A meal in a time of need. Nourishment.

The arguing kids were still arguing, but I wasn’t. I was no longer arguing with myself. Fighting against what was and what is and what will be.

I was calm because all I heard was all that is. In that moment. No judgment, no hopelessness, no looking for the nearest exists.

Sink and me.

Come and visit me, read more conversations and browse through our mindful product line at www.soulseeds.com

Copyright (C) 2010 By Meg Lawton

Sounding It Out.

2010-07-22T07:21:00.000-07:00

In another room I hear shrieks of laughter, fun and games, taunting and giggling. My children happily play on a typical lazy summer morning. Their young voices filled with all the cheer and joy a good belly laugh can hold.

Idyllic right?
Yet I tell them to stop.
To stop it now.

And this is what hey hear, “You know how you’re having such a good time? Well I hate fun so just stop it. There will be no fun in THIS house! In fact I demand you stop all laughing and general enjoyment of any kind right this minute. No good can come from happiness so you must remain miserable from this point on”

But what I actually say is, “Excuse me for a moment darling children, but would you mind refraining from this activity? I realise you are enjoying yourselves but I fear you may end up hurting yourselves. I care deeply about you, your wellbeing and the furniture so if you would please finishing up what you’re doing and move onto a more productive game that would be just wonderful.”

To paraphrase, “Stop it now because someone’s going to get hurt and it’ll all end in tears!”

There is a fine line that cannot be seen by the naked eye, the line between laughter and tears. The untrained ear cannot detect the tone that comes directly prior to a child tripping over this line. But as a mother I have the gift. Call it intuition, call it the power to connect deeply with my children’s essence, or just call it daily experience! Whatever it is I’ve got it down, for I know that not all fun and games are fun and games whether it be in the next room, or even at a neighbours house down the street, yes I have quite the ear for sounding out potential strife.

Sadly I’m quite aware they think I’m the fun police. And perhaps I do tend to jump in before all the laughter has quite finished. And maybe I should let them cry it out till the death. But you’ll have to excuse me for now as I don’t have time to discuss the finer points of parenting. I detect some laughter in the next room that needs my professional ear.

Copyright (C)2010 By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.

A Special Delivery

2010-07-08T03:53:00.000-07:00

It begins with a toot of his horn, then a hearty wave and cheery “Hello”. The children run eagerly to say hi to him and collect the mail, chatting happily. They drag their friends out to meet him and stop whatever game they’re in the middle of to see him. Our visiting parents all know him, and he knows them by name. He brightens an ordinary moment and gives the kids treats.

But it is not about the candy; you would miss the whole entire point if you thought it was about the candy. No it’s so much more.

And this is how the story goes.
7yr old screams to brother “Its Dave, its Dave” as they scramble to get their shoes on. Together they race each other to their friend in the postal truck. But of course Dave doesn’t work every day of the week. And on his off days we have a different postman. This postman is your regular guy. Oh he’s fine, he gets the job done; no fuss no bother, just delivers. He’s ok. But he’s not Dave.

“Oh bummer, it’s the other one today” they tell me with slumped shoulders
“What’s his name?” I ask. None of us know.

One day I asked the kids who they thought was having more fun doing the job, Dave, or the guy without a name. They said Dave of course.
I asked “How can one postman enjoy it so much, and the other not seem to, when in fact they do the exact same job?” I point out how they drive the same truck and drop off the same mail to the same houses. They see the same people; they have the same breaks and see the same things. Yet one is happy, and one seems bored.

“Hmmm” it didn’t make sense. It was a puzzle. 1 job, 2 men, and a world of difference.

In our family, Dave has become the living example of what you put out is what you get back. We’ve discussed that how we treat others will affect how they treat us, how happiness grows outward and about the laws of attraction. Dave plants kindness and a beautiful garden of possibility surrounds him.

So if one of the kids complain that something will be boring or that they don’t want to go somewhere, I now ask a simple question,
“Are you Dave, or no-name? Who do you want to be? What do you want to create? What do you want to plant in your day?”
They will fight over being Dave, “No I’m Dave today” they argue.
“Stop it”, I say,
“We can all be Dave.”

PLEASE NOTE- Ian and I have just launched an affirmation site we are very excited about. Soulseeds- Please stop by and make yourself at home. There are a huge range of resources and affirmations. We are also transitioning our blog space over to that site. My blog will be posted at the Grassroots page and Ian’s blog will be posted at the Grapevine page.

We will keep posting, me here and Ian at Aussie Heretic for the time being, and sending subscriber emails, but please begin to move over to www.soulseeds.com where you can read our blogs and also sign up for a newsletter. This newsletter will include both our writings and many other resources.

Thanks for all your support. This is an exciting step for us, and we couldn’t do it without you.

copyright(C)2010 By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.

More than Two.

2010-07-01T20:34:00.000-07:00

One child holds the misspelled sign
One child holds a big glass jar
One child encourages the other
One child sits to rest a while.

Two children and a simple idea.
Two children on a street corner.
Two children and a belief they can make a difference.
Two children do.

Many days standing out there
Many pedestrians and passer-bys
Many pennies collected for peace
Many opened hearts and smiles

Two children know they are connected
to more than two in Pakistan.
Two children inspire me
To be more of who I am.

Copyright (C) 2010 By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved

A Fine Balance

2010-06-22T17:19:00.001-07:00

His arms wrap around their lives,
strong, protective, sure.
He throws them high into the air
beyond even their own expectations.

He listens with his heart
to more than just the words.
Believing in their inner strength
when they feel lost or torn.

He’s really quite the magician,
turning meltdowns to shrieks of laughter.
Letting go of past behaviours
to focus fully on the now.

He teaches by example,
gently guiding, waiting, trusting.
No repeated long winded-lectures,
just nodding, knowing and being.

He holds each moment loosely
so that every dream can grow.
Stepping back and to the side,
yet somehow remaining center.

My children are indeed lucky,
more whole because of him.
And our family’s truly complete
with the balance that he brings.

copyright(c)2010 By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved

That Word.

2010-06-16T18:41:00.000-07:00

Just a few words,
enough to make me sick.
A few ugly words, so wrong
“What?” I ask,
now she has to say it again.
Now I hear it twice,
making it worse.

“My legs are fat”
She says,
Twice.
Just like that.
FAT
That word, in her mouth about her
self
ugly and bitter
Who put that word in my baby girl’s mouth?

Her 7yr old lanky legs
like a foal’s too long for her body.
Legs that climb and dance,
Strong and certain of all they can do.
Now curled up under her,
so innocent.
Not
fat.

I hesitate, before I initiate
the lecture on health and beauty.
You know the one.
Yeh, I’ve heard it, said it, preached it, cried it
to my girl.
But do I
believe
it?
If I don’t believe it
for myself
she will not hear.
Only
fear.

Will she know the words are true
when I tell her she is perfect?
Will she believe me?
Oh please believe me,

Believe. In. Me.
I tell
myself.
Now two girls need to listen,
One only 7, the other 40.
Two girls the same inside.

Be gentle, careful, thankful.
Who are you to criticize
even yourself?
Especially yourself.
Be quiet inside, where it counts,
and listen
to her.
To the one who loves you
and your legs.

So use those strong long legs
to stand
Up.
Go on, stand up!
Use those legs that hold you
up
right
to walk in the light
to fight
another day
against that ugly word
in the mouths of our girls
that word
fat.

Copyright(C)2010 By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.

Playing By The Rules

2010-06-09T16:38:00.001-07:00

-“No you go through it once I’ve got to the end” he states.
-“And then when you get there let’s say I have to do a turn and jump over it” she adds convincingly
-“OK, but then wait till I’ve sat down before you do that because then it just wont work” he states in a reasonable yet firm manner.
-“I know, I know! What if we go over here first, and THEN add the jump?” she adds her suggestion with excitement.
-“and we can both go to opposite ends if we don’t do it properly” he emphasizes.
-“yes, and let’s just say if someone does it wrong they have to freeze” she confirms

And on and on it went. There were clauses, gaps, loopholes, examples, recommendations and strict instructions that could not be questioned and finally, consequences. To the outsider one may have thought this was an afternoon of rules, systems regulations, policies and punishments.

To the insider it was simply an afternoon of play. It may not have been the garden variety of spontaneous carefree whimsical play, but somehow they did appear to be having fun amidst the legalities.

Perhaps my children have been highly influence by a mother who enforces too many rules and boundaries resulting in the need to assert their own rules to regain power, control and autonomy within their world.

I considered all this and began to asses my part in their development while I watched them play. And while I sat on the front porch watching them jump back and forth through the sprinkler on that hot summer afternoon laughing and giggling, I realised for good or for bad- the more rules they had, the more fun they had.

Copyright(C)2010 By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.

Back To The Future

2010-06-03T17:33:00.000-07:00

It’ll be an ordinary moment in an ordinary day. I’ll be driving along with a car full of kids and groceries. We’ve had a typical day, all very normal. I’ll be going through my list of to-dos: cook dinner, get child (b) to hip-hop, child (a) to some school thing I’ve been told about numerous times but just can’t quite remember what it was right at that particular moment. Child (c) has an orthodontic appointment sometime in there too. . . or was that child (b)? Oh heck, I’ll just take all three of them!

There will be discussions about taking the garbage out when we get home, finishing homework, piano practice, and other afternoon activities. Just normal stuff. Just me-being-a-mum-and-them-being-kids stuff.

Then bam, out of nowhere, a wave washes over me and I freeze in time. Before I know it I seem to rise up and have a complete out-of-body experience. From somewhere else I see this middle age woman living this ordinary moment and I wonder:
Who is she, and how did she get here?

Wasn’t she just a teenager the other day worrying about how big she could get her hair and which fluorescent belt to wear to the roller rink? Wasn’t it yesterday she was devastated that the cute guy a year above her didn’t even know she existed? And why, I’m sure she was just dancing to Cindy Lauper with school friends and trying not to get busted for sneaking in after curfew and other such naughty things. Wasn’t she wishing just the other day to be older and able to make her own damn decisions, and quietly hoping to be more than she really believed possible? I’m sure it was only yesterday she had her heart broken, ears pierced and …….

“Mum, MUUUUUUM, did you hear me?” A child from the backseat asks.
…Mum?
Who me?
Where am?
Who are you?
And how did I get here?
Seriously, how did this happen? Are they talking to me? Is it true that I really do have to cook all these people dinner tonight?

So before I know it, the teenager is flung some 20 years forward and thrown back into the future- which is really her present. A present this middle aged woman can’t quite believe she lives, where ordinary moments become quite extraordinary simply because somehow she’s here, already. And the teenage girl is left back in the 1980's scratching her big hair wondering how on earth this all happened.

Copyright(C) 2010 By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved

I Know This Much Is True

2010-05-26T11:04:00.000-07:00

I have it all.I have a husband, and kids. A house, debt and pet chinchilla. I have long friendships and caring parents, and a pantry full of food.
I have vacations, clothing and an education.

I have the seasons, the daylight and sleep. I have the here and now and the possibility of tomorrow. I have gardens and oceans. I have every colour and every sound in all the earth. I can reach for the horizon or just put one foot forward.

I have fear and pain both deep and frightening. Doubt that freezes me in place, and bad circulation. I have control issues, environmental issues, and parenting issues. I have anger, am irritated and skeptical. I have grief, loss and pits full of loneliness.

I have complete clarity, and utter disbelief. I have the freedom to question and the safety to just be. I have the luxury to explore, myself. I have nowhere to be and everywhere to go. I have space to run and shadows to hide in.

I have snow storms and hospital visits. Tulips that refuse to bud. I have misunderstandings, lost keys and skinned knees. I have barking dogs and forgotten moments just out of reach.

I have a child on my lap, and under foot. I have laugh lines and worry lines and long boring grocery lines. Dirt under my fingernails and silver painted toenails. I have grey hair and skinny jeans that I probably shouldn’t wear.

I have laughter that cannot be stopped and tears that surprise me. I have children to teach me and a partner to believe in me. I have hot tea, conversations, and Sunday afternoons. I have dreams that just won’t let go and squirrels at my bird feeder.

I have missed opportunities and made up dramas. The songs of birds I too easily tune out. I have my own inner world and too much housework. I have soft landings, harsh realities and old worn out ugg boots.

I have acceptance, I have peace, I have passion.
I have love.
I have my breath.
But I have so much more than all of this. These big clumsy words bulky and awkward, cannot possibly explain just how much I have.
For it is true, I have more than enough.
I have it all.

Copyright(C)2010 By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.

The Constant Gardener

2010-05-22T16:54:00.003-07:00

I just spent the afternoon with a friend. She and I in the garden, together in the dirt. I’m not much of a gardener, can barely tell the difference between a weed and perennial poking through. (“oh look, there’s my first marigold”. She just laughs, it’s a dandelion.) But I do like a nice garden.

6 springs ago she welcomed us with 8 large pots overflowing with colourful flowers. I thanked her, and apologized in advance, I knew it would only be a matter of weeks until they died. She wouldn’t let me, apologise nor let them die. And they didn’t.

She taught me, inspired me and helped me grow the garden I didn’t realize I needed. I had never been through a harsh Michigan winter before and had no idea how much I would need a garden to celebrate new life.

So, today we prepared the earth, nurtured new shoots and sat on our knees in the midst of possibilities. She is with me every spring, constantly by my side in the soil, fingernails dirty, smile on her face, cap on her head. I look forward to our spring connection, to digging again after a long winter. We chat and listen to the earths secret wisdom.

Cancer may have taken Karen three years ago, but she will always remain with me in each flower I plant, each weed I pull and in every bud I admire. For those 8 beautiful pots have now grown into a garden of loving memories, endless possibilities and a certainty that life will always continue.

Copyright(C)2010 By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.

No Laughing Matter

2010-05-18T16:46:00.000-07:00

I’m not the funny one. Oh I can be funny even without a glass of chardonnay in hand. But I’m not the funny one. Put in me in a crowd and I’m rather silly if you catch me in the right mood, yes I’m may have heard a chuckle or two in my presence. It’s true; I can work a crowd on a good day. I enjoy a party, an audience, and even resort to laughing at myself just to get the ball rolling. But still, I’m not the funny one.

Somehow my jokes just don’t seem to translate at home. I used to pull it off, back when they were little. But now I crash, I forget the punch line, stumble over words and just I don’t seem believable anymore. They’re a tough crowd.

So now it’s him. He’s the funny one. He does his thing and they laugh. I don’t even know what he does, it’s his. I’ll watch, take notes and try it later. But I can’t do it, because it’s his. It’s a dad thing. Kids like goofy dads, all the moaning and eye rolling are just a part of their game. He’ll hum a funny way, say a silly word, doesn’t take a lot. He’s our light relief, our breathing space. I was just the warm-up act.

