Thanks to some caring friends and co-workers, I held it together today. It's tough wondering about my future employment. Ironically I hurt, even though those who care about me reassure me. They're looking out for me. They tell me so, and I feel their love. The result is that I feel less lonely, a luxury to be sure. Still, it's painful to worry about the state of my career when I love what I do and the people with whom I work, so very much.
So, it was a busy day, attending to tasks, walking the halls sans tears, and teaching. Stopping off at church to pick up music to sing at next Sunday's service felt like a hastle on my list. I had to just make myself do it. We went the measly one mile out of our way, fiddled with the locks, picked up the music, and wound our way home.
The bath was necessary. Starting the laundry, a good idea. Yet I had to force myself to look the songs. Plunking out their notes on the keyboard felt like a Herculean effort. Slowly the notes began to come together. Melodies revealed themselves. "I Know that My Redeemer Lives" is actually a pretty cool hymn.
And now it's repeating in my mind. And it's making me feel better. Maybe the trip to church was divine intervention. I'm so glad I stopped to pick up that music.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Monday, May 9, 2011
5-9-11 5:30 am Mindfulness for a Child's Soul
Feeding a child's soul. It's easy. And easily forgotten. Kids need guidance, and mindfulness. Who of us knows what makes us happy, until we intentionally explore that question? For me and so many of my friends, this search begins sometime after childhood ends. Why the long delay?
Our children busy themselves trying to earn, retain, or confirm our love. Rich or poor, I see it all the time. They try to please us, even when we fear their rebellion. When in their day, at what time, do they feel free to explore their own joy?
Yesterday was Mother's Day. Harold concocted a lovely steak dinner, followed by a delightful desert of strawberries with chocolate fondue. In the space between dinner and desert, I asked Anne to clear the table. After all, Mother's Day requires I do nothing, yet feel pleased by everything. The pressure of that - it's another topic. Back to the table: Rather than put everything away, I wished for Anne to simply remove dinner items from our eating surface to make room for desert treats. I love feeling honored, and yet, I also felt ready for things to return to normal. I wanted to get on with it.
First came her plate. After bringing it to the counter she began asking for containers in which to store left-overs.
"For now, sweetheart, please just clear. We'll put away later."
"Oh! Sorry!" she begged.
Then came the butter tray. She also brought it over to the counter, began looking for the cover, found it, and placed it by the fridge.
"Anne, please, for now we're just removing items from the table. Please just leave them on the counter and we'll take care of them later."
"Oh! Right!" followed by a smile, again, asking forgiveness.
The last straw was her father's plate. She took it to the trash, and began scraping.
Her body began to visibly tighten. She felt frantic to me. Instead of a simple matter of listening and responding, it became something else entirely. And I began to worry, for the millionth time, for her soul. Her core. Her state-of-being.
When she appears to be checked out in this way, somewhat unresponsive, somewhere inside of herself she's shutting down. Worry takes over and her physiological response puts her amigdula in flight. She becomes unresponsive. The adult (thankfully not always me!) becomes frustrated, and the downward spiral beings.
She wanted to do right. It was Mother's Day. Somewhere in her mind the poisonous idea lurked: Mom must be entirely pleased, at every moment, with me and everything I do, all day and all evening long on this most special day of her year. Try living up to that one! A recipe for disaster for us both, indeed. So, the very second she sensed that I felt anything other than ultimate gratitude for her efforts at clearing the table, some part of her system felt...shock? shame? worry? Does it matter? Whatever she felt, it sent her amigdula into flight and she became unresponsive.
Trapped in my chair, unable to clean up myself, since after all, it was Mother's Day, my only recourse seemed analysis.
"Anne, what's going on? Even though I keep asking you to simply remove things from the table, and leave actually putting them away for later, you keep putting things away."
And then Harold wanted to know why things felt "tense". More gentle questioning from me, more introspection for Anne, time, search for strategies rather than blame, all those ingredients combined in some proportion to let us move on to the strawberries. Eventually.
