The Junk Yard vs. Poetry Beach

There's been a lot of sorrow.

Deep sadness.

Tears.

Worry.

Fear.

I try not to think about it...but every tiny act of mothering is a reminder.

Tonight I clipped my child's fingernails.

I wondered who clips the nails of the children in cages.

Does anyone notice when their nails are too long...or too dirty.

Yesterday, my 12 year old daughter asked me to braid her hair.

It's a rare treat these days so I seized on the moment to brush and tend and love her via her hair.

I wove her hair with a heart that is tattered...I saw the tiny stripes the sun has tinted in her hair already...I knew the area on her head where the braid always gets bumpy...I smoothed and tightened and thought of all the young girls with no one to fix their hair.

Children are being taken and separated from their families.

Intentionally.

The government is working to bring the most pain to bear on immigrants.

It's working to harm the youngest and most vulnerable.

I can hardly believe this nightmare is true.

A few days ago, I was moving my daughter up to Portland.

Despondent over these babies and mothers I went for a walk along the Willamette River.

I tried to lose myself in that new place...tried to notice something new with each step...

a wildflower here...a tiny bird there.

It felt good to walk along a river and notice the current that never falters...always moving forward.

Lost in my thoughts I abruptly hit the end of the path...

a dead end with a junk yard attached.

How cosmically perfect.

Gross - Dead - Polluted - Junk

Might as well be describing our government...or my mood.

It felt maddening and sickeningly spot on.

What could I do but turn around?

I literally made an about face to begin walking back and discovered a path called Poetry at the Beach.

I marveled at this mystery.

What was going on?

How could there be poetry at the beach?

Literally, two of my favorite things embedded in some sort of spiritual mash up...what??

I should head back...I had chores to begin...and commitments to attend to...but I knew that wouldn't be happening.

I had to walk the path...

I discovered stones that had the words of children...the poems that children created carved into them...voices of Native American children who pondered the Willamette River and what it 

meant to them - felt to them - inspired in them.

Here are their hearts etched into stone:

There's always one over-achiever...meet Jordan.

Every carved stone captured me...I wondered where the student wrote the poem...who did the carving...where did the rock come from...who funded it all...who did the work of placing the stones in their spot...all of it seemed like one big surprise party made only for me.

Every stone echoed in my heart.

I came upon stones that had the Native word for our ordinary words:

It felt like I was being handed a secret code...or a blanket from the past...

Sit here.

Wrap yourself up in our words and our ways.

Know that the Willamette was here before you and will remain long after you.

Find comfort in the unwavering strength of stone...the unstoppable movement of the river...

the beauty that waits for you to notice.

That beauty is yours every day.

Poetry at the Beach

Here she is:

Meet the Willamette.

I walked along that stunning slice of sand...soaking up the driftwood so beautifully, carelessly tossed right where it was meant to be...looking at the gray stones and seeing 

gunmetal, silver, ash, slate, smoky, dove's egg, charcoal...the twists and turns of gray...

and the gift of being able to see every last hue between black and white.

I started my walk despondent over the now...alone...I ended my walk soaked in the people who came before me...the river that spans both and will arch into the future as well.

We have junkyards and poetry.

Stones waiting to be carved and poems still left to write.

Every single day, it's up to us to find the poems.

Up to us to notice...and leave our mark.

You get to choose:

junkyard or poetry.

Today, I thank the eagle, the frog, the Canadian geese, the otter and the driftwood.

I thank whoever found the swimming otter driftwood and left it for me to enjoy too.

I thank the stone carvers and the poets...the dreamers and the visionaries...those who thought to combine Native history and language with the beauty of the beach and children's voices.

Mostly, I thank the Willamette River who has seen her fair share of junkyard and poetry...

and still she flows.

The Naughty List

Tonight she asked if I could snuggle in bed with her.

She wanted me up close and holding her hand...that's rare these days, so I went with it.

She didn't say much.

But the quiet wasn't comforting.

It was heavy and it made the room seem extra dark.

All of a sudden, out came the question...

"Do you think I'm on The Naughty List?"

Shit.

Let me set something straight right now.

I'm not a fan of the Naughty List.

I don't use it...or talk about it...or even mention it.
And she hadn't done one thing that would be even close to earning The Naughty List distinction and yet, here it was.

I'm not a fan of doing good because you are guilted into it.

I know that must seem ironic since I am most definitely Catholic and we are good at guilt.

I'm all about doing good, being good, acting good 

because it's the right thing to do...

because that's who you are...

because you know what's important and you value it.

So the tiny voice asking about The Naughty List sunk me.

I had to snuggle in bed and take a deep breath and think about things...

I got close to her soft sweet cheek and whispered to her the only comfort I could bring.

