3-28-11 10:30 pm Dirt

I'm exhausted. I've moved a garden bed, filled it, planted another, moved a full compost bin, taken down part of a fence, laid down landscaping fabric, you get the idea. How could I not though, with time off work, the sun shining, and Anne engrossed in a book. It was the perfect day to roll up my sleeves and dig. That compost bin has been a thorn in our sides ever since we started using it four or five years ago. It's so big. And it seems to take a really long time to do its job. In fact, I could still see bits of food long ago dumped in, from the low holes in the side. I thought the stuff at the bottom was supposed to be dirt by now. The prospect of relocating it (we're trying to spiff up the yard a bit so we can enjoy more time outside this summer) was getting grosser by the minute. Armed with black plastic bags (I recently read that one of the easiest ways to compost involves simply filling black plastic bags with yard and kitchen waste, sinching the top, and letting it sit in the sun for about three weeks. Gargage going it, dirt coming out. Sounds good to me, and quick too!) I set to work. The top layer was leaves. No problem. Then came the egg shells. My bad. A few dried out melon rinds. At least the smell was gone. And then I struck GOLD! I mean...dirt. Really. There it was, black, thick, rich, nutrient-filled dirt. So, I switched destinations and started moving from that wonderful, large, round black bin to the raised garden bed with shovels full of good, clean, FREE dirt. I guess the food items closest to the outside of the bin held their shape, but deeper towards the center of the bin held many bags worth of wonderful soil. "Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust", I saw it today. I know I didn't put all that dirt in there. The magic of simply letting nature run its course helped me plant a better garden bed today. And all I had to do was wait. It begs the question,"Why hurry?" I think I'll slow down a little, and wait for more good dirt to come my way.

3-25-11 6:45 pm The Ring

My Mom gave me a beautiful ring a few years ago, maybe for my birthday? Hard to say. Four or five dark aquamarine stones, cut into rhombuses, sit straight across in a row with tiny diamonds paired and vertically placed above and below where the vertexes of the rhombuses meet. She found it just lying on the floor in her guest room.

About ten years ago my parents bought a townhouse in Alexandria, Virginia. After living there for about three years she found this beautiful ring, sitting on the carpeted floor of the guest room. After countless calls, letters, and conversations with everyone who'd been or stayed as an over-night guest, it remained unclaimed. The ring reminded her of me, so she passed it on to my possession.

For the gift I'm very grateful. Even more compelling, is the mystery behind it. When, where, and most importantly, why was it purchased? Who owned it? And who might be missing it?

Could it be a left-over gift in an unrequited love story? An anniversary ring? A mother's ring for a woman who had four or five children all in the same month of different years? Perhaps it's an anniversary ring. It could have been a token of love in an illicit romance. What if it's an apology ring after admitting to an affair. Maybe it was borrowed for a special occasion and never returned. A family heirloom? A graduation gift? Jewelry can have deep sentimental meaning. Almost as wonderful as admiring the ring itself, is the wondering: What's the story behind this ring?

Every time I wear it I wonder: Who's was this? Then my imagination runs wild. So I'm twice-blessed with this gift from my mother. It's a delight to the eyes and the curious mind. Others have also wondered at its tale.

And to anyone who might be missing it: I will keep it in good care. If you claim it, it's yours. Just please, tell me its tale.

3-24-11 7:06 pm Guardian Angels and the Miraculous Gift of Time

The first time I remember something bigger than me talking to me, I was about four-years-old. As I closed our apartment door, the words "it will get better than this" came to my young mind. And as the vision of an old steam radiator and a too-dim light came into focus, I thought, "Good." Suddenly, whatever weighed on my mind, regardless of the unpleasant errand, in spite of what others sometimes predicted for me just evaporated. I felt lighter, unencumbered, and special. In that little moment, when those six tiny words strung together in my mind, I felt connected to something larger than myself. I walked taller, and possessed a deeper sense of connectedness to something larger, and more reassuring than my two little legs.