We got there. She allowed as how maybe she wasn't responding. Honestly, the final resolution eludes me now. And truly, it's secondary.
Dirty dishes be damned! Messy counters will wait. What I want is for my daughter to know herself. I want her to better know herself so she can better care for the lovely being that she is. I want her to know herself so that she can experience love. She deserves to acquire, retain, and regularly use the skill of caring for herself. To me, her self awareness and care might look like this:
- If she knows that her chest is tightening, she notices, and tells herself to breathe more slowly.
- When her mind begins to race, she sees observes the speed and slow down.
- If she feels disappointed, she conciously decides tocreate something to which she can look forward.
It's soul care. Care for her core. Self-awareness. She can learn to sew, cook, change the oil, and write a resume. Yet, what good is any of that if she fails to care for her core being in this critical way?
So, the questioning begins:
"How do you feel?" I ask her a lot. Happy, sad, either way I ask the same questions. "How does your tummy feel? Your head? Your chest? What might you notice about your body right now?" It's important to me that she note the differences in her physical state. When she takes a moment to check in with herself, the next step becomes obvious. She knows what to do once she realizes how she feels, physically. It's more a matter of taking the time to figure out that critical piece, to answer that critical question: "What is my body telling me right now?" It's mindfulness.
Our children busy themselves trying to earn, retain, or confirm our love. Rich or poor, I see it all the time. They try to please us, even when we fear their rebellion. When in their day, at what time, do they feel free to explore their own joy?
Yesterday was Mother's Day. Harold concocted a lovely steak dinner, followed by a delightful desert of strawberries with chocolate fondue. In the space between dinner and desert, I asked Anne to clear the table. After all, Mother's Day requires I do nothing, yet feel pleased by everything. The pressure of that - it's another topic. Back to the table: Rather than put everything away, I wished for Anne to simply remove dinner items from our eating surface to make room for desert treats. I love feeling honored, and yet, I also felt ready for things to return to normal. I wanted to get on with it.
First came her plate. After bringing it to the counter she began asking for containers in which to store left-overs.
"For now, sweetheart, please just clear. We'll put away later."
"Oh! Sorry!" she begged.
Then came the butter tray. She also brought it over to the counter, began looking for the cover, found it, and placed it by the fridge.
"Anne, please, for now we're just removing items from the table. Please just leave them on the counter and we'll take care of them later."
"Oh! Right!" followed by a smile, again, asking forgiveness.
The last straw was her father's plate. She took it to the trash, and began scraping.
Her body began to visibly tighten. She felt frantic to me. Instead of a simple matter of listening and responding, it became something else entirely. And I began to worry, for the millionth time, for her soul. Her core. Her state-of-being.
When she appears to be checked out in this way, somewhat unresponsive, somewhere inside of herself she's shutting down. Worry takes over and her physiological response puts her amigdula in flight. She becomes unresponsive. The adult (thankfully not always me!) becomes frustrated, and the downward spiral beings.
She wanted to do right. It was Mother's Day. Somewhere in her mind the poisonous idea lurked: Mom must be entirely pleased, at every moment, with me and everything I do, all day and all evening long on this most special day of her year. Try living up to that one! A recipe for disaster for us both, indeed. So, the very second she sensed that I felt anything other than ultimate gratitude for her efforts at clearing the table, some part of her system felt...shock? shame? worry? Does it matter? Whatever she felt, it sent her amigdula into flight and she became unresponsive.
Trapped in my chair, unable to clean up myself, since after all, it was Mother's Day, my only recourse seemed analysis.
"Anne, what's going on? Even though I keep asking you to simply remove things from the table, and leave actually putting them away for later, you keep putting things away."
And then Harold wanted to know why things felt "tense". More gentle questioning from me, more introspection for Anne, time, search for strategies rather than blame, all those ingredients combined in some proportion to let us move on to the strawberries. Eventually.