"I know for sure you're not on The Naughty List.

For sure.

No doubt about it."

"Remember, I'm friends with Santa...good friends...I know."

Her body softened ever so slightly and I held her hand in the dark.

I inwardly cussed out whoever created that crappy old story we dish out to poor unsuspecting kids.

We know when we blow it.

We don't need The Naughty List adding another layer to our Big Mistake.

I tried to explain about the process of living and the idea that mistakes are just part of the deal.

I tried to assure her that the normal, day in day out, stuff of life was just that.

Santa understood.

But it's a tough gray zone.

We make mistakes...does that make us "bad"?

Are we only as good as our last mistake?

How do we ever make up for our mistakes?

Do you ever get off The Naughty List?

*****

In the dark, listening to her breathe, feeling her familiar little hand, smelling her sweet Caroline scent I remembered another mother on another December night fighting for her life.

She died on December 23rd. of breast cancer. leaving behind a 4th grader and a 2nd grader when Jack and Mary Kate were in 3rd and 1st.

There was a time, long ago, when every mommy moment of mine was suffused with all of the mommy moments she had never had...that her boys never knew.

In my kids' teen years, when it was hard, I held close the privilege it was to be right there in the center of the ugly.

Even when it was extra hard I thought of her...and her white chocolate and cranberry scones.

But I admit, I hadn't thought of her for a long while.

Years.

Until tonight...when my December 22nd sliding into December 23rd reminded me...

of how lucky we are to be right there for the hard-ness, the bad-ness, the I-can't-believe-this-is-my life-and-not-some-really-bad-movie ugliness.

Life is hard.

Really it is.

Why add The Naughty List?

Tonight, as of this very minute, it's gone.

Santa has no list.

He doesn't need one.

Dude, you are good...so good...and if you're not...well, we'll deal.

You don't need no list to tell you a thing.

Trust your gut.

Know yourself.

Own your actions.
Fix your mistakes.

Make it better.

Move on.

Tonight I'm grateful for late night snuggles and quiet questions in the dark.

That's the good stuff.

The Naughty List, on the other hand, well, that can hit the road.

*****

And Mary Lou, we still miss you.

Still don't understand.

Still wish it weren't so.

December 23rd is hard.every time.

God's Greatest Gifts

I don't know what you hope for, long for or dream about.

I can just share with you the dreams in my heart.

Ever since I was a young, young child I dreamt of being a mom.

I know this is TMI and I know Mary Kate will be cringing as I share this...but, I got my period super late in life -- 15 years old -- sophomore in high school -- in other words, ancient.

Before that time, I knew that if you didn't have a period, you couldn't have a child.

Trust me, my reproductive knowledge was greatly limited but that I knew way down deep.

So my prayer for years was, I kid you not:

Please, please please God, let me get my period.

Let me have kids.

They were always called kids in my adolescent mind.

Always plural.

Not snuggly babies.

Or baby dolls.

Kids...and I wanted plenty.

I guess God knew my heart because he helped me find the right guy and gave me the joy of four great kids.

Four.

That still seems a bit greedy on my part.

I never thought it would be four...but I learned with my very first pregnancy -- which ended with a miscarriage -- that I was most definitely not in any sort of control.

These four are by far my greatest gifts.

My biggest joy.

My purpose.

They are the thread that helps everything else make sense.

I see my children in every child I encounter.

I see every mother in me.

I see every family in mine.

That separation that existed between me and the rest of the world felt a little less with Jack and Mary Kate but it fully disappeared with Patrick's presence.

Suddenly, the marginalized were part of me.

The "broken".

The disabled.

The slow.

The people that others look away from...the people that others don't discuss...that are okay to terminate...those people were now part of me.

There was no way to love Patrick and not see them too.

I look at the way Patrick has changed me and I think of God's gifts.

My dream as a teen...so limited and finite...busted wide open with the realness of His gifts.

It was way better than any dream of mine.

How could I know what to wish for?
Little, sweet Caroline?
How could I know to ask for such wonder?

I never could have imagined it.

Four busy, funny, quirky, messy kids.
Old and young.
Fast and slow.

All I can say is thank you.
Thank you for my kids.
Thank you for the joy that comes with
loving,
 guiding,
 watching,
 hoping,
fighting with and for...

and for the heartbreak.

For in feeling so deeply we get close to what really matters.
This, right here, this moment, this meal, this day is what counts.

Thank you, God, for your greatest gifts.
Put my tiny dreams to shame, no doubt.

In Praise Of Those Pesky Dandelions In The Middle Of Our Manicured Lawns...and Other Thoughts On The Pursuit Of Pefection

Stop for a moment and take a look at this...

weed?

piece of perfection?

natural mystery?

perpetual propeller?