Perhaps I blew it when I started getting bossy. Telling them to clean bedrooms and do homework. There are too many jobs to do to be funny any more. Now I’m just mean and poor funny is merely a fleeting moment in my limited repertoire.

“Excuse me Funny, can you please move? I have to vacuum here. Funny, you’re in the way; I’m trying to cook dinner. No Funny I don’t have time for this, can’t you see we need to get to swimming lessons. Funny, just back off!”

I’m not entirely sure how, but over time Funny turned into Irritating. But now I want my Funny back and I will search until I find it! Perhaps it’s shivering in a dusty corner hoping not to be yelled at. Maybe it’s shoved under my bed with the other things I don’t have space for, or maybe it’s in the basement with the long forgotten ab-cruncher.

But I will guarantee you this. Just when I’ve searched high and low, exhausted all possibilities, stopped trying so hard to find it and finally let go, Funny will creep up behind me, poke me in the ribs, and laugh right in my face. I just hope I recognize Funny, and laugh right back.

Copyright(C)2010 By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.

Mother’s Day

2010-05-12T10:59:00.000-07:00

On Saturday I listed off their jobs. “Make sure you clean your rooms, mow the lawn, vacuum the basement and finish your homework”.

You see, I find it best to get all my nagging out of the way the day before so that my children see me in the most loving light come Mothers Day. I’ve had this gig a while and have learnt a thing or two in the 16 years. Here are a few other things I’ve discovered along the way.

- Your children will still fight on Mother’s Day.
- Your children may need a gentle reminder of just how lucky they are to have you for a mother.
- be prepared to eat anything served to you.
- You’ll long for time to yourself but feel too guilty to ask for it.
- You should never say “What is it?”
- There is no such thing as a day off for mothers
- And lastly, be prepared for your heart to explode with love when given anything that involves drawing, notes, glitter cards, collected rocks, collages, string things, painted pots, pipe cleaner frames, and any number of unidentifiable objects made from the heart.

Yes, I’ve learnt a thing of two about Mother’s Day. But the biggest lesson has to be how lucky I am to have had 16 years worth of love bended, collected, tied, squished, folded, pasted and painted into my world each and every one of these days.

Copyright(c) 2010 By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.

Walk the Line

2010-05-05T08:47:00.000-07:00

Unsure feet walking wobbly steps toward an imagined goal. Balancing all the weight and consequences of every decision while juggling all manner of odd shaped problems and demands. In order to avoid an horrific death, each step is first debated then carefully implemented.

Possible failure, complete disaster and inevitable therapy all hold their breath waiting for me to trip and fall off the tightrope

“No you cannot quit piano” I yell out to him “I don’t care if you hate it today, just go downstairs and practice.” And with that I grab a little tighter to the rope with my toes as he swings me for a loop. The crowd below both cheer and boo. For whom I do not know.

“Let him stop” someone yells from the crowd “You’re too hard on him. He will hate you forever. You’ll ruin his life.”
Another voice screams up at me, “He needs to learn to stick with things. You’re too soft on him, he’ll never finish anything. You’ll ruin his life”

Doubt grabs me by the shoulders, blindfolds me and spins me around three times. I’m dizzy and have no idea where to place my next step. I hear the voices of the crowd get louder until I can no longer hear a word.

I breathe, imagine and listen. Not to them. But to him.
I hear the piano, the mistakes, the thumping on innocent keys, the silences, and again the piano.

“Happy now?” he throws the question up at me, hitting me in the chest with a thud.
“No, not really” I cry back wobbling about.
“Well why not?” he demands.
“Because, I’m scared” I admit.
“Of what?”
“Of falling off, and hurting you”

He begins to laugh, and so do the crowd. I struggle to keep my footing. Why don’t they understand? This isn’t funny! Can’t they see that if I loose my balance someone could get hurt here, seriously hurt? I sit on the tightrope clutching on for my life and his. But my hands are slippery and I loose my grip, I am no longer sure what to hold onto, there is nothing.

So I fall. Hard. I may have broken bones, I can’t quite tell. Perhaps I’ll die. I think this is it. Yes, I’m sure it’s all over. A mother, her decisions and the child collide.
But after some time when I have the courage to open my eyes I notice he is perfectly fine with only a scratch. He then gently leans over and looks into my face with a smile, and says,
“See? I’m not hurt at all.”

Copyright(c)2010 By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.

The Space In-between

2010-04-28T10:41:00.000-07:00

Once
spoken so clearly
in a language we all understood.
Yes. It was that simple.

Now I’m not so sure
of what to do.
Move closer, step back
or just smile, from way over there.

Sometimes the gaps so big
that I could fall right in
not knowing what to grab.
Them?

I needed that space
when they were little
Let me breathe I’d sigh.
Not now

I should have known
everything changes,
and held on a little longer
before we let go.

It doesn’t need to be painful.
It’s not about me
but it is,
painful

Growing up and apart
on an elastic string.
Colliding and catching
after pulling right back.

There is no rhythm, beat
nor perfect step.
We’re making it up
as we go, along.

Along
to this new space in-between
to watch it fill up
with more trust and respect.

But its as it should be
and we’ll all be ok.
For without this gap
there would be no room to come back

Copyright(C)2010 By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved

A Warm Good Morning Kiss.

2010-04-21T16:32:00.000-07:00

Twigs, sticks, grey and lifeless.
Pretending to be dead,
fooling me.
I’m easily fooled.

Sharp, brittle,
and ugly.
Yes, like the duckling.
You know the story.

Transformation,
ugly turns beautiful.
We all finally rejoice
because pretty is better.

But this isn’t a story
with a perfect ending.
It’s a perfect cycle
with no real ending.

So now we’re at pretty,
and winter is forgiven
as life gently wakes
with a warm good morning kiss.

Perched on a branch she watches
lifeless things in garden beds
burst into bud, colour spilling
out over the brown.

Cheerleaders line the streets
with their pom-pom blossoms.
And colourful parades throw confetti
while her naked feet dance.

There’s so much to see,
my eyes can’t keep up.
And deep within me
a sigh turns to song.

If I listen closely
to her warm inviting voice
she will gently remind me
of the words I already know.

So together we sing
after nights long rest
knowing this perfect moment
is just one before the next.

Copyright(C)2010 By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved

The Acceptance Speech.

2010-04-14T17:19:00.000-07:00

In the unlikely event of receiving the mother of the year award, I’ve been practicing my acceptance speech. I know it’s probably unnecessary but a girl needs her dreams.
It goes something like this….

“Why thank you, I simply cannot believe this is possible, no truly I cannot believe this and neither can my family, loved ones and just anyone who has been within a 10 mile radius of me for these past 15 years. But while I’m here, I have a few people I’d like to thank, for without them I could not possibly accept this award.

First, I would like to thank my daughter for constantly laughing at me so that I don’t take myself too seriously. For telling me when I’m too grumpy, and too loud. For saying my jelly belly is “cute” and cuddling up to me straight after telling me I’m the meanest mother in the world. I’d like to thank her for loving me through it.

I need to thank my middle child for pointing out all the small stuff in the world that I’m too busy to see. The shape of a rock, a tired looking squirrel, the smell of last night’s dinner still in my t-shirt, and telling me when it’s time to dye my grey roots. Thank you for my fresh eyesight.

I would like to thank my teenage son, for allowing me close enough to watch the miracle of growing-up. He has taught me to trust the process, trust others and to even trust myself on occasion. Through him I’m learning the art of letting go and I thank him for this masterpiece.

And lastly I would like to thank my partner in love. For without his fearless questions, endless patience, and bone dry humor I would have been committed years ago. He is strong enough to balance out all my imbalances which is quite the workout. I’d like to thank him for being the one.

These 4 people not only made it possible for me to be in the running, but made me who I am today; a mother with a keen eye, bigger heart, graying roots, and a big ol’ jelly belly.

So finally, I’d like to accept this award on behalf of all the mothers out there who are brave enough to accept themselves. Keep up the good work ladies, I’m rooting for you.”

Copyright(C)2010 By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.

A Soft Spot.

2010-04-08T17:48:00.000-07:00

She’ll turn her head and point her chin
“Ahhh yes, that’s it, just there”.
Sally’s not particularly fussy, but she does prefer her right side. Her eyes close, her head tilts, and that’s when I know I’ve hit the spot.

So I scratch, somewhere into her fur.

Ever scratch a chinchilla under her chin? If not, I suggest you go out, find a chinchilla, and do it today.

Sally is a small yet significant part of our family, as I imagine all pets are in all families, significant.
A 10yr old’s birthday present.
He loves animals, but somehow needs them more.
In his life. Right by him.
He needs to talk to them, care for them, but mostly sit with them.
He shares his day with Sally, they stare at each other. She listens and understands, possibly. Probably.

Sally will somehow reach inside and pull out all the good. It’s a magic trick really. A fluffy thing in a cage, who knew? Sad, cranky, misunderstood, tired; each absorbed by her fluffy little body. She mops up our mess.

We’ve progressed from fish, to hamster to chinchilla.
One day we may just get a dog.
“We’ll see.” That’s my answer when he asks. “We’ll see.”
But for now we have Sally. Sally gives all she can. And it is enough.
A pet owner gets it, an animal lover understands, a passer-by finds out.

The world softens as my fingers disappear into her fur. Somehow the edges just don’t seem as sharp anymore. So when the world is feeling a little too itchy, I scratch, her. For Sally is my soft spot.

Copyright (C) 2010 By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.

Between The Cracks.

2010-03-30T17:15:00.000-07:00

Two heads leaning over a pothole in the uneven driveway.
An unlikely playground.
One with a bucket. The other with a spoon.
Both with imagination.

The mother is cooking dinner, but stops.
The kitchen window gives her a clear view.
She is stuck,
Watching.

One pours water, the other digs gravel with a spoon.
Both children now wet and dirty,
Ofocurse.
They don’t even notice.

And there it is, a world excavated before her eyes.
Rivers race toward the grass,
while two curious spectators watch the patterns
decorating an old cement drive.

The parents have been meaning to fix it.
Fill in the uneven holes
Make the driveway better
You know, Nice.

But nice doesn’t make the water run
from a child’s imagination
into chocolate rivers.
Nice just sits there, perfect.

Perfect hasn’t met a pair of wet jeans and muddy shoes.
Nice doesn’t particularly like it
when a soup spoon from the kitchen drawer
is used for digging dirt.

Imagination has a much better time
playing amidst the imperfections.
It can run more freely
knowing there’s nothing to ruin.

The children created a new world that afternoon,
And handed it to their mother.
So while she floated down the children's chocolate rivers,
she thanked the potholes, cracks and imperfections for a lovely afternoon.

Copyright (C) 2010 by Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.

What Lies Beneath

2010-03-23T18:07:00.000-07:00

Stop what you’re doing and listen.
Put it down, all of it.
The laundry basket full
of other peoples things.

Their thoughts, and your old stories
Of who you should be
tangled up with mismatched socks
and worn-out layers

Now Shhh, don’t move, don’t talk.
It’s simple, and just about impossible
Be still, silent.
Just listen.

She will creep out from under the pile
if you let her.
She’s been hoping and waiting
for you to notice

She may whimper at first
or bound out boldly
after too many years
being trapped underneath.

She
is the deep down inside you.
Perhaps the hidden, unknown, forgotten
You.

Your voice,
The one you may have lost
When you became another.
A mother.

She may need to travel or sing
Paint, write or draw.
She could learn to dance, or run.
Anything.

She could play soccer, and wants to fly
Step aside
and trust
for she knows just what to do.

When all is quiet, listen.
Believe her when she speaks
of what lies beneath the lists and chores
and layers of endless things.

So go on, put it all down, and take her hand
For she wants to show you a secret path,
that leads right back
to you.

Copyright (C) 2010 By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.

Message In A Bottle

2010-03-17T17:41:00.000-07:00

I had a few ideas involving museums, pools and gardens. But our 3-day mother-daughter extravaganza went more in the direction of movies, pajama days, baking and painting our nails. Both of us preferring being to doing.

The days were wet, dull and grey. Outside.
It didn’t matter; you don’t need sunshine for what we were doing. Blue skies aren’t necessary for drawing and talking. For reading, snuggling or buying a hotel in monopoly. And everyone knows that a fresh baked cookie taste much better on a rainy day.

She had chosen the colour and was pleased. Yes, this will look beautiful her little mind thought. She stretched out her fingers and then I did mine. We waved them about while she taught me a song.

It was perfect and I couldn’t have planned it better. She was happy, and I was utterly and completely content. All was right in the world, that is until I had to leave the house with my fluorescent green nails, stylish up-do and the clothes she’d picked out for me. I thought I wouldn’t mind, too much. I’ve worn homemade string necklaces in public for years now.

I’m not one to be terribly worried about how I look, as long as I can give the impression that I’m close to normal and need not be feared I’m good to go. My standards have dropped over the years; it can of happen to the best of us. But on this day I was looking a little, well dare I say, “cheap”? My 7-year-old daughter had turned me into a tart.

After breathing through some pretty frightful flashbacks from the 80’s, I sucked it up, went down town with my little girl and ordered a round of fancy drinks. We sat there giggling at one another with our matching nails and various accessories. And as we sipped, smiled, chatted and laughed throughout our dinner, I saw clearly that beauty had very little to do with nail polish, whatever the colour.

Copyright (C) 2010 By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.

Picture Perfect.

2010-03-10T12:59:00.001-08:00

It’s really best to get them out of your head. Just forget them, tear them up and throw them away. Yes I know they’re pretty, peaceful, perfect and quite delightful. They’re wonderful to look at but they’re of no use at all. Simply more harm than good really.

Just a pile of made-up pictures to get in the way of reality. You know the ones; of the perfect family picnic, the mother-daughter shopping trip, the family game night, the cooking together, the father-son overnight trip, the growing, laughing and loving all the way to the end of the album.

Now don’t get me wrong. I love and appreciate all these things as much as the next person striving for happiness and fulfillment. But let’s be honest, those game nights can turn in an instant. Someone “cheats” so another storms out of the room. The cooking can burn and the kitchen’s a mess. The overnight can be awkward and quiet, both mother and daughter realize they don’t particularly like shopping, and the picnic can be too hot or too cold or just too lumpy. People throw themselves in a heap, change their minds and cry. They just do.

So now I try to watch the images as they develop in my mind. The pictures telling me what should be, all pretty and glossy. And I find if I toss aside those idyllic Kodak moments with the big pretend smiles, that I come to see life’s true colours more vibrantly and each real image sharper than I could ever imagine. The reality before me may never be as perfect as those pictures in my head, but I’m learning that most days I’d rather be living reality in 3D, even if some of us aren’t smiling into the camera.

Copyright (C) 2010 By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved

The Science Experiment.