We got there. She allowed as how maybe she wasn't responding. Honestly, the final resolution eludes me now. And truly, it's secondary.
Dirty dishes be damned! Messy counters will wait. What I want is for my daughter to know herself. I want her to better know herself so she can better care for the lovely being that she is. I want her to know herself so that she can experience love. She deserves to acquire, retain, and regularly use the skill of caring for herself. To me, her self awareness and care might look like this:
- If she knows that her chest is tightening, she notices, and tells herself to breathe more slowly.
- When her mind begins to race, she sees observes the speed and slow down.
- If she feels disappointed, she conciously decides tocreate something to which she can look forward.
It's soul care. Care for her core. Self-awareness. She can learn to sew, cook, change the oil, and write a resume. Yet, what good is any of that if she fails to care for her core being in this critical way?
So, the questioning begins:
"How do you feel?" I ask her a lot. Happy, sad, either way I ask the same questions. "How does your tummy feel? Your head? Your chest? What might you notice about your body right now?" It's important to me that she note the differences in her physical state. When she takes a moment to check in with herself, the next step becomes obvious. She knows what to do once she realizes how she feels, physically. It's more a matter of taking the time to figure out that critical piece, to answer that critical question: "What is my body telling me right now?" It's mindfulness.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
5-4-11 5:27 pm Recipe: Happiness
OK, there's a formula, at least for me, and here it is:
In equal parts:
Comfort (physical)
Purpose (raison d'etre)
Say (input)
Make sure each exist in every moment of life. When one comes up short, the others only make up for so much. Each ingredient requires its own measure. When I address each one, good results occur. I snack less, my patience increases, and I and others know me better.
We all set out to experience a good day. And those of us with initiatives, be they to smile more or smoke less, feel both some excitement and perhaps even some pressure to live up to our hopes and dreams. And then the day unfolds.
Sometimes the folds feel bumpy, or down-right puncturing. Someone comments "You look tired", and even if they maybe meant, hey, how are you?, it feels like: you look awful!
So. Apply the recipe. Comfort? Check, hopefully. Purpose? Check, hopefully. Say? Who knows, and yet sometimes when others make comments about me, I take it as truth. No say. Time to act. It's time to have say.
Different verbal responses elicit a variety of things. "Oh man, bad make-up day for me!" which may bring the commenter to his or her knees with apologies, or a laugh for you both. It sheds light, however, on the bleeding obvious: Don't judge a book by its cover.
"Yes, I feel tired" could win you some help, which may be a good thing. This is a "thanks for recognizing my needs" response. Something about that feels uncomfortable to me, and I think it may have to do with uncertainty. Occasionally I like it when others notice I need support. I want to decide when I ask for help much of the time. Ultimately I think there's a better way to offer help than commenting on one's deficiencies, like: "I have some extra time, would you like any help?" Offer devoid of judgement. Safe. It invites the possibly tired one to have say. That's a true gift.
Another alternative response: "Darn, I was going for 'Goth'!" certainly leaves room for a good belly-laugh. This one assumes that the original commenter can swing with verbal punches. Really, the "you look tired" comment carries its own assumptions so the 'goth' comment feels dangerously 'tit-for-tat' to me. However, if it really seems time for a wake-up call to the commenter, it is at least a fun way to do it. After all, it take care of one-tenth of our daily healthy dose of laughter, maximizing both parties' DNA potential. That's good for everyone!
"Ouch", my favorite for conveying the message: hey, if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all. In the end, what's said may matter less than taking time to realize that someone else's label for me may not be true. In order for me to have that magic ingredient "say", I need to take time to decide what message I want to share, and then how best to share it. I need to take time to have say, or the other person may just go around making that sort of comment, thinking it's fine.
We all feel passion of one kind or another, I think, throughout the day. The magic in sharing ourselves reveals itself by taking time to reveal ourselves with tact and intelligence, intentionally. For me, the burying of that passion stifles. Oppression, anger, resentment all build and suddenly I'm avoiding certain people. That's when I start feeling boxed in, and then that filth just smears itself all over the rest of my life.