We pass it by every day.

Sometimes we are annoyed with the dandelion fluff as it teases us, even mocks us, as it stands so tall among the well-behaved blades of grass...daring you to try to remove it.

Good luck!

Just by the very action of plucking it, you spread its seeds...such a clever mode of transportation.

Maybe you could pick it and make a wish...transporting yourself to a more carefree chapter in time.

Or you can wish it didn't exist with its bold brand of yellow...wish it away...and there's always the option of raining down a little poison.  

Round Up Ready.

So much of our life is just like this...

trashing the miracle...

wishing it away...

trying to change it...

and pouring on the poison.

We poison ourselves with the pursuit of the perfect lawn, the perfect abs, the perfect wrinkle-free skin and see no joy in any of these gifts.

As I watch all of my neighbors kill their lawns because of our severe drought, I sure wouldn't mind a lawn or two with dandelions.

As I notice people with so many health problems, I'm pretty happy with my abs of imperfection.

As I slather on the sunscreen around my eyes, I can't help but feel those laugh lines as they get deeper and more pronounced...almost everyday I wonder what I've been laughing about.

Too many good memories.

So fun to imagine which joke, which comedy, which unexpected joy made those lines.

I must have been having one heck of a time along the way.

Perfection is a hollow pursuit.

We know this.

In our heart  of hearts we feel its truth.

Yet, still we let the illusion allow us to abort babies that we wanted but have suddenly been identified with an extra chromosome.

No longer satisfied with ordinary seeds we literally add toxins to the DNA of seeds to resist the pesticides and call them natural.  We praise genetic engineering while pouring on even more pesticides on our crops.

Not good enough.

We berate ourselves internally for our "muffin tops", our "wobbly thighs", our age spots, our gray hair...never cherishing the stories behind each of these changes.

We can't have our houses clean enough, our clothes pressed enough, our children well-behaved enough or our spouse sexy enough.

We are always asking for more.

Me included.

Which brings me back to the dandelion.

Thank God for them.

Thank God for mine.

I'm done with the poisonous lies.

Done with the fractions of truths.

Done with it.

Today, I was reintroduced to a piece of art that I learned about in 2006.

It's called "Sam and The Perfect World" by Peter Lentz.

In 2006, it won the National Portrait Gallery's Outwin Boochever Portrait Competition.

Here are Peter Lentz's words:

"My wife Rosemarie had just given birth to our son Sam, and although he appeared perfectly healthy, something, nevertheless, didn't seem right. There was an awkward silence in the room, no words of congratulation or comments about how cute he was even though he was cute. Five minutes later the diagnosis was given: Sam has Down Syndrome. "Are you going to keep him?" a nurse asked. Later that evening someone else came by to "console" us. "It's every mother's worst nightmare," she said.

Welcome to the world, Sam.

In America today, perfection is highly valued. We dump loads of chemicals on our lawns to try and get rid of every weed, every dandelion. Models and supermodels are tall, impossibly fit, their clothes stylish and wrinkle-free. Images like this tend to change our perceptions, our ideals, until finally they leave us looking around at the peeling paint on our own houses, and our less than fit bodies, and it leaves us wanting.

Perfection, I would submit, is overrated. And besides, I like dandelions.

In the painting Sam assumes the role of presenter, host, even tutor, of this most revealing examination of the civilization man has made for himself. Sam is not society's accepted definition of perfection. In spite of that, or perhaps because of that, he really does have an important message for everyone to hear."

Umm, I like dandelions too.

I'm blowing it off.

Making my wish.

Enjoying the bright, bold yellow in the thick of the green.

Perfection deserves some Round Up.

Not us...not a single one of us.

Your job today: accept and love the people in your life, 

most especially, yourself.

Falling Down

Caroline loves to roller blade.

Most mornings she puts them on first thing and as soon as she is home from school, 

they are back on her feet.  

She's content to roll around the kitchen and living room in and endless loop.

She roller blades outside in the back yard.  

She insists that it is "blading" and always corrects me if I ask her to take her skates off.

She eats dinner with them on.

She does homework with them on.

She reads books or watches TV and forgets that she has something attached to her body.

She's a wee bit obsessed.

Her happiest time of the day is when we walk our dog, Buddy.

She can rollerblade through the neighborhood at supersonic speed.

She hunches over like a roller derby queen and speeds up and goes as fast as her risky self will allow --

which is awful fast to an onlooking mom.

She's gotten good...like I said, they're beginning to just be a part of her body.

She is now practicing tricks -- like jumping over cracks in the sidewalk, or doing the
ice-skating maneuver of the one-leg-in-the-air-glide.

She's confident and proud.

And then a tiny stick got in her way.

She loves this one driveway we pass each day.