About two years later I took quite a tumble. Some kids I'd never before met were playing with me at a new house, in a new part of the world. We were on a country dirt road. I'd thought dirt was for gardens in the country, because I played in parks and back alleys. These were real streets made of packed-down, pebbly dirt. They were riding bikes, and allowed me to join them. I was all out of my element. I had to use the one with training wheels, even though I was already six-years-old. It didn't matter, they didn't wait up for me, much anyway. Still, I was riding! And then I saw it: a pick-up truck was headed our way. It was a long straight road, and you could see it coming at us from a long way off.

When my companions scattered I yelled to them: "Hey! We forgot our bikes!"

"Just leave 'em!" someone shouted back, and then they disappeared into the woods. There I stood, a stranger in a strange land, in the middle of a dirt road, littered with bikes, and a truck coming at it all, including me. It's hard to believe now that at such a young age I still felt responsible. Connected to something bigger than me. So I hooked all those handlebars together, and drug the whole lot of metal frames and rubber wheels back, off the side of the road. And then I was tumbling in mid-air. First rocks. Then sky. Then rocks. Then my glasses were knocked off. Then I was wet. Water flowed around my calves, my shoulders, and I could feel it on my finger tips. Then black. Then an older couple running down the bank. The panicked look on their faces remained as they gathered my glasses, me, and one of the bikes. I just wasn't my time to die that day.

The next time I was looking for an apartment in a strange city. Yes, I could read a map. Yes, I had the address, and yes, I could read the bus schedule. All of that had little impact on my ability to find an apartment for myself. An older woman stopped to help. She steered me in the right direction, and I did the rest. I managed to accomplish something that felt significant, without the help of my parents. That moment inspired me again and again throughout my young adult years.

And then one day I was sick. I needed help getting to the doctor's office. And I was late. I couldn't find my way, and I felt down-right disorientated. And I swear, it was God, or someone, but he pulled up by the sidewalk in his old, maybe Volvo wagon. "You look like you could use some help."

Before I knew it he was giving me a ride to my doctor's office. He somehow knew right where it was when I gave him the address. His acumen just left me dumbfounded. His car was loaded tot he gills with papers, files, maybe ledgers. He apologized several times for the mess, I think telling me he worked out of his car. He offered to take me into the building. Maybe I said something like: "It's OK. You're busy, and I'm OK now that I'm here." And then he was gone. I forget the moment when he drove out of sight. My heart ached for the love and kindness he showed me. I missed that terribly for days. He was no hunk. I'm sure he was in his 50's. He was certainly a fine-looking man, but nothing my 21-year-old self fancied. His heart, however, was the size of Texas. Bigger, probably. If a time-space continuum could be altered in standard reality, I'd attest that it was my now husband, having lept forward in time to help me.

And then a few years later my now husband asked me to marry him. Without hesitation I said "yes". Later I began to wonder: "Is this the right one?" And the source of powerful words entered my mind again, only this time with only one word: "Yes." I pressed: "Are you sure?" And then I felt scolded: "Are you doubting me?"

Call it what you will, it's what happened for me. I choose to believe it. Thank you God. Thank you guardian angels. Thank you real live people who genuinely want to help others for the good deed itself. Thank you for your time. I am here. I am loved. I am truly blessed with a loving heart towards others. And I have the privilege of showing loving care to over 200 children every day. We show others that their faith is well-placed when we make room for them in our lives.

It's giving our time that supports the well-being of human kind. It's in the moment I close my magazine to look at what Anne has brought to me. It's when I look up from the computer to talk with my husband. It's when I put my thoughts aside to really listen to a child. That moment when we all choose between pressing on with our mission, or pausing for another. It's in the pausing that love shows its reassuring presence.

3-22-11 6:32 pm Counting:

1. Food: Anne bakes a nifty loaf of Irish Soda bread. So much so that when we're expecting guests, she's the baker. Today she came through with a tall, golden, perfectly lumpy loaf. And the house smells so warm!

2. Friends: Tonight book club is at my house. I feel so...included, and so want everyone to feel welcome and comfortable.