2010-03-03T17:06:00.000-08:00

With a red marker on white poster board he writes “Nutrition with a chance of meatballs.”
The letters start big and bold, but soon become squished as room runs out.
Layout and design are secondary.

There were 20 or so topics, others chose atoms, water cycles, light. He chose nutrition.
His lead question, “Do we need dairy?”
His hypothesis, “No”.
His conclusion, “one website says yes, another website says no”.

In the middle of his poster he has a picture of a cow. He draws an egg under it. The caption above says “Many people think eggs are dairy” underneath he writes, “cows don’t lay eggs.”

There are other bits of information stuck on, the food pyramid, a soybean. To fill in the spaces he draws great big stars, he likes drawing stars.

This 4th grader has just finished his first ever science project. He steps back and is pleased. His mum has just finished her first ever hands-off experiment. And this was the result.

I smile, as I wonder if this is what the teacher was looking for. Will it meet the criteria? The product certainly doesn’t reflect the process. The process of a boy doing it his way, and a mother not doing it hers.

Copyright (C) 2010 By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.

The Driver.

2010-02-23T16:32:00.000-08:00

He is waiting for me in the car.
The engine's running.
Mirrors are adjusted, seat pushed back.
It’s his turn.

I’m his passenger
His teacher, guide,
His mother and,
control freak.

This will be interesting.
We all know that’s the wrong word.
But
It will do for now.

I breathe heavily as he reverses
into the snowy street.
We drive 10 metres,
I no longer breath at all.

He’s now the driver, and I the passenger.
We’re speeding along
this road not yet navigated.
One we must take. Forward.

But truly he’s careful. And calm.
I am not.
Too fast, too sharp, too windy,
too this too
that.

It’s new for us both,
the driving, the fear.
The letting go
of my control, of him.

We make it home each time alive.
Yet I’m a little more aware
that these moments together
are most certainly numbered.

He’s improved,
and I’m getting better too.
For I am no longer holding on as tight
To my seat. Or the boy.

Copyright (C) 2010 By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.

A Close Shave

2010-02-16T16:40:00.000-08:00

I try to have a conversation from the bedroom. He was in the bathroom.
“So what did you say?” he asked paying only half attention. I sat in a huff on the edge of the bed putting on my socks. The day was beginning. It was an ordinary moment in an ordinary day.

“I told you about it earlier.” A conversation fast becoming frustrating.
No response.
"Agh, he never listens" I tell myself once again, piling it on top of all the other complaints that mound up over 20 years.
I look up, and just through the opening to the bathroom I see him. I stop. I take this moment and simply watch.

White faced, thick and fluffy. Bare chest, the one I know so well. Strong and solid. He stood exposed, present, focused.

Tap tap tapping on the sink. The blade washed clean. His arm rose once again. The arm that shovels the snow, that reaches for his daughters hand crossing a street, that pushes a bike up a hill for a weary son. The arm that holds us all at various times. For various reasons.

This arm now rises to shave a clear well known path. The motion repeated; tapping, rinsing, raising arm, clearing path. A ritual, a daydream, an ordinary thing turned magical just because I noticed. The mere act of noticing casts a mighty spell.

Then “poof”, it vanishes. I feel so thankful to have caught this one. Young 10-year-old runs in yelling “my turn” and so his dad plasters his face with the foam, and another ritual begins.

Then there out of the corner of my eye, I notice the earlier conversation, the frustrating one, tiptoe back into the room a little more gently.

Copyright (C) 2010. By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.

The Challenge.

2010-02-09T17:05:00.000-08:00

It’s the end of the day. Lights are off, I head to bed.
There on my pillow is a note.
“you beeter be sorry or you wont get this” (an arrow points to a picture she had drawn, of herself)

We had had an argument earlier. Something about piano practice, or spelling lists, hitting her brother, or setting the table for dinner. Insignificant to me now everything to her then.
It didn’t end well, and this is her way of telling me.

We can get it so wrong, mother and child. Miss the mark, miss the meaning, overstep, over react, underestimate, under appreciate.

We tumble about until a note is written, left on a pillow for a mother to read with a smile and a tear. Her story, her 7-year-old voice, her view. On my pillow.
So I write one back. A letter she won’t yet understand.

“Yes, I am sorry.
Sorry for being bossy, impatient and stopping the fun. Sorry for not understanding, getting in the way and saying ‘no’ too many times. I’m sorry I have to be the adult even when I don’t want to be.
But I cannot be sorry for believing in you, asking for your best and showing you a different way. Nor will I ever be sorry for loving you enough to say no.”

Unfortunately the difference is not always clear. It’s more complicated than either of us want. So I sign the letter with a promise. A promise to know when to be sorry and when not to be. When to let things go, and when to push a little harder. I promise to act more in love and less in fear. And to always say the word sorry when I am.

I fold up her note, and sleep with it in my dreams. Dreams about a little girl learning, growing, and challenging her mother to be all that she can be.

Copyright (C) 2010 By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.

No Strings Attached.

2010-02-02T17:05:00.000-08:00

You might not think it’s pretty.
Green and frayed.
Yarn, tied with knots.
Threads hanging off the end.

You may notice it.
There
around my wrist.
Yet I doubt you’d comment.

But on this day,
And those to follow
it’s the most beautiful thing
I own.

He gave it to me yesterday
with 10 yr old joy
at simple things
turned into more.

A “friendship” bracelet.
Tell me a mother who wouldn’t melt
and just about cry
as she ties it ‘round her wrist. Her heart.

I thank him, of course.
Yet he’ll never know
how my gratitude will last
far beyond this moment.

He gives me his love, freely.
As if it’s the easiest thing in the world.
As easy as tying knots
in a piece of yarn.

Copyright (C) 2010 By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.

Counter Argument

2010-01-26T16:56:00.000-08:00

I have a question for you. I’m a little curious.
What do you do with it all? All the stuff, endless, mounting, suffocating stuff? What is your secret to the ordered lives you live?
I have piles, mountains of it sitting there staring at me on our kitchen counter. Daring me, begging me, teasing me.

Oh you wont ever see it. Come on over and it’ll be tucked into the space near the fridge behind a framed perfect-family portrait, where we’re all smiling pretending not to see all the stuff behind us. Or if it’s particularly out of control, I hide it in the laundry. But it always comes back out. Because I’m going to get to it. One day.

It’s all very important, you know: the school sock fundraiser, bills, thankyou cards, 6 months worth of Time Magazines I’m sure to read. There are precious artworks, forms with unanswerable questions, receipts, library books to return, spelling lists, and last years Christmas catalogues underneath this years. I have instructions on how to look after retainers (with the $100 replacement cost clearly highlighted), a way too expensive quote to fix a shower, and a scribbled phone number that could quite possibly be important if I knew what it was for. I know there’s a recipe for an amazing lamb curry in there somewhere, along with my chap stick, checkbook, a rehearsal schedule for the musical “Oklahoma”. A camera charger, prescription for a pain no longer painful, and the rules to “Scattegories” hides amongst the mess too. And there at the bottom, a homeless giraffe finger puppet, of course.

I shan’t go on, for fear of embarrassing myself and all those I love. Admittedly there are some items in there I could just throw out, and some that could be filed or clearly dealt with in a single phone call.

But it’s happened before and it’ll happen again. I’ll find good homes for it all, proper places and other piles to add it to in other rooms. I’ll dwindle it right down to a few scraps of harmless paper. And then in walk the kids, with their artwork, forms and lists. Kids and stuff just go together.

I tell them wearily to simply add it to the pile, again defeated. But slowly over time I have crawled my way out and come to realize that this “Stuff” is really just an endless growing pile of “Us”. It’s our family’s life right there on the kitchen counter. Clumsily dumped right in the middle of our house, in the middle of our lives. So in the end, there’s really no point hiding, cursing or arguing with it; for this is the stuff we’re made of.

Copyright (C) 2010 By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.

Up She Rises

2010-01-18T18:38:00.001-08:00

We go back and forth, we argue. Stern reminders fall on deaf ears.
“I knoooooooooow, I’m gooooooooooooing”.
Somehow one simple word becomes an entire essay.

You would think we were asking the unaskable.
Why this nightly ritual takes place is beyond me.

For I don’t think there is another living soul who actually enjoys a shower more than our 7 year old.
Once in the shower, we hear only happy chatter and cheerful songs coming from the bathroom. A hearty version of “What do you do with a drunken sailor?” can be heard most evenings.

The map-of-the-world shower curtain prompts many loud discussions such as how long would it take to visit her Vietnamese cousins, and could she actually stand on the equator line in Borneo.
On occasion, her bright pink shower capped head can be spotted poking around to make sure she’s not missing a thing.

Then there’s the getting out part,
as tricky as the getting in.
I not-so-gently remind her to turn off the shower.
“I aammmmmmmmmmmmmm”, again 1 syllable stretched into 10.
Eventually the singing stops, the shower cap comes off,
and the magic of the moment evaporates.

We still need to work on the beginning and the end part,
But the middle is just delicious.

One minute we shout the next we sing. One minute we’re arguing about showers, the next I’m snuggling a little soap smelling body on the couch. Back and forth we go, To-ing and fro-ing, heaving and ho-ing, like a couple of drunken sailors trying to get our way across to the other side of the day.

It’s not always a smooth sail. If you too have this experience, may I suggest singing along with the little girl in the pink shower cap?
For even if it’s a rough day with wild seas, it somehow makes the journey a little smoother.

….. “way-hey and up she rises, way-hay and up she rises… earl-aye in the morning….”

Copyright (C) 2010. By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.

Past Lives

2010-01-12T10:59:00.001-08:00

It could be so awkward, somewhat intimidating, and a little nerve racking. It wasn’t.

2 old friends, 2 hours at coffee, and 20 years to cover. There’s a lot of growing up in 20 years. Thankfully.

We hugged, chatted and quickly became lost in each other’s lives. Lives we have no idea about. I sat across the table, staring into their faces. The faces of friends who knew the 15 year old me better than anyone in my present world. The faces of girls trying things on, trying things out.

I sat across the table from 2 friends who looked so familiar, hadn’t changed a bit. Yet 2 women I really didn't know at all.

2 hours later we had barely taken off the top layer. Partners jobs, kids, houses, and how our parents were doing. 20 years cannot be shared in 2 hours. And eventually, at a safe time, the girls were invited into the conversation. They had been waiting.

Right there at the cafe, I knew how important these women were in my life. They knew the parts of me I’d rather forget, and still wanted to meet me for coffee. A strange and amazing process: Growing up, looking back, and being ok with it all.

There’s value in reconnecting, looking back, and forgiving yourself for being young once. To look in the face of your past and see that nothing remains the same, that her face is familiar but more knowing, her outlook broader and more colourful, and that she too has moved through the years as bravely as you.

I had said hello to my former life and she said hello back. It was nice to have a peek from this safe distance and smile at the girls hiding just below the surface.

I may not see these friends for another 20 years. Perhaps we’ll be sharing grand parenting stories over our next coffee, I hope not. But whenever it is we meet, I’m sure the girls wont be too far away.

Snowed Under.

2009-12-15T17:29:00.000-08:00

I can do one, one is fun. But then I’ve really got other plans
And too much to do, to be stuck at home with 3 kids on a snow day.

Yes, the sleep in is nice, I enjoy the lazy pace.
Pajamas till noon, with no place to go.
It’s cosy, it’s simple.

Baking, card making, and board games.
Drawing, finger knitting and reading.
Cannot be argued, all nice. All good.

So why is it that by day two I’m ready
To rejoin the world?
I need to get out, no not to go sledding
To get on with IT.
My mind takes me away to the lists.
Before Christmas, there are lists.
I don’t have time for snowball fights. I’m too busy for card games.
I have too much to do. More important stuff.
“Not now” I say more often than I wish. If only I had time.

But time is all I have, this moment. Stuck inside.
So after an argument with the woman with the lists in her head
I give in, let go, and stay right where I am. With my children.
Here. Now. This is all I have and it’s time to make the most of it.

And so it is in this moment, and any other I might have;
the less I focus on what
I want to be doing,
wish I were doing,
could be doing and
should be doing…..
The more I enjoy what I am
actually doing.

Copyright (C) 2009, By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.

Family Ice Capades

2009-12-08T15:28:00.000-08:00

The vote was in.
Ice-skating beat indoor rock climbing 4:1. I sucked it up, threw on my scarf and hopped into the car ready for the adventure ahead. No, I would not pout, whine nor grumble.

It isn’t that I love rock climbing so much. It scares me to be honest. I know it’s just a big plastic mountain with other bits of smaller plastic to grab. I know there is an army of people watching my every move (oh so humbling) and a very unflattering harnesses strapping me safely in. I know there is no real danger within the climate-controlled room filled with children reaching far dizzier heights than me. I know the fear is irrational and embarrassing to my children who watch me scream just 5 feet off the ground. But at least it is a fear I know, one I am familiar with
Ice skating on the other hand….

The 5 of us stepped gingerly onto the ice for the first time. Slowly as our confidence grew, we all made out way around the rink. Feeling rather pleased that I had completed an entire lap under an hour I picked up a little speed.

In that moment, the very moment I let go, released the fear, dared to go faster, when I finally felt the wind in my hair, heard the 80’s music pumping; I did what anyone who knows me would expect me to do.
Fall.

Small children ran to their mothers, teens ducked for cover and my own family was nowhere to be seen. I somehow clawed myself over to the gate with my one good arm and slid off the rink in an embarrassed wet heap.

I sat alone, nursing my wounds, imagining all manner of long-term damages, surgery, and traction. As I contemplated the worst, I wondered if I’d ever walk again let- alone be allowed out of the house. But I fought against the need to sit and lick my wounds. Now was the time to show my strength, no I would not cry, I could not quit.

At this point I would like to say how my children witnessed their mother’s courage and learned from her spirit of determination to never give up. That they learned how to push on through the pain, preserver and live with passion. Driven by the need to show them a thing or two about getting back up and facing your fears, about finding your inner determination to win against the odds I skated one more slow and painful lap.

The children could really learn a thing or two through my experience I thought. I provided the perfect Disney plot, ending in triumph and victory. Where good (me) prevailed over evil (ice). There were just so many teachable moments in my fall. If only they were watching! But it was lost on them this day, for they were simply too focused on their own near death experiences to be worrying about mine.

Exhausted after my unnoticed victory lap, I made it over to the edge to feel extra sorry for myself. It was then I spotted my children; wobbling, slipping, and falling, over and over again. Each time they fell, they got right back up to have another go, over and over again. And so that afternoon as I watched my children courageously rise and fall, I was once again reminded that I have far more to learn than I could ever teach.

Copyright (C) 2009 By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved

Many Thanks.