Instead, I need to have say. Comfort and purpose I can do. It's having say and sharing it that feels scary. And yet, the more I talk, the more I have my say, the more love I share with others. We all really do need to know how to talk to one another. It's an art and a science.
We're all teachers. Even those of us who pursue other professions, we're all teachers when we take time to learn about ourselves, and then teach others, overtly and with kindness. I'm looking forward to tomorrow.
In equal parts:
Comfort (physical)
Purpose (raison d'etre)
Say (input)
Make sure each exist in every moment of life. When one comes up short, the others only make up for so much. Each ingredient requires its own measure. When I address each one, good results occur. I snack less, my patience increases, and I and others know me better.
We all set out to experience a good day. And those of us with initiatives, be they to smile more or smoke less, feel both some excitement and perhaps even some pressure to live up to our hopes and dreams. And then the day unfolds.
Sometimes the folds feel bumpy, or down-right puncturing. Someone comments "You look tired", and even if they maybe meant, hey, how are you?, it feels like: you look awful!
So. Apply the recipe. Comfort? Check, hopefully. Purpose? Check, hopefully. Say? Who knows, and yet sometimes when others make comments about me, I take it as truth. No say. Time to act. It's time to have say.
Different verbal responses elicit a variety of things. "Oh man, bad make-up day for me!" which may bring the commenter to his or her knees with apologies, or a laugh for you both. It sheds light, however, on the bleeding obvious: Don't judge a book by its cover.
"Yes, I feel tired" could win you some help, which may be a good thing. This is a "thanks for recognizing my needs" response. Something about that feels uncomfortable to me, and I think it may have to do with uncertainty. Occasionally I like it when others notice I need support. I want to decide when I ask for help much of the time. Ultimately I think there's a better way to offer help than commenting on one's deficiencies, like: "I have some extra time, would you like any help?" Offer devoid of judgement. Safe. It invites the possibly tired one to have say. That's a true gift.
Another alternative response: "Darn, I was going for 'Goth'!" certainly leaves room for a good belly-laugh. This one assumes that the original commenter can swing with verbal punches. Really, the "you look tired" comment carries its own assumptions so the 'goth' comment feels dangerously 'tit-for-tat' to me. However, if it really seems time for a wake-up call to the commenter, it is at least a fun way to do it. After all, it take care of one-tenth of our daily healthy dose of laughter, maximizing both parties' DNA potential. That's good for everyone!
"Ouch", my favorite for conveying the message: hey, if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all. In the end, what's said may matter less than taking time to realize that someone else's label for me may not be true. In order for me to have that magic ingredient "say", I need to take time to decide what message I want to share, and then how best to share it. I need to take time to have say, or the other person may just go around making that sort of comment, thinking it's fine.
We all feel passion of one kind or another, I think, throughout the day. The magic in sharing ourselves reveals itself by taking time to reveal ourselves with tact and intelligence, intentionally. For me, the burying of that passion stifles. Oppression, anger, resentment all build and suddenly I'm avoiding certain people. That's when I start feeling boxed in, and then that filth just smears itself all over the rest of my life.
Instead, I need to have say. Comfort and purpose I can do. It's having say and sharing it that feels scary. And yet, the more I talk, the more I have my say, the more love I share with others. We all really do need to know how to talk to one another. It's an art and a science.
We're all teachers. Even those of us who pursue other professions, we're all teachers when we take time to learn about ourselves, and then teach others, overtly and with kindness. I'm looking forward to tomorrow.
Friday, April 29, 2011
4-29-11 4:49 pm Weeds, Bicycles, and Love
Weeding: a metaphor for having say in my life. The plants for which I leave room in my garden result from my own selection. Instead of dandelions, I see tulips. Instead of crab grass, I see an open space where we'll someday put a patio. The design stems from intention, regardless of the seeds wind plants on our property.