3. Dreams Coming True: OK, I know about dream interpretation. Dreams about a child can point to the more vulnerable self. When I dream about a cat scratching at the door, it might really be about fears of neglecting my father. I get all that. Of late, my dreams seem to take a different course. There was the dream where my now late Grandfather came to me. A dear friend recently returned from a long trip. I dreamt of her as well, returning and embracing me in one of her reassuring hugs. And another recent "reality dream" slips my mind at the moment. This is a new way of dreaming for me, and I find it extremely comforting.

4 Faith: I sang in church recently, and really messed up a psalm. They kept me anyway. A dear friend and superior at work, is taking a new direction, and many close to me professionally demanded to know when I might be able to step in such a leadership role. Others' visions for me are their gift of faith in me. It's humbling.

5. Garden Beds: We now have two of them ready for filling or planting. We'll have fresh produce this year. Given the economy, that's good timing!

So many gifts, and all free. Just looking around, simply taking time to notice the things that bring joy, good food, and love, calm me down. I feel less like a bleeding wound, and more like a smiling Buddha.

3-16-11 8:17 pm Japanese Slaves, One Thing at a Time, and Power

Hard to believe, research says we only ever really think about one thing at a time. I can do six things at once, poorly and distracted. One thing at a time. It lets me savor each thing. If Anne's talking to me, I can text, as long as she's willing to repeat herself. Even though most people I've told disagree, it seems to be true. Maybe we can do more than one thing at a time. It seems in my life, though, I can only think effectively, and act well, one thing at a time.

Savor. That's what the one-thing-at-a-time allows. Savor the conversation, when there's room to focus on it. Relish doing quality work, because there's time to appreciate it. Stop and smell the roses, the fruits of our labors.

Multi-tasking lets things drop, hap-hazardly, unpredictably. It seems that doing one thing at a time offers a true opportunity for resource accumulation because that allows for true appreciation. It's like taking a trip and having the luxury of really taking in the new place. Doing only one thing at time lets me absorb the events in daily life. Bringing my full self to bear, at each turn lends a quality, a genuineness that eludes me in more distracted states.

Many thousands of years ago, in feudal Japanese society, slaves discovered a silent rebellion, a way to take back their lives. Their strategy: perform each task singularly, and with utter focus. If sweeping, they noticed their hands on the broom handle, their feet on the ground, the way the bristles moved the dirt. Their actions were slow, yet on task. The strategy left no room for complaint by their owners and gave something back to the slaves themselves. It provided something no serf could beat out of them - self-possession.

In self-possession lies power. Socrates said "know thy self". Knowing one's self somehow renders, well for me, an unflappableness. A rock-steadiness only I can muster. It's a gift we give ourselves by choosing it. Self-possession costs nothing, requires no advanced degree, and truly I believe that when it's combined with utter positivity contains an infinite supply of...je ne sais quoi...that certain something that makes us compelling.

Me. I'm my own resource, and through getting to know me better, I have more to offer the world. Mathematically balanced. Incredible!

3-14-11 6:37 pm Perception, Perspective, and Other "P" Words

My family routinely gives me the opportunity to gain perspective by showing me theirs. Harold and I try to run an even balance when it comes to the business of parenting. He monitors chores, room-cleaning, and making lunches, and I monitor homework, instrument practices and anything else after school. When one of us lets a job go, the others feel it, in entirely unanticipated, yet probably predictable, ways.

A few weeks slip by and I realize Anne's instrument practices maybe slid a bit in quality. How do I know? Her music teacher shares a look of concern with me as we both listen to her play during a lesson. And then it hits. Those times I've cooked dinner, rather than listen and support her during practices leaves Anne to figure out maybe a little too much on her own. Luckily her music teacher knows me, and I rectify things at home.

So, these last few weeks after coming home to Anne's messy room after school, I've felt reluctant to say too much. Harold wants her to get to school on time. I want that plus a clean room so that at least some of our mother-daughter time together is spent joyfully. From my perspective, if she's late for school one day, maybe she'll learn her lesson and just begin keeping her room cleaner on her own. And yet, I get it. Harold wants to get her to school on time. He's just blind to the consequences that choice leaves for me, later in the day.