2009-12-01T16:25:00.001-08:00

It appeared the following day on the kitchen table.
Without my knowing.
The basket, the notes.
An idea previously shot down, now taken up.
The 10 year old owning it, encouraging it to mean something.

“It just sounds silly,” they had all said.
“How boring, do we have to?” the whining began.
My enthusiasm faded. I tried but had lost this one.
So I let it go and gave up.

Thanksgiving in America is sometimes awkward for the outsider
with no family traditions, or historical connection.
The day can be long and empty.
I was keen to create our own meaning. I’m the mother, it’s my job.
But it felt too late, and perhaps it was silly after all.

Yet there he was, the next morning.
The 10 year old, with his head down, writing.
And soon the 7yr old and teenager joined him, at the table.
Throughout the day the basket filled with little torn pieces of paper.
Quietly my husband and I added our own.

And so, after dinner.
We read.
Each note a gift of appreciation for one another;
“I am thankful for you driving me, for cuddling me, for helping me, for feeding me, for loving me….”
And on it went until all the often unspoken words in the day
were said right out loud. To each other.

The basket still sits on the kitchen table.
Days later I cannot remove it.
A reminder of how a boy, some scrap paper and a generous heart
can inspire a new family tradition.
And for this, I am truly thankful.

Copyright (C) 2009 By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.

Worldwide Web

2009-11-24T08:46:00.000-08:00

My husband, children and I would like to take this opportunity to formally thank all my girlfriends (past present and future) for my mental health. My sanity is in large part because of you.

In the past 20 years I have moved often; from towns, cities, countries, continents and hemispheres. After unpacking enough boxes to find clean underwear and a favourite toy or two, on the top of my to do list is “Make friends”. This is closely followed by some other essential items such as: find a house to live in, schools for the kids, buy a car, and ask around for a good hairdresser.

I arrive in a place, open up my trusty bag of gathered social skills and set about getting to know people. Sometimes this has worked, sometimes people run screaming. Others will stand at a safe distance in their fire resistant clothing, or stand too close while telling me about their ingrown toenail. We all have our ways; we all want the same thing.

To be known. And once known, to be recognized with a smile.

A bad day just isn’t as bad when shared with a girlfriend who knows when to nod in the rights places even if they haven’t a clue what you’re babbling about. A good day is even better when shared with a girlfriend who feels happy for no other reason than that you’re happy.

Friendship is trial and error. Some stick, others take effort, and some just never really have the trust to give it a go. But to those I have found who speak the same language, who can laugh as hard with me over absolutely nothing, who I can call on, who can call on me, who know me and don't hide behind the closest bush but walks forward with a smile (you know who you are),

Thank you.

Our family wouldn’t be the same without you. It may take a village to raise a child, but it takes a world of girlfriends to raise the mother.

Copyright (C) 2009 By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.

Reflection

2009-11-19T07:54:00.001-08:00

He was curled up in my lap, back when he used to fit. An image that is difficult to bring forward as he now stands over 6 foot. But yes, there was a time he fit snugly, like a puzzle piece.

The afternoon was a particularly lazy one. No place to be, no plans made. So we sat, we thought, and we chatted, fitting together as we should. Mother and young son.
Oh I guess it was probably for just 15 minutes or so, but in a mother’s memory it becomes hours. Hours of sitting.

It was just the two of us in that moment, but only I knew his world would one day change. At 4 he didn’t know about change, at 4 this world was the only world. This lap of mine belonged to him and only him. My love- all his.

He shifted his weight, legs straddled either side, so he could see my face, feel my tummy.
“In here?” he questioned in a doubtful voice.
“Yes.” I answered in a reassuring voice.
“What will it look like?” we had both wondered together.
“Oh I think a little bit of you, and a little bit of me,” we agreed.

At this he studied my face closely. He came right up to me, his breath tickling my nose

“Well. I hope it has your eyes,” he finally says with certainty. We are now only inches apart.

“Why” I ask.

“Because I can see myself.”

copyright 2009 by Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.

Reality Bites

2009-11-11T17:58:00.000-08:00

I blame it all on the Tooth Fairy.

Who would have thought the lives of two children would change with a simple question over a bowl of cornflakes. It was such an ordinary moment; none of us saw it coming.

“Why didn’t she come again?”

-Dammit, I forgot, again!
“I don’t know sweetie, I guess the tooth fairy had a big week this week”

But it was the next question “Is she even real?” that slapped me Fair Square across the face. I could feel us spiraling into territory I wasn’t quite prepared for,
not at 7:45 am and not with my baby!

I could only half smile, tilt my head and shrug as I weighed up the truth with the death of childhood fantasies. It is a close call: Lie and keep the dream alive in one corner, honesty and trust in the other.
“Well…” and right there in that slight pause, she figured it out.

“So she’s not?” her voice wobbled. Well, as you can imagine, one thing lead to another and before we knew it we were throwing the lot out, Easter Bunny was next to go, then the big fella.
“And Santa?” she asked with a glare, now getting angry.

I could let go of the Tooth Fairy and the Easter bunny easily, they hadn’t done a very good job in our house anyway, but Santa had worked his big red butt off over the years and I wasn’t quite ready to out him.
But, my daughter had the courage to ask me a direct question and I had to honor her with the truth, as hard as it was.

It was a tough realization, there were tears. Meanwhile her older brother breathed a sigh of relief; finally he could give up the charade. The pressure he had put on himself, chanting over and over “I must believe I must believe” in order to reap the rewards, was finally finished.

“So all the adults are in on this?” He asked.
“Yes” I confessed, feeling kind of mean.
“All the people on TV, in the shops? They all know?”
Yes, I admitted, it certainly is a well-planned conspiracy amongst the adults.

Eventually the children went off to school happily that morning feeling as though they’d gone through a rite of passage and come out all grown up. Actually I may have taken it harder than them. After all, it was the end of an era. But as I’ve slowly let go of the old man flying in the sky, making all our dreams come true (as long as we’re good), I too am relieved the game’s up. But most importantly, now I can at last get a little credit.

…Oh, and Tooth Fairy,
You’re fired.

Copyright (C) 2009 by Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.

The Need to Knead.

2009-11-03T11:52:00.000-08:00

Lately I’ve been trying my hands (and occasional foot) at bread making. It is a humbling experience. But before I go on, let it be known that most things I cook are in fact edible. (With a little ketchup.)

I start with re-reading the scribbled down recipe. Carefully measure the quantities, which goes against my very being. For “Careful” and “measure” aren’t words I’m terribly familiar with.

And then the fun begins.
The kneading.
There is no way to quite describe the sticky, doughy, floury mess that somehow, without my knowledge covers the entire kitchen. Whatever I touch turns to dough. I find it on cupboards, homework and our poor pet chinchilla for days to come.

The children know better than to come too close. The offers of help long gone.
Whispers are heard down the hallway.
“Don’t go in there, she’s trying to make bread. Again”.
And then there are possibly tears. But I can’t quite tell. I have dough in my ears.

I leave it one hour to sit, to rise.
It does sit. It does not rise.
Then separate into three “loaves”, again; sit and rise.
Again, not so much.

I was told this was easy. I was told I could do it. I believed them. And although the three small bricks of bread prove otherwise, I still believe that one day it will rise, and actually look like real bread (you know, with preservatives and corn syrup.)

I’m not sure why I wont give this up. The “Earth-Mother” title is long-gone. (Screwed that one up when I bought our 1 year old a doughnut back in ’95.) It could quite possibly have something to do with getting my hands dirty, connecting with raw ingredients, remembering my ancestors, passing on family traditions, teaching my children about perseverance, and ofcourse play.

And yes, I’m sure there are many lessons to be learned about rising up against the odds, but truth be known, it’s really quite simple. This carbohydrate addict just wants to eat something hot out of the oven and smothered in butter, even if it is the weight of a brick and could use a little ketchup.

Copyright (C) 2009. By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.

Into The Woods.

2009-10-27T10:30:00.001-07:00

Crisp, quiet. Just us. Almost.
A path, winding somewhere to follow, over there.
We go.
Running, mostly walking.

Sticks become rivers to jump.
Trees are lookouts.
A magical carpet of fallen leaves covers the earth.
So we fly.

We break the stillness with loud sing silly songs
Make up jokes.
Race each other to the top.
And the deer watch.

We stop. Puffing, panting.
And look up at the yellow ceiling above
There is no sky,
not here.

“Wow” She says, “Look at all that gold”
“We’re rich,” He says breathing in the moment deeply.
Taking each of their hands as we walk home
It’s simple, I nod. Yes.

Copyright (C) 2009 By Meg Lawton. All RightsReserved.

A Checkered Win

2009-10-20T13:51:00.000-07:00

I didn’t mean to. It just happened.
We played hard, we played fair, but in the end I just couldn’t loose.
Perhaps it was my impatience; perhaps it was her tiredness, but whatever the reason. I won, there were tears. And there ended the checker game.

A family ritual we enjoy the nights we’re not rushing out the door to various lessons and practices. The child chooses, the parent happily plays while assessesing the emotional strength of the child in that particular moment. Upon assessment, parent wins or loses accordingly, laugher is shared, the stars shine a little brighter and we kiss goodnight the children we happily nurture through the highs and lows of a board game.

On this particular occasion I sensed it was best to lose. There is no rulebook about this, I just knew. Perhaps it was the earlier fight with sibling, or the huff over who got to be red that gave it away, but I like to call it a mother’s intuition.

I fought my ego as I missed genius moves on purpose. Her spirits rose with each jump, her smile broadened, and we were just about to have a hallmark moment until we counted kings and I was ahead by one.
Oops.

It’s all such a fine balance. The teaching part, the reality part, the self esteem part, oh, and don’t forget the fun part. It may look like a simple board game to an outsider, but the intricacies are hidden in each move. Should I point out this, or take away that? Guide, or just let be? Teach a better way, or watch her make mistakes?

Yes, she will win some, she will lose some. And no, I will not always be her opponent having her best interests in mind. But for now while we play checkers, jumping one another, and finding our way to the other side, my strategy is simple.
Enjoy the game.

Copyright (C) 2009 By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.

From Under The Covers.

2009-10-13T11:22:00.000-07:00

What I am about to tell you may change your life forever.

Bed bugs thrive in warm environments.
- There, now go tell all those you love.

Do you know what this means? Do you understand how freeing this news is? You must immediately stop making your bed and making your children make their beds. You are merely tucking your little bed bugs up for the day to breed happily and multiply before you hop back in at night. Mmm, cosy.

Now I’ve never been one to make my bed or tidy my room in childhood and let’s be honest, nor adulthood. So obviously I’m as happy as a clam at this news. But it’s bigger than this. It’s an opportunity for those of us chained to habits, appearances, rules, obligations and expectations to be free, let go and question old traditions.

So rip off those covers, strip those beds and rejoice in the naked beauty of your bare mattress.

Let’s now take this new freedom out of the bedroom, and into the daylight. Let’s rise up together, push back the covers on past behaviours, mess with our predictable routines and air out our issues. You now have the freedom to untuck that pretty top layer and stop the uninvited from breading.

….Well, this is my excuse for a messy bed, take it or leave it.
Want to sleep with multiplying bed bugs? Go right ahead. If you make your bed, well then you must lie in it…I dare you. But just know that if you come to visit and see my bed’s a mess, it’s because I’m a clean freak who likes to pull back the layers.

Copyright (C) 2009 By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.

The Sounds of Music.

2009-10-06T10:49:00.001-07:00

I have been here and gone elsewhere.
Turned around and looked over my shoulder.
I have sat still, climbed and searched.
I have missed it, I have found it,

And this is what I’ve heard….

The sounds of laughter, and an honest “I love you” wrapped in tight arms.
Dusk thanking me for the day, and tiptoeing children on Christmas morning.
I’ve listened to long imaginative stories told by a child.
The echo of unlived dreams, and the sharp sounds of a bitter argument.

I have listened to jokes read page after page by a 10 yr old.
7 year olds secrets shared under layers of safety
I’ve heard keypads clicking, connecting teenagers,
And a husband cooking fish for lunch.

The whisper of my inner voice, and the screams of delight on a roller coaster.
I’ve listened to pain; I’ve heard loneliness sobbing in the dark.
A dog welcoming me home, and an endless complaint.
I’ve heard the gentleness of understanding and the security of knowing.

Hear that? Right now? You may need to move in closer, or take a few steps back.
It’s a folk song, a symphony, all of life.
Hum along if you dare. Go on, tap your foot, harmonize, put down a beat.
Join in.

Yet I know I am not here to just listen, nor simply applaud.
I am here also to compose.

Copyright (C) 2009 By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved

Surrender.

2009-09-29T17:55:00.000-07:00

I watch in dread.
It weighs me down,
My body heavy, my thoughts heavy.
It’s silly really. Straight-out silly

There is nothing I can do.
But watch.
My wanting it to change, my arguing with it,
Pleading for one more day, pointless.

The leaves fall, the wind changes,
The temperatures drop. The geese fly.
My mind calling it the enemy.

I prefer,
Cloudless skies, sprinklers, and bare feet
Nights on the deck in the company of birds, laughter
and a bottle or two.
Sand toys, beach chairs and long stretched out days.
Please stay.

My preferences go unheard.
“Shh” she says, busily moving on.
I must add another layer, turn on lights, find my slippers.
My wanting doesn’t matter.
I can want all I want.
The leaves still fall.
The birds still leave.

And it is right now, at this time
that I know how small I am.
I learn my place.
And my place is here,
Where the seasons teach me
about letting go.

So I do. Let go.
Eventually, after a fight.
The snow will come and the earth will rest.
She will take this time to be still, holding my hand.
And then quietly, finally,
I surrender to the perfect rhythms
of life.

Copyright (C) 2009 By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.

Sex, Lies and Sandwiches.

2009-09-22T11:33:00.000-07:00

It started out all so simply. Mother and daughter eating a sandwich. It was like any other day. Happily, we enjoyed our lunch at the kitchen table gazing at the birdfeeders in the garden. We spoke easily of friendships, afternoon plans, and favourite ice cream flavours.

And then it changed, quietly, yet noticed. There on top of the birdfeeder, two doves.
“Ahhh”, I hear a sigh, “how sweet” you think. What a perfect picture, mother daughter and two doves. But hold on, not so quick. You can put away those images of peace doves, turtledoves, and white wedding doves. No, these were just your regular frisky lets-get-it-on doves (cue, Marvin Gaye music), and they were ruffling more than just a few feathers!
“Oh please” I thought to myself, “can’t I just eat lunch?”
As I secretly hoped my 7yr old’s attention remained on her sandwich, she looked up and then began the questions. “Why is that dove on top of the other dove?”

Now I consider myself a very open easygoing mother who has no problem with somewhat uncomfortable conversations. Puberty, sex talks, contraception? I do ok. I can even say penis and vagina now without giggling. But regardless of this, I still appreciate a little warning, and for some reason would rather not be eating a sandwich at the time.