And I can weed that for which I wish to leave less room, out of my life with relative success. When I pack up and leave at the end of my contract day, it affords more time to spend with Anne. When I tell someone I need to set up a time to meet with them rather than attending to each professional the moment they seek me out, it leaves room for me to prioritize. Intentional decisions about how to spend time affords needed time for important things. It lets me plan. It lets me thoughtfully approach and attend to projects and tasks. The act of decision-making is a renewable resource, whose only charge is the degree of courage it may take to set boundaries. And like weeding, I can do it any time.
Intentionality. It's conscious planning. And it's a huge resource. Yesterday Harold took us out for a spin on our new bikes. He later told me that the idea occurred on his drive home, inspired by the weather and available daylight.
"I wanted to see you on that new bike again. You looked so happy on your first ride home with it the other day, and the weather's been bad. It's been too long, so I wanted to take advantage of the opportunity." -(or something very close to that.)
He wanted to see me as happy again on my new bike as the first day we brought it home. And his intentional planning paid off. I felt on top of the world, simply riding around a few blocks in our neighborhood. The ride felt smooth and comfortable. My body felt safe and relaxed, whereas on the mountain bike I felt neither. We gazed around at the spring lawns and the homes to which they belonged. And I offered him the comment "I'm having at least as much fun as skiing. Maybe more." After all, our neighborhood roll was lift-ticket free, required no transport of equipment before use, and without commute. We simply hopped on and went. Delightful.
Even sweeter was Harold's wish for my happiness, intentionally materialized into fruition, and truly savoured. I felt love. His caring act of thought, intention, and action, into such a simple pleasure held it's own beauty, quite apart from the love I felt from him. Huge deposit into the "love-account".
When we first married, we may both have projected that an enduring union involved escalating degrees of tolerance. Quick to add, we were, that our overwhelming love for one another would easily make up for it. Not so, at least I've found. We're both fairly insistent about getting our needs met, and tolerate a fairly small margin of inconvenience from one another to that end. It may be less about virtue, and more about fear.
"How can you leave dirty dishes the sink, when you know I need to make my lunch before leaving for work in the morning?" It's more about "don't you care about me?" and less about "the straw that broke the camel's back". So our marriage's longevity so far seems to benefit from looking at what needs caring for more than what can be tolerated.
Harold hates it when I leave the garage open. We have valuable stuff in there, and our garage has been robbed before. He has a valid point about closing, and even locking the door. I, on the other hand, have to heave that beast with all my might in order to slide it open. "Inconvenient" barely touches describing it, for me. So, I agree to keep it closed, and he agrees to open it for me. And we do a fair amount of simply leaving the cars in the driveway.
That sort of recognition and honoring one another's needs makes up part of the maintenance. Another piece more represents theory behind "love languages". When we can identify what brings happiness to one another, and then show a desire to create those situations, we're saying with actions (speaking, of course, louder than words), "I love you. I want you to be happy, and I know this brings you joy, so I'm doing what I can to bring that circumstance into your life."
So, when Harold took me out on our bikes yesterday evening, I felt really on top of the world. The feel of my new Cruiser very closely resembles how my childhood bike felt. I gave myself permission about when and where to go. Someone who truly loves me took the time to come with me. And he let me decide on the route. Maybe we were gone 15 minutes. The relative cost was free. Yet I've spent many hundreds of dollars with the intent to enjoy myself, and failed miserably. Yesterday love brought me great joy. Even the memory fills my cup to over-flowing. This, truly, is the life!
And I can weed that for which I wish to leave less room, out of my life with relative success. When I pack up and leave at the end of my contract day, it affords more time to spend with Anne. When I tell someone I need to set up a time to meet with them rather than attending to each professional the moment they seek me out, it leaves room for me to prioritize. Intentional decisions about how to spend time affords needed time for important things. It lets me plan. It lets me thoughtfully approach and attend to projects and tasks. The act of decision-making is a renewable resource, whose only charge is the degree of courage it may take to set boundaries. And like weeding, I can do it any time.