The struggle has been, why does Harold let her get by with a cursory job at cleaning without, say, asking her to start earlier, maybe get up sooner? Who knows? What I do know is that our perspectives differ because we happen to be different people, noticing different things, at different times of the day. He's home later in the evenings. He sees us only after all her chores and practices are done. He may feel Anne's life and our mother-daughter time together balance perfectly. My perspective shows us frantically attempting to get everything done before he's home for supper and the evening comes to a close. A solution lurks somewhere between our vastly different perspectives. I think...maybe Anne's room gets cleaned after school when she puts her things away in the first place. She practices an instrument in the mornings, and our afternoons sound a bit quieter. (Headaches haunt me, daily threatening severe pain). Anne knows what she needs to do in order to keep the privilege of deciding herself when she practices, when she cleans her room, and when she enjoys a little r & r.

Honestly this issue has been a thorn in my side for a very long time - maybe several school years. I'm glad to resist the urge to throw a fit (past records indicate that as a futile effort anyway), and wait until sensible solutions surface. Punishing is how it's felt to me, yet why pass that on to others? Perception prevented Harold from seeing the big picture. Perhaps age precluded Anne from seeing her own power to determine her fate. Problems are just solutions waiting to happen. Patience usually pays off, as I hope it will this time.

3-11-11 7:25 pm Bubbles, Illusions, and Traditions

Isolation, the ultimate illusion, sometimes feels like a bubble of safety, and at others feels like relegation and underappreciation. Working on a new idea, at the stage past brainstorming and well into visualization, often tricks me into a feeling of wanting to protect an idea from other permutations. It's major bubble-time. Solo execution of any task, small or large, on the other hand leaves me feeling deserted and sometimes unappreciated. Ultimately both illusions get shattered in a reality of co-existence.

I'm learning to break through the bubble. Just today, working on a staff development project, I checked in with two other experts: a 20-year veteran teacher, and our school counselor. Explaining my thinking felt good. Verbalizing my plan clarified my thinking. They felt included and affirmed as stake-holders just by my reaching out. They shared useful insights that deepened my understanding and increased the quality of my work. Ultimately the benefactors are participants. Additional positive ripple effects go beyond building community. Sharing thinking builds trust, a shared vision, and unifies a team.

Conversely, times of burdensome blame (perceived) provided an different kind of opportunity for broadening the circle of input that relieved a feeling of isolation threatening to overpower me. Some staff wanted my help with behavior issues. After conferring, I carried out a plan that we'd agreed upon. On the first day it quickly became clear that our shared vision left out important details. I almost cowered. I almost threw my hands up. Instead I came right back to the planning table, drawing back in my two co-workers, thereby keeping the lines of communication open. What we thought was a one-time plan became a week-long process. Gratification, in work thoroughly executed, feels like its own reward. The behavior issues may continue to one degree or another. Yet our time together supported intentionally cooperative work among school professionals from which students ultimately benefit.

How was the week? Productive. Inspiring. It felt full of learning. Indeed, I feel fortunate.

Traditions: Tomorrow Harold and I will be married 17 years. Some better than others, still I feel extremely fortunate to co-build this relationship. This morning met with a surprise cup of perfectly-made coffee, and this afternoon saw a beautiful bunch of flowers on the kitchen counter. And he said we'd celebrate this year on the cheep!

Traditions feed our collective memories, and that's its own resource. Anne saw the flowers and began complimenting her father's character. I concurred, and took advantage of the moment to advertise good qualities to look for in a husband: trustworthiness, kindness, self-care, and consideration. Kids learn from what they see more than from what they hear, I know. This time, she saw and heard, hopefully a powerful combination.

Most of what I have falls into the category of beliefs. I believe in building collaborative relationships, supporting loving relationships, and self-care. Everything else results as symptoms of those core beliefs. We make our destinies when we intentionally execute our lives.