So I said something along the lines of “ I dunno, maybe they’re playing, now finish your lunch” She decided they looked more like they were fighting. “Perhaps” I mumbled quickly changing the subject back to ice cream, guilty that I’d let this perfect teaching moment pass. Somehow I knew there would be more.

But it wasn’t about the sex, the sandwich, or about the questions. It was all about the timing. And frankly, I just wasn’t in the mood.

Copyright (C) 2009 By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.

Heart Felt.

2009-09-15T16:48:00.001-07:00

They say they know,
But they can’t. Not really.
It’s too big for this space, this moment.

They can only ever hear it with their young ears.
And feel it with their expectant hearts.
As it should be.
“Of course” they casually say.
“But Really” I push.

I can’t help myself; it forces its way to the surface.
Sometimes it’s perfect, just right.
Other times, they’re irritated and brush it to the floor.
Not now.

I watch them, wondering if they’ll ever know
these feelings.
How deep and endless they are.
How full to the top and stretched out of shape I am.

I’m practicing.
Placing the words more loosely,
letting it float gently between us.
Lets hold it together, share.
It’s for both of us.

So I will keep trying.
No matter what they do, and who they become.
Forever.
Until my throat is dry and just a whisper crawls out.
“I love you”

Copyright (C) 2009 By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved

"SHAZAM!"

2009-09-08T14:37:00.001-07:00

Nothing quite does it like the form fitting Spanx. The all-empowering under-garment that makes me believe I can conquer new worlds, turn the world on its axis, and make supermodels weep. Who knew all that power would come from simply being able to suck in my baby belly? (Can I still call it that when the baby is now 15?) Now, if only I could keep all these superpowers while I scrape the damn thing off!

But unfortunately the beloved Spanx that gave me all this power, is the very thing that taketh it away.

It was a warm July evening when I asked my young son of 10 to fold the laundry. A grave error, as I had forgotten about the Spanx in the basket. He held the garment between thumb and forefinger, nose screwed up and asked unanswerable questions followed by giggles between him and his siblings. I slunk powerless from the room. How does one explain such an undergarment to a 10 yr old boy? (I had only just recovered from a similar ‘thong’ incident the week before)

But enough! Today I regain my inner power and proudly declare that yes, indeed my body may not be in proportion; I have bigger bits here, and lumpier parts there. And no, I may not have the stomach of a teenager and take great lengths to cover the thing up. But hey, it took all my superpowers to stretch myself into this shape in the first place! And I happen to think that having a few babies requires more strength, power (and a touch of humiliation) than superman will ever know. Now step aside, I’ve got some lives to nurture, and laundry to fold.

Copyright (C) 2009 by Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.

Confessions of an Artist.

2009-09-01T06:56:00.000-07:00

I. Screw. Up.
(In case there are still a handful of you out there who hadn’t realized)
Ahh, that feels better. And I don’t mean just sometimes. No, daily, and most probably hourly if I am to be honest.

This motherhood gig is a lot harder than I thought it would be.

The wide-eyed optimism I once had has been blinded by a few chubby little fingers. Somehow my children didn’t seem to get the script I’d carefully written for them where I play the wonderfully patient calm mother and they the adoring children.

Before I had children I read just about everything that had “How to” in the title. “How to settle a crying baby, how to discipline, how to play joyfully, how to potty train, and how to smile while you’re screaming” (actually that last one is a book title I’ve been working on)

Don’t get me wrong; there are a few good books that have really helped me over the years. I’ve learnt the fine art of mixing a cocktail in under 20 seconds, how to change locks, and know at precisely what moment to take three children shoe shopping.

Lets face it. You put a group of people together, some smaller, some bigger; it’s going to get messy. The little people don’t quite act the way the big people want them to, the big people try to change that using various methods, and before you know it your life looks like a Jackson Pollock painting.

Then we all go to bed and hope to do better tomorrow. And mostly, we do.

But here’s where I’m in luck, the smaller people are really really good at forgiving the bigger people for screwing up. And because of that we create this thing together, it’s hard to tell what it is up close, you may need to step back a bit, but be careful, it’s still wet.

Copyright (C) By Meg lawton 2009. All Rights Reserved.

Road To Now.

2009-08-25T14:16:00.000-07:00

We were somewhere in Ohio when it happened. And I’ll admit, it caught me quite off guard; I wasn’t looking for it, or expecting it. It just happened.

Our family was on a road trip to a wonderful little place up state New York, a vacation we’d been looking forward to for some time and we just couldn’t wait to get there.

Now road trips these days with portable DVD players, vans with actual legroom and air-conditioning are far from my childhood memories; sweaty legs sticking to vinyl seats, wet towels hanging over windows and always having one brothers knee and the other brothers elbow in “my” space. However, for some reason the universal cry of thirst, hunger and “Are we there yet?” still echoes across the generations. And regardless of the extra space, (and I suspect they could even be in separate cars) someone is always touching someone.
Perhaps you may live by the golden rule “love one another”, but in our family, it’s “keep your hands to yourself.”

So, there we were coasting along the freeway when it hit me. I’m so glad I spotted it as it really could have passed me by as quickly as the cornfields. It was silent. It was ordinary. It was simple. All three children and husband were reading quietly. But for some reason I just happened to notice that I was completely and utterly happy.

Right there, in Ohio, on a freeway. Who would’ve thought? How weird was that? I wasn’t doing the usual happy-inducing activities such as enjoying a frozen margarita with the locals in a little Mexican village, or having a healthy bowel movement, or even indulging in an afternoon nana-nap (yes, I’m a simple girl)….nope, I was just driving. Endlessly driving.

I sat there staring at the straight and endless road in front of me, knowing with absolute certainty that I did not want to be doing anything else with anybody else. And with complete clarity right there (somewhere) I knew that our vacation, as with life, was all about the journey. I didn’t have to wait to get there. There was already here.

Copyright (C) by Meg Lawton 2009. All Rights Reserved.

Earth Mother vs Drama Queen.

2009-08-17T16:54:00.000-07:00

Ever noticed that really thin line between a perfectly wonderful moment, and hating your entire life? (Please say it isn’t just me! Seriously, please, email me, like, now) It’s like an invisible wire that trips you up without warning or notice. Oh you’ll be going about you day gaily with a song in your heart and a skip in your step, then "Bam", you’re flat on your face eating dirt.

Recently for a short few minutes I thought I might just have a chance to win “Earth Mother of the Year” and even went looking for my application. It was a rare moment when my children were happily playing in a cardboard box while the smell of fresh baked organic whole grain muffins wafted throughout the house. Children’s laughter filled my heart and the birds sang a song of praise for all the goodness I had personally brought to the day.

I whispered a thankful prayer to the universe for my amazing life, as happiness and peace washed over my soul.
“Damn I’m good” I thought to myself, and was on the verge of calling a friend to tell them just how perfect my life was, when "Bam", I'm on my face eating dirt.

Oh I don’t know the details but the screeching voice of my 6yr old crying though desperate tears “I’m dying” are all that remain with me this day.

Was she badly injured you ask? Perhaps some terrible accident with the cardboard box, a paper cut across her jugular? No, the 6 yr old was, thirsty. And well, one thing lead to another and within seconds the birds had fallen from the trees and the muffins were burnt.

I’m constantly amazed at how children can catastrophise. I’m so glad we outgrow crying because we’re too hot, thirsty or bored. I’m so glad we no longer cry, “I’m dying” when we’re thirsty expecting others to run with a cup of water and place it lovingly at our lips. I’m so glad I’ve grown out of the stage of catastrophising every little thing, and being so quick to feel like my day is ruined because someone didn’t act the way I expected them to. Phew, it’s so nice to be a grown up without having tantrums without the high drama, to have patience with what is and compassion for what isn’t.

But man I hate this dirt in my mouth and I’m dying for a drink.

Copyright (C) 2009 By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.

Reflection

2009-08-11T05:00:00.000-07:00

He was curled up in my lap, back when he used to fit. An image that is difficult to bring forward as he now stands over 6 foot. But yes, there was a time he fit snugly, like a puzzle piece.

The afternoon was a particularly lazy one. No place to be, no plans made. So we sat, we thought, and we chatted, fitting together as we should. Mother and young son.
Oh I guess it was probably for just 15 minutes or so, but in a mother's memory it becomes hours. Hours of sitting.

It was just the two of us in that moment, but only I knew his world would one day change. At 4 he didn't know about change, at 4 this world was the only world. This lap of mine belonged to him and only him. My love- all his.

He shifted his weight, legs straddled either side, so he could see my face, feel my tummy.
"In here?" he questioned in a doubtful voice
"Yes" I answered in a reassuring voice.
"What will it look like?" we had both wondered together.
"Oh I think a little bit of you, and a little bit of me", we agreed.

At this he studied my face closely. He came right up to me, his breath tickling my nose
"Well. I hope it has your eyes," he finally says with certainty. We are now only inches apart.
"Why" I ask.
"Because I can see myself"

From Pickles to Pancakes

2009-08-04T05:00:00.000-07:00

Little mouth forming shapes, voice not yet daring to speak.
Then courage tiptoes in, a whisper faintly heard……..
"pppp….." nearly there I patiently hold my breath…..yes you can do it I will my 6y r old silently.
"ppppp…." She tries again.
"pickles?" she questions, little eyes willing me to affirm her best attempt.
Oh I wish it were pickles, but I gently say,
"Good try, close, it's actually pancakes"
Then we both burst into laughter, as pickles really isn't anything like pancakes. She knows I'm just being a mum at this point, encouraging and softening the blow of misread words. Gently sweeping away the stumble with love. She see's through me, she doesn't mind, she laughs.

A child learning to read has to be one of my favourite parts of parenting. Right up there with cuddles and trust. Their mouths trying with all their little might to get just the right shape. Then that little voice with all the certainty it can muster with a ton of hope weighing it down, finally delight. Oh the delight.

How easy it is for us adults to jump in all too quickly, end the suffering, blurt out "pancakes" after the first attempt. We know the puzzle; they haven't yet found the hidden key. I just want to unlock it all, kick that book wide open, walk on in and dance ahead. But now this is her turn. Tonight it was pickles followed by laughter, tomorrow she will read pancakes.

There will be more words, more mistakes, and more laughter. I hope her spirit will remain as willing and courageous as it is this very night.

How do we guide, teach, and encourage these young spirits so they can laugh through their mistakes, and ours? Any suggestions? I'm wide open.

Loving Dreams

2009-07-29T05:00:00.000-07:00

His body is warm, tangled in blankets.
A lump.
Each breath in - dreaming of what might be,
Each breath out - glad for what was.
In - asking, out - thanking.

A beautiful rhythm, a chant, a prayer.

He rests peacefully knowing the reality of his outer world, now meets the possibilities of his inner world. Each night as his eyes close, all lines blur.

I tiptoe in, not daring to disturb this magical dance. Each night I am beckoned to watch, to sit gently on the edge of his bed, the edge of his dreams.

Me awake, him asleep. I lean in close, as whisper just touching his ear “I love you”, hoping to somehow become a part of his dream, to reach into that inner world and gently place the words safely down. Every now and then he reaches out of his dream and gives me one of the greatest gifts. A sleepy arm finds it’s way out of the blankets, finds my neck and pulls me close, and in a croaky voice he will breathe right back, “I love you too”

Somehow these words sound more real, more true even more awake to me than at any other time. When he says them in his sleep, they are a part of him, not just in his wakeful logical mind, but in that hidden beneath part, in his secret space, in his dreams.

I say a little thankyou, kiss his cheek and tiptoe out, knowing he will not remember this moment, knowing I will never forget it.

Go In Peace.

2009-07-21T14:12:00.001-07:00

I do yoga, not well, but I do it.
I do fine with the crescents, half moons, full moons, crocodiles, dogs, cats, cows as well as other various animals and solar objects. I can balance with a heel tucked into my groin, (yes, even my own heel) I squat in various positions that I’m not sure how to get out of, and hold “chair” till I weep, often opting for the “bar stool” position our lovely instructor suggests for those of us struggling.

But it is the last 10 minutes spread out on my back in meditation that I don’t do so well with. My body longs for this time the entire hour. As I hold plank cursing the day I was born, I try to turn my mind to the reward at the end of class, ahhh, meditation!

Eventually I drop my bag of bones down on the mat and let the peace wash over me. Only, the peace never quite washes, it’s more of an annoying dribble. Teasing, taunting, testing, trying, tempting…. (And yes, peace likes alliteration, who knew) And this is where it all goes wrong.

Our instructor’s soft voice innocently asks us one simple question and this is how it goes.
She, in all her goodness says “close your eyes, breathe…” yadda, yadda yadda…
And then here it is the one seemingly harmless question “now imagine your favourite place, the place that brings you peace, that calms and renews you. Perhaps it’s a beach, or the woods, or on your favourte couch….”

Me: “Right, peaceful place, peaceful place… ahh, yes, lets see, it has to be my childhood beach, with the gentle waves kissing the shore, a pleasant breeze perhaps, perfect….oh no, what about that wonderful spot on the bay, oh yes, I loved going down there watching the children dance in delight as the pippies bubbled around their toes at low tide……….hang on, wait a minute, no no, I really love that bench under the Moreton Bay fig trees with a view of the harbour boats as the sun glistens on the water like shards of cut glass, just stunning…mmmmn, or what about just out the back of our house here in the woods, on a winters night with the snow tucking it’s blanket around the earth? Now that’s peace, talk about peace…no actually, it’s really just got to be in bed, not having anything to do, anywhere to be, to go…
Ahhh yes bed, I wish I were in bed now…so tired…”

Instructor: “Ok, so come back slowly from your peaceful place now, waking gently to this moment before you…”

And there it is folks, it’s true. I can turn the simple task of finding one peaceful place into something close to sitting for a final year law exam.
Apparently I have just too much peace in my life to be at peace! And now excuse me while I chase after my mind, it’s gone running into a forest which I can’t see for the trees…

Copyright (C) 2009 By Meg Lawton. All RIghts Reserved.

In Her Shoes

2009-07-13T17:41:00.000-07:00

They chant her name the minute she walks in.
The shine, the glitter calling her over. Her little face wide open to the delight before her.
She hadn’t yet imagined this possibility, but now it is right before her.
And she hopes.

Yet, she is pulled in another direction, the one of her mothers.
The adults speak; something about size, colour, season.
Odd things really, she thinks in her little mind now filled with sparkles.

She sits, and boxes appear.
Her bare foot ready, poised for dressing.
Dressing up in all the fantasies of a little girl.
Ready to dance and skip and fly.

But, her mother doesn’t know about these dreams.
She has reasons, errands and more to do. Always more.
The shoes are bought, they fit well.
They do not sparkle.