Intentionality. It's conscious planning. And it's a huge resource. Yesterday Harold took us out for a spin on our new bikes. He later told me that the idea occurred on his drive home, inspired by the weather and available daylight.
"I wanted to see you on that new bike again. You looked so happy on your first ride home with it the other day, and the weather's been bad. It's been too long, so I wanted to take advantage of the opportunity." -(or something very close to that.)
He wanted to see me as happy again on my new bike as the first day we brought it home. And his intentional planning paid off. I felt on top of the world, simply riding around a few blocks in our neighborhood. The ride felt smooth and comfortable. My body felt safe and relaxed, whereas on the mountain bike I felt neither. We gazed around at the spring lawns and the homes to which they belonged. And I offered him the comment "I'm having at least as much fun as skiing. Maybe more." After all, our neighborhood roll was lift-ticket free, required no transport of equipment before use, and without commute. We simply hopped on and went. Delightful.
Even sweeter was Harold's wish for my happiness, intentionally materialized into fruition, and truly savoured. I felt love. His caring act of thought, intention, and action, into such a simple pleasure held it's own beauty, quite apart from the love I felt from him. Huge deposit into the "love-account".
When we first married, we may both have projected that an enduring union involved escalating degrees of tolerance. Quick to add, we were, that our overwhelming love for one another would easily make up for it. Not so, at least I've found. We're both fairly insistent about getting our needs met, and tolerate a fairly small margin of inconvenience from one another to that end. It may be less about virtue, and more about fear.
"How can you leave dirty dishes the sink, when you know I need to make my lunch before leaving for work in the morning?" It's more about "don't you care about me?" and less about "the straw that broke the camel's back". So our marriage's longevity so far seems to benefit from looking at what needs caring for more than what can be tolerated.
Harold hates it when I leave the garage open. We have valuable stuff in there, and our garage has been robbed before. He has a valid point about closing, and even locking the door. I, on the other hand, have to heave that beast with all my might in order to slide it open. "Inconvenient" barely touches describing it, for me. So, I agree to keep it closed, and he agrees to open it for me. And we do a fair amount of simply leaving the cars in the driveway.
That sort of recognition and honoring one another's needs makes up part of the maintenance. Another piece more represents theory behind "love languages". When we can identify what brings happiness to one another, and then show a desire to create those situations, we're saying with actions (speaking, of course, louder than words), "I love you. I want you to be happy, and I know this brings you joy, so I'm doing what I can to bring that circumstance into your life."
So, when Harold took me out on our bikes yesterday evening, I felt really on top of the world. The feel of my new Cruiser very closely resembles how my childhood bike felt. I gave myself permission about when and where to go. Someone who truly loves me took the time to come with me. And he let me decide on the route. Maybe we were gone 15 minutes. The relative cost was free. Yet I've spent many hundreds of dollars with the intent to enjoy myself, and failed miserably. Yesterday love brought me great joy. Even the memory fills my cup to over-flowing. This, truly, is the life!
Sunday, April 24, 2011
4-24-11 1:57 pm Windfalls, Visions, and Beauty
We got a little windfall in the mail. It's nice to know that the unexpected still happens. Out of the many needs demanding our financial resources, we went with cruiser bicycles.
Think gas savings. Carless transportation. Lower fossil fuel consumption. Physical fitness. We got Anne a new bike for Christmas. That felt easy, since she's growing all the time. In fact, she was well over-due.
For Harold and me it seemed different. Although our mountain bikes feel like medieval torture devices, they were and still are a hot item. We picked them out, and rode them faithfully for years.
We've got plenty of get-up-and-go about us, and yet, we're now mature enough to fess up. We hate those things. It's time for something more comfortable. Harold seems to love his new bike.
He rode down the street wearing a huge grin. "It feels like my old Stingray!" he exclaimed on dismounting. His joy made my heart leap. It's fun to see a grown man giddy.