As they leave the shop,
The mother says something about “sensible".
The little girl doesn’t know what this word means,
but she knows that it probably doesn't sparkle.

Copyright (C) 2009 By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.

A Note Of Thanks

2009-07-06T13:47:00.000-07:00

Shhh… be quiet, be still, be.

It waits for us patiently, all day sitting in the center of the table. It holds two origami peace cranes; one perfect, made by a friend, the other precious made by our 6 yr old.

Eventually at the end of one lot of busyness, and before another kind begins, we sit at the table for dinner. The peace cranes are casually placed on the table, meaning taken if one finds meaning there that day.

With hands held, we tap the bowl, and breathe deeply, fully, thankfully until the bowl no longer sings. We breathe and we reflect, we breathe and we feel, we breathe and we notice. I think this has to be one of my favourite parts of the day. The touching, the breathing the being together. Really together, in that one moment. And then it’s gone. We eat, and it’s a new moment.

Now, in all honesty, some nights it just doesn’t work the way I want it to. Some nights there are muffled giggles, outright laughter and some nights there are eyes wide open shooting cranky glares while someone is squeezing too tight. Each night is different, yet each night we continue this practice. It is a practice. To be still enough to hear the words that we find within us that day.

The cranes are put back, table cleared, kitchen cleaned and the little brass bowl waits till tomorrow to sing another thankful note.
………………

I’m not usually one for rituals, I get bored, they loose meaning over time. But somehow this one has remained a true part of our day. I’d love to hear of any rituals that work for your family.

Copyright (C) 2009 by Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.

Feast of love

2009-06-30T08:51:00.000-07:00

We’ve all heard it, the question we dread, usually around 5ish in our house (but can be asked any time from midmorning too) It’s the question I asked my mum, and the one she asked hers, it’s simple and innocent enough, but gives me a shudder most days. It’s the dreaded “What’s for dinner?” question. It will bounce around in my empty mind until I can fake a way out. (But the “look, there’s a bird” technique really only works the once.)

I don’t consider myself a great cook, but I do ok. I do the collective sigh at 5:00 with all the other mums around the world, when we just want to blink a meal out of thin air. I have often been known to stare into the cupboard waiting for inspiration for a good 20 minutes.
“Lets see…rice and… or perhaps pasta and…or maybe noodles and …….” It’s always the AND that catches me up. So there are just some nights I reach for the cereal box instead
“It’s breakfast-for-dinner-night kids!” I exclaim to excited children,
“Woohoo!” they shout, hugging the best mother in the world.

But usually I rustle something up involving organic wholegrain, veggies and a variety of protein. I’ve got it pretty good. I cook just one meal and everyone eats it. For the most part, happily.

Many mothers do this ritual all around the world, every night with little fuss or bother. It’s a thankless mundane and constant chore. I have only met a few men in recent days that do not have to turn this task into some sort of major production. (Why is it that cooking a meal for many men can become such a performance that it requires sound checks and ticket sales?)

But on with the show! Balance and timing, juggling and pleasing. A little more of this, a little less of “that”. It’s a delicate dance to keep it all hot, keep everyone happy and to meet the various evening deadlines that life demands.

Steam, voices, smells, questions, hot pots, boiling pots, advice, suggestions, demands, timing, straining, pouring, serving.

While I sit watching my family eat happily, chatting about the day, engaging in this moment, I realise I have done more than simply feed my family a meal, I’ve cooked them up a feast of love.

Copyright (C) 2009 by Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.

Guilt Trip

2009-06-22T18:06:00.001-07:00

Have you ever bumped into it? You know, the wall? The one between the mothers who work and the mothers who, well, work....  what can't see tell the difference? Well, let me just point it out to you. One has a whole lot of guilt, and well, the other one has a whole lot of guilt. Yeh, a little tricky to spot at first I admit, but on closer inspection a painful awkwardness trips her up.

"So what do you do?" one mother asks another mother at a party. 
"Oh I’m a lawyer/sales rep/teacher/yoga instructor, and what do you do?"
 "Oh I’m a stay at home mother." (Also known as “CEO of the family business”)
Silence, then guilt.  "Well nice meeting you." Then quickly, they both look around for a non-mother type, the one without the guilt dripping off her and leaving a messy trail for others to slip in.

From the moment of conception, mother and guilt become fast friends. You will not find one without the other. While pregnant we will drink in the bitter taste of guilt in a cup of caffeine and spit it out as we send our toddler to their room, and take away the car keys from our teenager. We invite guilt over after every decision we make to help us second guess our way through the next one.

But I say "Enough!" Whether we choose to shop at the local farmers market or Wal-Mart, whether we clean our own homes or get help, and even if we choose full fat triple swirl fudge ice-cream over organic sorbet, and certainly whether we work within or outside the home: "Enough!"

I have this sneaking suspicion that mothers are our own worst enemies. Not only do we flounder away in our own muddy guilt, but also we prefer to drag a few others in with us (just threw that image of mud-wrestling in for my male readers). We cake it all over ourselves, then sling a little more “her” way.

But today I ask all mothers (from whichever side of the wall we ourselves have built) to be kind, be gentle, be forgiving, to let it go...and for the sake of our families, go have a shower; that guilt really stinks!

Copyright (C) 2009 By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.

A Special Delivery

2009-06-16T09:00:00.001-07:00

“Oh the house you’ve bought is in the best location” a local friend exclaimed after we signed the papers.
“Yes, it’s a walk to the beach, 5 minutes from the ski hill, we can ride bikes down town for dinner, we back onto the woods, it’s quiet and private…” my list went on and on.
“Yes, yes, all that” she says a little bored. “But also, you’re now on Dave’s route!”
Apparently Dave alone was worth buying this house for. Who is Dave you ask? Dave is our postman. And after having him for 5 years, back off, he’s OURS.

It begins with a toot of his horn, then a hearty wave and cheery “Hello”. The children run eagerly to say hi to him and collect the mail and chat happily. They drag their friends out to meet him and stop whatever game they’re in the middle of to see him. Our visiting parents all know him, and he knows them by name. He brightens an ordinary moment and gives the kids treats.

But it is not about the candy; you would miss the whole entire point if you thought it was about the candy. No it’s so much more.

And this is how the story goes.
6yr old screams to brother “Its Dave, its Dave” as they scramble to get their shoes on (they have often run out in socks through the snow just so they wont miss him.) And together they race each other to their friend in the postal truck. But of course Dave doesn’t work every day of the week. And on his off days we have a different postman. This postman is your regular guy. Oh he’s fine, he gets the job done; no fuss no bother, just delivers. He’s ok. But he’s not Dave.

“Oh, it’s the other one today” they tell me with slumped shoulders
“What’s his name?” I ask. None of us know.

One day I asked the kids who they thought was having more fun doing the job, Dave, or the guy without a name. They said Dave of course.
I asked “how can one postman enjoy it so much, and the other not seem to, when in fact they do the exact same job?” I point out how they drive the same truck; drop off the same mail to the same houses. They see the same people; they have the same breaks and see the same things. Yet one is happy, and one seems bored.

“Hmmm” it didn’t make sense. It was a puzzle. 1 job, 2 men, and a world of difference.

Dave has become the living example of what you put out is what you get back. We’ve discussed that how we treat others will effect how they treat us, how happiness spreads, the laws of attraction and how good it feels to give. How we all have a choice to find the good, and even have the power to create good in a situation.

So if one of the kids complain that something will be boring or that they don’t want to go somewhere, I now ask a simple question,
“Are you Dave, or no-name? Who do you want to be? What do you want to create?”
They will fight over being Dave, “No I’m Dave today”,
“Stop it”, I say,
“We can all be Dave.”

Copyright (C) 2009 by Meg Lawton. All rights Reserved.

Finders Givers

2009-06-08T10:49:00.001-07:00

They gather things. Together, separately.
Bits. Pieces. All very important.
Often a precious rock (broken asphalt), or a note (on scrap paper).
Sometimes a rainbow (piece of string), or a piece of gold (yellow button).
Now and then, a valuable coin (found in a dusty corner)

But always love. Right there on my bedside table.
My little hunters and gatherers going throughout the day,
Leaving me gifts to discover later.
They rest these treasures where they will be safe.
I will take care of them, in my heart.

They are small, the givers and their things.
After all, string can fit in your pocket; a note will fold in your palm.
But truly these gifts cannot fit on my bedside table.
They fill the room, fill my life.
And spill into others.
Here, have a button.

Stepping Up

2009-06-01T07:06:00.000-07:00

I’ve avoided all gyms at all costs. Oh I’ve seen the people that walk out of those places, all muscular and well proportioned (except for some freakish guys who just don’t know when to call it a day) And then there are the cute little outfits, tops that don’t cover the essential areas (ah, jelly-belly) and pants that are so tight you can’t wear undies. I’ve never once been inspired to step foot inside such a place.

But the local YMCA is nothing like other gyms. The Y is inspirational. The trim and tight do nothing for me, no, it’s older set I find so inspiring. Perhaps it was the way they wear their jeans on the treadmill, or how a group of men walking fast-paced never draw breath around the indoor track while gossiping the entire time. But I think it’s the fact they are twice my age pushing twice the weights I that I can.

I’ve tried the weights and cardio room, along with yoga. And one day, against my better judgment I turned up to a “step” class. I had been talked into it by another mum, one who had said “oh no, you don’t need co-ordination, it’s very easy” (I hadn’t noticed her snicker at the time)

Well, the fast paced music and the instructor with the headset looking like Madonna should’ve given it away. I should have turned around the minute I saw those steps piled high and heard the thumping fast paced beat, (a combination that shouldn’t be in the same room.) With my steps wedged between two others, somewhere closer to the front than I’d wished, I began to follow the leader. It was easy at first, up and down, to the left and the right, my confidence grew, but not for long.

Before I knew it, another 37 steps were added to the routine; left over right, then a hop, skip, turn, switch feet mid-air, jump, kick to the right, to the left, face the other way and go backwards, upside-down, flip into the air, slide, slide, do a 360 degree turn, and land facing to the east.
Repeat.

Well, I fumbled my way through this twice until what is now referred to by locals as “the incident”. Somehow I managed to not quite step on the step (who moved it anyway!?) and my ankle turned in such a manner that I went flying (which was actually step #38) knocking over 3 people to the right of me, and somehow, one 5 rows back (I don’t know how, but she did blame me in a medical report made at the hospital later that morning)

Needless to say, I returned to the class the following week. Yes, that’s right, I DID return to the class the following week. Now maybe you’re more of the mindset that once you have completely embarrassed yourself in front of 30 or so people (and injuring 4 others) you may like to hide for the rest of your life. But no, I’m more the type of person who wants to show everyone that I’m not in fact embarrassed (when I am in fact embarrassed) so to prove to everyone (because they just care so much) that I am bigger than my uncoordinated body. I returned to class (quietly nursing both bruised ankle and ego) to complete another painful hour.

Lesson learned, know my limits, then step on them.

The Big Bang

2009-05-26T12:18:00.001-07:00

Most of you haven’t seen me in the morning, for those of you who have, I apologise. I’m one of those people who would happily grunt till midday, one might say I’m not really a “morning person”. No; my sunny disposition doesn’t kick in till much later.
So with my big old bead-head, sleep breath, and wearing whatever t-shirt was lying closest to the bed, I fumble through my morning routines.

Tomato and basil sandwich for one, the other wants tuna today. I grab various snack items, juice box, and check; lunches are made. Now for the cereal and toast requests, hair brushing, forms that need a signature for who knows what.

Clothes, teeth and hunting down that most important item for “sharing” which we seemed to have lost between carefully placing it on the kitchen counter at bedtime last night and waking this morning.

But today was a little different. Yes today I had to answer the normal questions posed at 7:30am, “do I need my coat?” and “why can’t school only be 4 days a week?”
But on this day, another question was hurled in my direction, completely catching my unawakened body off balance.

“Do you believe in the Big Bang or that God made the world?”
Ahhh, yes, my 6yr olds never-not-for-a-moment restful mind.
Now? You need to know right now? I wonder as I find my sons lost shoe amongst the legos. Like you want the whole entire run down of why and how we came to be here, at 7:30 in the morning while my brain pretends it’s back in bed asleep?

“Well, I know it wasn’t made in 7 days, and yes, I do think there was a Big Bang, and I think the world has evolved since.” Oh I then say something about scientists, and fossils and the ice age and meteors and atoms, and perhaps even something about how fingernails keep growing after you die. (No, I don’t know why)

And at that the 6 yr old replies, “Wow, it must have been really loud!”
“What?”
“The bang” she says
I stop myself just in time before I say something silly about how there wouldn’t have been anyone around, so would it really be loud if there was nobody to hear it?
“Yes, it would have been really big”

She thought hard for a moment and happily concluded,
“Ahh, so that’s why God called it the Big Bang.”

The Teachers Gift.

2009-05-18T08:16:00.000-07:00

Knees tucked up under chin. We cuddle under blankets and chat, we sip our tea.
Together, the two of us on an evening porch.
We watch the birds come and go from the feeder; we count the hummingbird’s visits till we forget. We made it to 9. He is 9.
His face is bright in the dimming light,
His voice carried on the wings of birds, to rest on fresh spring branches. The magnolia listens in, joins in.
Again we sip, our tea.

It was his teacher’s idea. So we let her sit with us on our porch that night too.
His class brought home teabags and cookies for Mothers day. “Tea for two”. So much better than a coloured-in-something that gets thrown away.
You can’t throw away a special moment with your son. That’s a mothers day gift you keep. In your heart.

The teacher is special not because of the way she teaches, although she does this well.
No, it’s because of her gentle thoughtfulness, and her understanding of what is needed. She knows that time, just mother and child is a gift. She reminded me, I sometimes forget.

So we sip tea, on the porch with the birds and the magnolia.
He continues to chat, about stuff. Important stuff.
And quietly I thank his teacher.

A Close Shave

2009-05-11T16:37:00.000-07:00

I try to have a conversation from the bedroom. He was in the bathroom.
“So what did you say?” he asked paying only ½ attention. I sat in a huff on the edge of the bed putting on my socks. The day was beginning. It was an ordinary moment in an ordinary day.

“Didn’t I tell you about it earlier?” a conversation fast becoming confusing.
No response. Agh, he never listens I tell myself once again, piling it on top of all the other complaints that mound up over 20 years.
I look up, and just through the opening to the bathroom I see him. I stop. I take this moment. I let go and I watch.

White faced, thick and fluffy. Bare chest, the one I know so well. Strong and solid. He stood exposed, present, focused.

Tap, tap tapping on the sink. The blade washed clean. His arm rose once again. The arm that shovels the snow, that reaches for his daughters hand crossing a street, that pushes a bike up a hill for a weary son, the arm that holds us all at various times.