As for my cruiser, it's robin's egg blue with white accents. It has beautiful lines and curves. The seat feels like a seat instead of a wedge. It needs a white bike lock.
To quote Dr. Seuss, "Oh, the Place's [I'll] go!" My hope is that this new purchase will still look good on me when I'm gray. I hope it will take me to many of the locations that meetings and tight schedules have required a car to complete. And between trips, I'll just look at it. It's beautiful.
Think gas savings. Carless transportation. Lower fossil fuel consumption. Physical fitness. We got Anne a new bike for Christmas. That felt easy, since she's growing all the time. In fact, she was well over-due.
For Harold and me it seemed different. Although our mountain bikes feel like medieval torture devices, they were and still are a hot item. We picked them out, and rode them faithfully for years.
We've got plenty of get-up-and-go about us, and yet, we're now mature enough to fess up. We hate those things. It's time for something more comfortable. Harold seems to love his new bike.
He rode down the street wearing a huge grin. "It feels like my old Stingray!" he exclaimed on dismounting. His joy made my heart leap. It's fun to see a grown man giddy.
As for my cruiser, it's robin's egg blue with white accents. It has beautiful lines and curves. The seat feels like a seat instead of a wedge. It needs a white bike lock.
To quote Dr. Seuss, "Oh, the Place's [I'll] go!" My hope is that this new purchase will still look good on me when I'm gray. I hope it will take me to many of the locations that meetings and tight schedules have required a car to complete. And between trips, I'll just look at it. It's beautiful.
Monday, April 11, 2011
4-11-11 8:35 pm Make Them Eat...Their Own Cooking!
It's a popular topic, "why we should eat dinner together". Although I'd have to locate research to support it empirically, my hunch is that even rushed, instant, and restaurant meals provide families time enough to sit across the table from one another, sharing conversation, time, and stories from the day. Eating together seems like a wholesome idea regardless of circumstance. Of course it's wholesome, and yet distractions compete with this institution of well-intended time together. The television blares a sports game, attractive wait persons offer another re-fill to the water-glasses, and this week's spelling list needs reviewing. The relative quality of shared time directly connects to various degrees of the hellatiousness it entails. If disagreements regularly surface, questions about unpaid bills, or how the job search fared today, family members might begin to avoid the dinner table. The institution of an evening meal, when everyone rejoins at a common table, requires intentionality and care. And in today's world of instantly-available food, it's especially important to ferret out what it is about dinner together that we most enjoy. Tonight I'm reminded of one thing I most enjoy: when everyone cooks. My mother, even my grandmother, might be saying to themselves as they read these words (based on a recent conversation) "What is she talking about? I only cook with certain people in the kitchen - everyone is not necessarily welcome." I think this is why my maternal betters might be doubting me: Some activities require the kind of attention that lets all worries, all distractors fall away. Playing a musical instrument, driving a motorcycle, and rock climbing all come to mind. Cooking, like science experiments, requires deliberation, and the kind of attention that demands a similar focus to those undistractable activities. Even if you avoid measuring tools, chances are you use taste to guide adding ingredients. And coordination plays a key role. Hot foods, in order to remain hot when platted, must cook at just the right rate (time and temperature). Creating a meal requires the full attention of its cooks. Cooks cooking together, well, it's a little like performing with spontaneous choreography. It requires faith and commitment. Kitchens can feel small. Multiple cooks might interrupt or get in one another's way. It ain't pretty. And the same is true for real life. It's messy, rife with injustice, and full of accidents. And when we stick together through it all, the journey brings us closer together. It seems worth the investment. It's just that you have to look carefully and practice a great deal of patience for the returns. They are sometimes disguised as huge pains in the butt. Tonight Anne made our salad. She took too long to slice up the apples. Way too much spinach sat in the top half of the salad bowl. The entire task took her, (I may be exaggerating here) 20 minutes! The lettuce was pre-washed and everything. While she whittled away at the salad, Harold managed to perfectly steam two salmon fillets, and I concocted a lovely salad dressing, made the rice, re-heated left-over homemade tomato soup and garnished it with fresh slices of avocado. Obviously, an apparent time and effort discrepancy rears its ugly head, yet who has the most experience? I do. It's natural I'd get more done, so I can replace "equal effort" with "equitable effort" as one of my goals for our co-cooking. In fact, I remember intentionally assigning Anne a task at which she could take as much time as she wanted, that was completely independent of our other cooking projects. Autonomy gave her freedom from nagging adults who otherwise might have needed her to complete one step in a dish so that we could then move in with our parts. In the end, her memory of the task was hopefully a revisitable enough one so that she'll do it again tomorrow night. She also seems sensitive to respect, so when I asked her to make us a salad, it sounded more like, "Oh, Anne, you have such good taste in salads, would you make ours tonight?" than "Anne, make the salad." An added bonus: she seems to eat more of her salad serving when she makes it. Go figure. Harold. He trusts me with meats, especially when it comes to cooking fish. It was hard-earned trust, and since I have it now we're fairly efficient. He asks me what to do, I tell him, and he does it. "Put the fillets in this pan, fill it with just enough water to almost cover the fillets, and heat it on high in the microwave for ten minutes." That done, he sat at the table and passed out vitamins while the rest of us finished our tasks. He's tired after a long day of delivering mail. Besides, he had to touch raw meat, and I didn't. Yay. Let's hear it for equity! My soup project was ready well before the rest of the meal. And the natives were restless. So, instead serving everything en semble, we ate in courses. I hear they do that at all the fancy restaurants. And at the end of our time together at the table, everyone felt good and tired. We all cleared the table because it was too big a job for just one person. In between the cooking and the clearing came conversation. We talked about our days, up-coming visits from relatives, manners, we joked, and we laughed. The act of cooking forced our worries of the day into the periphery of our minds, in order to make room for feeding ourselves. On really fun nights we blast a little Jimmy Buffett, "Cheeseburger in Paradise" and dance around the kitchen. To me, this is quality family time. It's ultimately about enjoyment. When meal preparation becomes unpleasant, it's about something else. When we work to make this task a coordinated effort, it brings us closer. One person cooking the meal is a little like a solo vacation. You might get exactly what you're after, but in the end, with whom do you have to share it? So, eating out, I think, is OK. And instant mac'n cheese holds a permanent place of honor in my book of life's necessities. Yet, when a seemingly menial daily task presents an opportunity for getting to know one another better, for making a little history, and it's fun, it demands attention. Kids, I think, are more likely to eat their own cooking. They'll certainly learn something useful in the process. Reading. Measuring. Equivalency. Team work. Love. Tonight Anne accumulated a memory that filled her heart and her mind. Affording her that opportunity helped make me feel like a better parent. And my hard-working husband got fed. So many layers of resource accumulation demands my deliberate attention and continued effort. If you want to get closer with someone, try cooking. It's essentially free, and we all need to eat!
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
4-6-11 7:04 pm Snow Storm
Because of my neighbors' generosity of space, we can all look forward to homegrown asparagus. A gift that will continue to give. Because of my husband's sensitivity, generosity of time and effort, and excellent memory, I have had perfect coffee, flowers, and culinary delights of all kinds today. We have more deposits into the veritable bank account of our relationship. Because of my daughter's intellect, sensitivity, and heightening awareness, I experience the most pleasurable journey of parenthood imaginable. She keeps getting smarter and more sensitive. Because of thoughtful co-workers, I enjoyed several very fun rounds of bowling today. My job may not be there next year, yet the memory remains. Because my friends and colleagues at work trust me to do my job, I get repeated opportunities to hone my craft. Honing these skills helps me help others, the greatest gift. Because of gratitude, I continually relive the most pleasurable memories of my life. They will be mine, forever, to share with anyone who might like to listen to them.
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