This arm now rises to shave a clear path a path well known. The motion repeated; tapping, rinsing, raising arm, clearing path. A ritual, a daydream, an ordinary thing turned magical just because I noticed. The mere act of noticing casts a mighty spell.

Then “poof”, it vanishes, I’m so thankful to have caught this one. Young 8-year-old runs in yelling “my turn” and his dad plasters his face with the foam, another ritual begins.

My earlier conversation tiptoes back into the room a little more lightly.

The Constant Gardener

2009-05-05T13:57:00.001-07:00

I just spent the afternoon with a friend. She and I in the garden, together in the dirt. I’m not much of a gardener, can barely tell the difference between a weed and perennial poking through. (I exclaim, “oh look, there’s my first marigold” and she laughs, it’s a dandelion.) But I do like a nice garden.

5 springs ago she welcomed us with 8 large pots overflowing with colourful flowers. I thanked her, and apologized in advance, I knew it would only be a matter of weeks until they died. She wouldn’t let me, apologise nor let them die. And they didn’t.

She taught me, inspired me and helped me grow the garden I didn’t realize I needed. I had never been through a harsh Michigan winter and had no idea how much I would need a garden to celebrate new life.

So, today we prepared the earth, nurtured new shoots and sat on our knees in the midst of possibilities. She is with me every spring, by my side in the soil, fingernails dirty, smile on her face, cap on her head. I look forward to our spring connection, to digging again after a long winter. We chat and listen to the earth.

Cancer may have taken Karen two years ago, but she will always remain with me in each flower I plant, each weed I pull and in every bud I admire. Those 8 pots have now grown into a garden of loving memories, endless possibilities and certainty that life continues.

Weeping with Laughter

2009-04-27T08:27:00.001-07:00

Ever watch your children and envy them? And I don’t just mean when they can do back flips over the couch without having to see the chiropractor the next day. Nor am I talking about their ability to sing out loud an entire song without knowing the words.. And although I don’t quite understand the desire to lie fully clothed in a puddle, it does look kind of fun.

No, I’m not talking about any of these things; I’m talking about envying their laughter, their giggles, over nothing. What can they see that I can’t? Why does something sound hilarious to them and to not me, not one bit? It’ not fair, I want a piece of the action. Please explain I’d ask, but it’s in their language and they can’t. I guess I need to be 9.

There are days when it’s plain and simple. I have no humour, and there is absolutely nothing to laugh about. They’ll be giggling about something and I will, yes I admit it, it can at times, well, irritate me…. there, I’ve said it. I’m not proud about it, but the joy of my children can annoy me!

They can be laughing so hard at who knows what….and I think I may have even said, on occasion “stop laughing” just because I don’t get it and have more important things than such silliness. Please don’t misunderstand me, there’s nothing wrong with me, I can chuckle with the best of them at a good knock knock joke, but there are days when I just don’t get it.

So when my mother-in-law exclaimed how green the weeping willow in our front yard looked, but in fact called it the “weeping willy” we giggled. We giggled like we were kids, it was silly. In fact, I giggled to myself all afternoon, and soon it became clear, I was being childish, and then I laughed all the more.

The Bird Feeder

2009-04-20T09:07:00.000-07:00

He stands, he waits. He has all the patience required for such a job.

I have all these bird feeders about. You see, I’m a bit of a bird woman (not one of those ones who feed pigeons in parks…not yet, not today)

I love birds, their appearing,
right there, then dashing off.
Oh come back, you just arrived,
And then they would.

He continues to stand, hands held out, still.

I make sure the feeders are full. Always have seed on hand.
“Shoo you pesky squirrels, yes you are cute, and try so hard, but this is not for you.”
They don’t listen; it’s a battle I continue in mock disgust.

He knows they will come, trying to speak their language, calling.

No restraints, the sky really is their limit. They live the dreams of children, to fly.
High. Haven’t we all, dreamed those dreams of freedom? To be above looking down, to see the big picture, carefree?

He is grounded, not moving. No wings. No need for the big picture, he has now.

I watch, through the window. He stands out on the front lawn, motionless. Beautiful.
Please, please……just fly down and feed from his hands today. He’s been waiting for you. He is loyal.
But the birds fly past him so he tells himself a story as to why they didn’t visit today, a story that ends with,
maybe tomorrow.

Of all the feeders I have, he is my favourite.

Kitchen Sink

2009-04-13T09:58:00.001-07:00

I learnt one of my biggest life lessons at the kitchen sink.
I stood there. At the kitchen sink. Me and my yellow-gloved hands mindlessly going through the motions.
My kids arguing about something (again)
My husband out of town (again)
Me washing up (again)

Could it be any more boring? Is this it? My mind wandered off to far-away lands where mothers felt fulfilled in daily tasks, and pigs flew.

And then a little tap-tap at my mind, let me in the whisper begged.
I had been reading a book on Buddhism, and how to meditate. No, not the type of meditation in a darkened room, with the lights low and candle in a corner. No a different meditation, done during the ordinary moments, in the midst of everyday stuff, right while it’s happening. This moment was surely one of them!

Right, I inhaled, what did it say…oh yes.
Focus. Be present, say out loud each movement and thought. This is silly I told myself. “It wont help.” I then told the bubbles.

But I took a breath; I stood, at the kitchen sink.
And began in a mutter, feeling silly, “I am picking up a glass, putting glass into sink, hands are in sink, sink is my world right now. There is only the sink. I am the sink” (well, no I didn’t quite get to that bit)

I repeated this a few times, with dish, with bowl with peanut butter dried up on knife.
Breath, focus, notice, notice it all.

Then what? Stillness. There it was, inside of me. A gift left by an anonymous friend. A meal in a time of need. Nourishment.
The arguing kids were still arguing, but I wasn’t. I was no longer arguing with myself. Fighting against what is.

No, it was calm because all I heard was all that is. In that moment. No judgment, no hopelessness, no looking for the nearest exists.
Sink and me.

The Dancer

2009-04-06T17:54:00.000-07:00

Toe pointed toward the floor. Fingers soft, waiting.
She thinks nobody is watching.
She is wrong.
She thinks she is alone to just try, give it a go.
She is not.

I spy from the kitchen doorway, glancing up occasionally trying not to be seen.

The dial is turned louder, the music now bigger filling the room.
Her body understands the rhythm, has heard it before.
She leaps, twists, turns, jumps across her imagined stage.

I sneak a peek just in time to see the delight in her eyes as she hops on one foot then the other, no, not quite graciously, but oh so beautifully.

My eyes wont leave her. Her joy has mixed with the music, and wafts it’s way over to a mother with jobs to do.

Then
She sees me. The spell is broken.
She stops. The dancing, the safety, the freedom is finished.
Her stage is packed up and returns to being a family room with a pile of laundry to fold in one corner.

Oh no, what has this mother done. What can she do to fix it?

I push the lounge back out of the way and forget about the dinner.
I grab my little teachers forgiving hand.
Maybe we wont eat tonight.
But we will dance.

The Magic of Reality

2009-03-31T17:32:00.000-07:00

Nope, never was a fan of “The Hobbit”. (Insert gasp here) Fantasy just isn’t a genre I’m drawn to. Guess I’ve always been a realist, even as a child (some may even say cynic!)

It’s true, I do not like talking animals, time travel, princesses, and unexplained tricks where brooms multiply, where ugly beasts turn handsome with a mere kiss, and where oompaloompas work happily without swimming naked in chocolate rivers…..come on people, you buy this stuff?

But, I must confess I do have one exception. My favourite childhood book was “watership down”, but it is questionable if this is in fact fantasy, I mean, don’t you think rabbits have daily discussions about the impending doom inflicted on their homes by us humans? And if they don't, well i think they should.

So where does this leave me as a mother of three very creative, imaginative children?

I’ll tell you where, balancing on the edge of sarcasm (with tongue firmly wedged in cheek, “yes, yes…you look just like a big scary 2 headed monster walking across a tightrope eating a hot dog”) and envy.

I envy that others can enjoy, relax and escape into the world of magic. Where witches melt, boys never grow up (oh, just a minute, I do kinda believe in that one) where ghosts are friendly, where you can walk through a wardrobe into a kingdom where a lion saves you by dying, oh and don’t forget the all important lessons of good triumphing over evil. (and that you can even tell the difference between good and evil simply by how pretty or ugly they are)

Oh I wish it were all that simple, that easy, that wonderful. The secret is that I actually do want to live in a land of chocolate rivers and handsome princes, or just a land where someone (anyone, doesn't even have to be a naked prince) cooked dinner would be fantasy enough for me!

So when I do need a little magic in my life, I just look over at my wonder filled children creating and experimenting. “Flying” off the steps landing with a thud in the hallway. Yes, who needs flying elephants, when my own children can fly? Who needs "spiderman", when my children can climb the walls? And who needs Tinkerbell when I have a little fairy fluttering through the kitchen?

But a fairy godmother…..….now that would be nice.

Mind Full Worry

2009-03-25T07:32:00.000-07:00

“There is nothing you can do about it,” He tells me, as if that is going to make me feel any better. I’m now taking huge deep breaths and focusing on puppies and rainbows.
I never had a fear of flying until my children were born, then all of a sudden at take-off all I saw were images of clutching my children, desperately telling them how much I loved them as we plummet in a fire ball to the ground.

“Don’t you ever feel scared?” I ask my levelheaded husband, “aren’t you worried this is it, our time’s up?” I beg some understanding, a smidgen of ‘yes-dear’, (or even an hysterical “yes damn it, you’re right, we’re all about to die” would make feel better) but nope, I just sit next to him continuing to sweat beads of worry for us both.

Figured it out yet? Yes, I have been known to worry on occasion.
Common to all at various times, but don’t you think Motherhood dumps a whole truckload of worry on your doorstep the minute of conception?
“You’re pregnant” is then directly followed by the worry of,
Can I do this parent thing?
Will I miscarry? Have a stillbirth? Have a healthy child? Will he get cancer? Will some drink driver run her over? Will he take up smoking? Will she hate me? Will he know how much I already love him? Will she binge drink in college? Will he be happy?
…….all this even before I leave the doctors office!
The initial elation long gone as I drag my burdened mind out into the scary world of tragic possibilities.

There are plenty of things I can do in this world to prevent and change outcomes. Forethought and careful planning have a place. Yes, I can choose healthy organic foods for my family, cuddle my children endlessly, make sure they brush their teeth, wrap them tightly in cotton wool and never ever let them out of the house. Sure, I can control that, but what about the other stuff.

What about the plane?

Three words.
Detach, breathe, and eat.

“There is nothing you can do” hurts, cuts deep, and cannot possibly be true!

“I am woman! I am all knowing, all powerful, hear me roar!”

“Will the angst, fear, worry and horrific images in your head change anything? Will you sitting here creating this drama in your mind change anything? This plane will or will not take off in a minute regardless off what your mind is doing? May as well spend these few minutes checking out what movies we’re going to watch for the next 16 hours”.
He says.

Hmmmmm, I’m now completely disarmed. Giving up my stories, my endless chatter about how we’re all going to die, giving up my pretend control my make believe power…..what’s left? Are you really sure I cannot fly this plane from row 48B?”

So I sit. “Get down” I commanded my mind as it begins to jump back up demanding attention, nipping at my conscious state.
Now what? I think to myself as wide-open spaces appear in my mind

It’s time to buckle up buttercup.

Loving Dreams

2009-03-13T00:20:00.000-07:00

Guess Who

2009-03-05T07:45:00.000-08:00

The glass coffee jars my dad had collected to store various dry ingredients have been a part of my kitchen for 20 years. They have traveled oceans, unpacked and been crammed into various cupboards during this time. My main problem is that I keep changing what’s in them. I’ve used sticky labels, written on them in permanent marker, one will be flour, then sugar a while later. What was once a container for coconut is now holding salt.

Now this is fine, as I can usually see the contents, and the old label wears off. But every now and then, that permanent marker actually works and I’m in a muddle. Is that self-raising flour in there, or plain…oh no, disaster strikes, will my orange cake rise?

I guess I can see my own reflection in these jars. I can see the worn out label stating what I once was, now fading. The sticky label peeling off at the corner, now written over. “Sinner” “Christian” “atheist”. Oh and then there are the ones other people have tried to paste onto me. “Weird” Buddhist” “new age”.

We seem to have an obsession with labeling and boxing one another, thinking we know others enough to tie them up in one word. “That’s that” we say relieved, and nod a pleased “yes” to ourselves. Done, I know who you are. You are one word. Now stay!

But we also seem to have to label ourselves too. It unites, comforts…”are you like me?” We ask each other hopefully. We need to belong. It stablises us, confirms our rightness. Ah, yes, I am ok because I am not alone.

Well, much time has passed, I’ve tried a few labels on too over those 20 years, tossed a few aside, until now, I take a breath, and relax back into my newest label. The one that feels most right, most comfortable, most true.

“SBNR” ahhhhhhh, I smile, yes.

“Spiritual But Not Religious”, yes, that is me.

Time to open that top drawer and dig out the permanent marker. This one is going to stick.

Ten Things Mums of Teens Should Consider

2009-03-01T17:07:00.000-08:00

1. Before you do a thing –go buy a paper bag. Place said bag over head in public at all times. You are always embarrassing. (thanks mum for this tip!)

2 Learn the primitive language of grunting. All questions will now be answered in this format so it will serve you well to familiarize yourself with any subtle tones and inflections as to avoid any miscommunications with your teen.

3. You are never right, you know nothing.

4. Always walk one block ahead of teenager in public, preferably on the opposite side of the street. You are not supposed to exist.

5. Providing food at intermittent periods will guarantee regular sightings of your now bedroom bound teen.

6. Telling your child how lucky they are to have such a cool mum does not work. Their friends may think you are, but you will never hear these words pass your teens lips. Go and cancel that appointment to get your nose pierced and tattoo, give up.

7. Never leave “I love you” messages on their cell phone. This is a thoughtless and careless act……what if someone heard it?!!!

8. It is essential you nurture all relationships with other women who drink. Tell them they are now on speed dial and will only have a moments notice to pour you a chardonnay, or gin. Practice this drill prior to child turning 12, until you are sitting at a kitchen table with drink in hand and a listening ear under 5 minutes.

9. Always remain close enough, but not too close, learn the difference. Proceed with caution, (you may need to wear protective clothing) teenagers can be prickly.

10. And never, not ever, not for one day stop believing in, trying, giving, forgiving and encouraging and loving this person. Wasn’t it only yesterday you were busy squeezing a zit in the mirror hoping, praying that nobody noticed it as you desperately tried to impress the world?

Check it Out

2009-02-24T17:35:00.000-08:00

There’s a little rock I look under to try and find out what went wrong, when things don’t pan out so well, (actually more of a whopping big bolder that needs team of 10 strong people to move)
It’s called the rock of expectation.

So, when I pick up the kids from school and ask in my relaxed way “how was school” and they bicker and moan the whole way home, when I cook with the kids and they start fighting about who gets to stir and who gets to measure, when my husband leaves his muddy shoes in the way (“oh yeah” I hear the collective chorus from wives all ‘round the world) when they’re out of my favourite chocolate at our local health shop, when the weather caves in and I miss a flight, when a friend doesn’t return a call, when my ankle, wrist, and elbow hurt in yoga (how old am I, 80?) when “idol” isn’t on tonight and I was sure it was supposed to be , when ……..when things don’t go my way and it JUST ISN”T FAIR (flailing legs and arms now….perhaps I’m 4)

Yes, people, the boulder in the way has “expectation” written all over it. It can take me a while to see it some days, I may stub my toe on it many times, perhaps even brake my foot, but aha, when I do see it glaring at me, whoa, everything changes!

I often create this picture of how life should be, how this moment is meant to go. The script is titled “The world according to Meg” you know it don’t you? Your part? How it turns out? What, didn’t get the memo? If I can let go of the story in my head, the “shoulds”, daily, moment-by-moment, life might be a little less of a struggle. If I can take a deep breath while honestly saying, “It is what it is” and even shrug, yes shrug “oh well”, and then we’re all a lot happier. (Even my sometimes-moaning kids, and my sometimes-messy husband.) Some days it’s just ok to buy a different brand of chocolate.

Enough is Enough

2009-02-18T18:39:00.000-08:00

"We're rich?" she asks in delight. "Really?" her eyes wide.

Neither boys have ever asked how wealthy we are. We just have stuff and do stuff. No questions asked. But my 6yr old seems to be quite curious. Apparently it has been a topic of discussion between her friends. Can you imagine? How would their little minds frame such notions while disregarding perspective and relativity? How would they measure their wealth? By how big their dolls are?

So, I was asked, are we rich? Well, anyone who knows me, knows exactly how the following reply went. Something like "of course we are. We have food, education, toys, holidays, a house"……………..and on and on it went, how lucky we are to have running water, how rich we are that we can buy clothes………..you can hear me from there right?

"So we have lots and lots of money?" her voice brimming with hope (for who knows what)
"Well" I stammer, feeling all previous lessons lost on this princess.
I'm now picturing her going up to her teacher saying how rich we are. Randomly adding it to conversations as 6yr olds do. My embarrassment rises as these imaginative conversations become louder. "Do you know we're so rich we can buy anything? We can buy chocolate factories, whole countries even the sky…..we have so much money…."

"Well, not RICH rich" I anxiously add, pretending to make sense.

"We have enough, and that is plenty"

She throws me a simple "good" over her shoulder as she walks off. The 6yr old needs no more explanation. The adult has learnt her own lesson.

Its Time

2009-02-10T17:42:00.000-08:00

The first thing I noticed were the shoes. Those shoes transformed him. The squeak the shine, the statement.
I am grown up tonight, tonight I will be someone you admire, wow you and make you proud. Those shoes said a lot.

He walked down the stairs, "can you fix my bow tie? Is my cummerbund right?" he asked in his deep voice. The voice I still hadn't become used to.

"Yes" I said "you look lovely, just amazing" I stood back, taking it all in, the sight of my boy, dressed in a tuxedo, first performance of the year. How could a mother not step back, take a minute and remember all that was, and perhaps dream of the maybes if time allowed.

I sighed to myself, how did we get here? When did this happen? Where was I?

He busied himself, with papers, bits and pieces, checking his watch. With one more glance at the time he said "we need to go"

Oh no I thought, can't I just hold onto you a little longer.

No, he needed to go.

Day Tripper

2009-02-03T18:11:00.000-08:00

I couldn't tell you where I am half the time, but I can tell you I'm not all there. Not here, not anywhere. But I am somewhere.

I'm caught in the land of mindless chatter "did I make that phone call to what's-her-name about tonight's meeting? What will I cook for dinner? I'm so tired. I think I should get my roots dyed, the gray is creeping up. Why is it that I can have a pimple AND wrinkles? Wasn't it just yesterday I was 16? -Oh to be 16 again……."

And on and on it goes. And on and I go, lost in a mental maze, with trap doors and climbing walls. I navigate the lot, getting lost, going deeper and deeper into my crowded crazy mind.

Further and further I travel from this present moment. Further and further away from this here…now. Ah, but just when I think I may be unreachable, there is always that little voice tugging me back "mumma…. DID YOU HEAR ME?"

"What, what?" I struggle to regain my footing. Nobody must know the places I've been, quickly I cover up my disorientation…. and mutter an unconvincing "sure" and try my best to carry on, this time, present.

Please tell me I'm not the only parent to go wandering off while playing checkers, listening to a story about who said what, or when pretending to be a dog.

I don't know why I let myself miss pieces of my life, pieces of my children's life with these hazy day trips in my head. Perhaps some of it is to escape, (some checkers games do go on for a very long time!) and other times I have no idea I have even disappeared a while (until I notice it's now dark outside and everyone's gone to bed)
But I do know that I wont get this moment back, nor this one, nor this one…….
And before I know it, my 6yr old will think it's silly to crawl around being a dog, my 9yr old wont want to play checkers with his mum, and my 14yr old wont want to me tell me anything.

So while I sit here and type, aware of this moment, I hope to stay more present in the next. Present enough to know when to bark in the right place without having to be reminded that I am in fact a dog. Knowing this present moment is my best friend.

Reflection

2009-01-29T14:36:00.000-08:00

He was curled up in my lap, back when he used to fit. An image that is difficult to bring forward as he now stands over 6 foot. But yes, there was a time he fit snugly, like a puzzle piece.

The afternoon was a particularly lazy one. No place to be, no plans made. So we sat, we thought, and we chatted, fitting together as we should. Mother and young son.
Oh I guess it was probably for just 15 minutes or so, but in a mother's memory it becomes hours. Hours of sitting.

It was just the two of us in that moment, but only I knew his world would one day change. At 4 he didn't know about change, at 4 this world was the only world. This lap of mine belonged to him and only him. My love- all his.

He shifted his weight, legs straddled either side, so he could see my face, feel my tummy.
"In here?" he questioned in a doubtful voice
"Yes" I answered in a reassuring voice.
"What will it look like?" we had both wondered together.
"Oh I think a little bit of you, and a little bit of me", we agreed.

At this he studied my face closely. He came right up to me, his breath tickling my nose
"Well. I hope it has your eyes," he finally says with certainty. We are now only inches apart.
"Why" I ask.
"Because I can see myself"

From Pickles to Pancakes

2009-01-26T07:59:00.000-08:00

Keeping it Real

2009-01-23T08:17:00.000-08:00

So while the rest of America was celebrating, inspired, hopeful, cheering and kissing complete strangers at the "mall" (so I've been told) our 9 year old was bored.
Ah, yes, that was bored.

I was so glad to hear his class had watched the inauguration at school, and as he hopped into the car I asked him what he thought. "Boring" was the response. (I may have even caught the eyes rolling in the mirror, and there was definite sigh, yes a 9yr old sigh.)

Right, I thought to myself. I guess we need one more lecture on the importance of this inauguration. So I launch right in on the historical significance of the day, the brilliance and compassion of this man, the new direction of the country…and just as I was about to go over the other 6 well rehearsed points, I heard another sigh and then the one we've all heard " I knooooooow"

Okay, I thought (realizing it was time to give up.) Maybe he just isn't old enough to truly get it. I let it go and drove home feeling sad that he had somehow missed it all.

Ahhhh, and then I had it! "Oh but when you're older you're going to look back on this day and think how lucky you were to have seen it in your class. When you're older you'll be so glad you saw it live, when you're older you'll remember how great it was….''

STOP I silenced myself (which has been known possible on the odd occasion. Our 9yr old was lucky this day)

Why is this so important to me? Why was his memory of this day to be only amazing and wonderful? Why was I telling him what he would remember and why he should remember it a certain way…my way, through my adult eyes?

Nope, I rethought. I do hope he grows up and remembers it his way…with integrity and authenticity and not what the world expects.
Nope, as an adult I hope he can be true and honest and say.
"I was 9 and it was boring"Yes, the truth of a child, now that's worth remembering

Nurturing Young Spirits

2009-01-22T16:49:00.000-08:00

When Meg and I go to teacher conferences, we are most interested in whether our kids are happy at school. Academic challenges always feel manageable, but self esteem and happiness are make or break for a long time to come.

So we are always looking out for opportunities to nurture our kids's spirits.

Here is a great website

The site lists some excellent ideas and resources that transcend any particular religion, and get to the heart of spirit.

Then, from another source, this story really stood out for me as a reminder to honor the genius of children-

"Among the most accomplished and fabled tribes of Africa, no tribe was considered to have warriors more fearsome or more intelligent than the mighty Masai. It is perhaps surprising then to learn the traditional greeting that passed between Masai warriors. "Kasserian ingera?" one would always say to another. It means, "How are the children?" It is still the traditional greeting among the Masai, acknowledging the high value that the Masia always place on their children's well-being. Even warriors with no children of their own would always give the traditional answer, "All the children are well," meaning that peace and safety prevail, that the priorities of protecting the young, the powerless, are in place; that Masai society has not forgotten its reason for being, its proper functions and responsibilities. "All the children are well" means that life is good. It means that the daily struggles of existence do not preclude proper caring for their young. I wonder how it might affect our own cultures if we took to greeting each other with this daily question: "And how are the children?" I wonder, if we heard that question and passed it along to each other a dozen times a day, whether it would make a difference in how children are thought of and cared for in our own country. I wonder if every adult among us, parent and non-parent alike, would feel an equal responsibility for the daily care and protection of all the children in our community, in our town, in our state, in our country. I wonder if we would truly say without any hesitation, "The children are well. Yes, all the children are well." — Patricia Hoertdoefer in Bless the Child

Holding It All

2009-01-18T14:46:00.000-08:00

Ahhhh, holding a child's hand…ever done it? Felt their soft little palm in yours? Have you been fully aware of the trust, love and tenderness between you?
Try it.

I have been known to grab, pull, drag, a child's hand, across a busy road, through a mall, up a sledding hill,
No, not this kind of handholding, no, not at all.
I mean the time when little fingers search out yours for no reason other than to connect, touch and be with you. Just you, just because.
It's the little hand that needs to know you're there, and you are, aren't you?

Our little sweetie is a divine hand holder. Not only because she generously gives me this gift over and over, but because of the words she once told me.

The direct quote would be
"You know, when I hold someone's hand, I feel like I'm holding god's hand."

So now when her little palm moulds into mine, I feel a tremendous honour, summoned to be all that I can be for her, myself and you. Meg

Whaaaaat?

2009-01-15T17:18:00.000-08:00

My 6 yr old cries out "you aren't from where I am from"
She is frustrated by my confusion. She has tried explaining something she doesn't quite have words for yet, and this difference of heritage is the only thing she can grasp at this desperate moment. "You don't understand because you are Australian and I am from New Zealand"

Oh my little poppet, yes, you were born there and called it home till you were 18 months old. I wish this was the reason I cannot understand your thought process right now. But unfortunately it's because you are little and I am big. It's because I am cooking dinner and you are wondering, It's because I am impatient and you are tired.

Do you always "get" what your kids are saying? Me, I say "uhhu, yeh, okay…." Until I've stalled long enough for me to consider all manner of contexts, topics, leaps and bounds. Nope, sometimes this pause isn't enough.
"I'm not sure I know what you're telling me," I cautiously offer, dripping in apology. I mean, what horribly disconnected mother doesn't understand her own child?

Yes, my hand is up. Me. But this communication thing is hard enough when we both know what topic we're on, but to add a child's full to the brim mind to the mix, aghhh. And then add another couple of kids all at once…..I start looking for medication!

Consider this chatter in our car after I've picked up the kids from school.
9yr old. "I have to do research on some guy"
6yr old "the back of my mouth hurts"
9yr old "we didn't get to play outside today because it was too cold"
With me so far? Then……
6yrl old "right back here, can you have a look?"
9yr old "did you?"
"Did I what?" I ask
9yr old "no not you"
6yr old" now?"
9 yr old "now what?"
6yr old "not you"
"What" I ask, again
6 yr old angrily "can you look in my mouth, NOW?!"
9yr old angrily "well did you get to play outside" he yells at his sister
"No I didn't," she yells at him
"No I can't," I yell at her.

We haven't even pulled out of the school property!
I am now on my way to pick up my next son; soon there will be three conversations to navigate. Does anyone actually realize I'm driving?

So maybe if all the planets are in line, calm and tranquility abide, we have eye contact and are born in the same country, perhaps then we may just understand one another.

But till then, maybe we should all just take a breath, be gentle with one another, and hope that we all make it home safely.

Heaven in a Puzzle

2009-01-13T17:49:00.000-08:00

Nothing more sobering than the earnest question of a 9 year old.
“Where’s heaven”? He asks as I put together a “Fancy Nancy” puzzle on the floor with my 6yr old.
Quick change of mindset needed from missing corner piece to the meaning of life, parenting right?…or do I need to use the same part of my brain?

“Hmmmm” I pause for as long as possible,
“Well, I think heaven is right here in this room”
“noooooooo” he laughs, “it’s right up there high above the clouds” (which aren’t too high here in Michigan on a winters day!)
Where on earth does he get this idea from as I go over the many progressive spiritual conversations our family has been having over the years? Has he not heard any of my rantings, my lectures?

How do we balance the influences of our children’s networks, school, social groups, with our beliefs, values and ideas? I have worked so hard at broadening my children’s perspective from the narrow Christian limitations……..the “truth” And now this?

“no no, heaven is bigger, heaven is present, heaven is now, heaven is love, light, being, wonder…heaven is you” I struggle to explain to a glassy-eyed-I’m-not-listening-anymore son who can’t grasp my abstract concepts. A 9 year old who lives in the concrete.

Heaven needs to be a place, somewhere to go to, aim for, wait for, be rewarded with. A dream, a longing, a fantasy, a childlike place filled with cotton candy. But only for some. Only for those who find the corner piece.

“Found it” claims my 6yr old daughter”
“What, heaven?” I say hopefully.
“No the corner piece”.
And at that moment, the conversation, the ideas, are gone Our attention is now focused on the completed puzzle before us, and the pride in a 6yr olds face…….now there’s heaven, no need to die, just be awake.

Now we’re wondering about a bedtime routine that includes a gentle sharing of where we each found heaven that day. Perhaps our language will plump up with greater meaning, and awareness cultivated. Hopefully our children will find the joy of heaven on earth. Each day.

Our family welcomes any response, suggestion, ideas on this heavenly journey. Please feel free to contribute and comment. Meg