It has a big U-shaped driveway and she whizzes up one side of the U and spins and
whizzes down the other the side at top notch speed.  

One time she did it 11 times back and forth...even I was getting dizzy.

And then the unthinkable happened...she bit the dust.

It wasn't a horrible wipe-out as wipe outs go -- but she got a sizable scrape on the side of her belly and nothing else...but a big ole sense of what just happened?

She was shocked.  Stunned.  

Mortified and mad.

She was quiet as she roller-bladed home -- defeated -- and I couldn't yet tell just how injured she was so I didn't push.

At the injury inspection I made a comment about how it wasn't that bad...but she couldn't even respond.

Big, heaving, gasping cries came over her.

Tears and more tears.

I tried to cajole her into the shower...no go.

Tried to be soothing and understanding...not working.

I tried the brush-off -- really, kid, you're good...complete flop.

Then I just picked her up and undressed her and plopped a wailing, inconsolable kid into the tub.

She resisted the water, not wanting her scrape to sting, but I insisted, 

which only amped up the situation.

I noticed her forehead...speckled with red splotches like she used to get as an infant after crying really hard...and I tried to tell her it was all going to be okay...back to soothing as an option.

Finally, she leaned back into the water and let it all comfort her and released that soggy sigh that all people release after that final burst of crying, but somehow with kids it tends to be the checkered flag.  We made it.

I tried to help her notice it..."Look, Caroline, you made it over the hump.  You're going to be OK."

A tiny voice and tear-filled bue eyes looked up, 

"I think it was a stick." she reflected.

"It might have been, baby.  But, you need to know that the reason you like roller-blading is partly because of this right here.  You enjoy it because you feel excited.  You know you could fall down.  You accept that part...and you love when you don't."

"But sometimes you do."

"And then, you just have to get back up...and try again."

She slowly got out of the tub.

I snuggled my fresh-from-the-tub-girl -- a treat that rarely happens anymore.

I held her for the briefest of moments and treasured this chance.

I'm so grateful to be able to help her up and comfort her...

I hate it when they fall...

any of them.any.time.

But isn't that where so much of the real learning happens?

We all fall down.

We must get back up.

There really is no choice.

We can cry and scream and blame the stick but it doesn't matter...we will fall.

It's what happens after the fall that matters.

Speak Up

"Nearly all men can stand adversity,

but if you want to test a man's character, give him power."

--Abraham Lincoln

Holy Moly!  We have a full "As The World Turns" going on in my little town.

It's crazy.

It's ludicrous.

It would be something worth talking about if it didn't involve coaches and kids...make that one kid.

But maybe that makes it even more worth talking about.

We have a school board that governs our schools.

We have 8 elementary schools; three junior high schools; three high schools and a whole group of people who choose 

"independent study".

That's a lot of students, gobs of teachers and plenty of administrators for five people to attempt to guide.

It's a thankless job.

Let's establish that right now.

There are long hours, lots of emotion, endless need and never enough money.

Very, very few take the time to thank our school board.

Plenty find a way to complain.

That's the nature of the beast.

I have a good friend who has just begun her tenure on a school board in a neighboring town.

As a teacher and a parent and a citizen, I get it...big time.

However, it's time to shed some light.

What is going on??

Who is in charge?

Is it really possible for one parent who is on the school board to demand an "investigation" about their one child getting cut from a sports team -- that actually costs over $22,000 -- and not have a full rebellion from all parents, educators, administrators and anyone else who cares about our schools and our town???

Is it really possible to stay quiet and just feel disappointed??

Let's start with some unpleasant facts...if you're on the school board it is your job to stay neutral and on the side of the schools.

Yes, even if your own child gets cut from a team and you feel it was unfair.

Even if you feel that the coach is doing a poor job.

You are supposed to have faith in the system you are a part of...you are supposed to trust the process.

It is a breach of your privilege of being on the school board to actively work to fire a coach.ever.

Frankly, you shouldn't have that level of power.

Once that process began, the rest of the school board had the hard job of confronting a person who was misusing her position of power.

The rest of the school board has shirked its duties.over and over again.

Allowing $22,000 to be spent on an "investigation" about one student and one coach is unconscionable.

Let's list some things that $22,000 could be used for in our district:

1) a half time school counselor at the high school level

2) 44 Ipads to use in any school

3) a new roof on any school 

4) updated heating/cooling system

5) professional growth for an entire staff or two at a school site.

5) filling an entire school library with new books

We still don't know who authorized the "investigation" -- we don't know why the "investigation" created a 72 page report -- and we don't know why it cost $22,000.

We have a right to know and to see through these proceedings.

After all, we're paying the tab!

When we are quiet about this as citizens, guess who loses?

Our kids.

Our teachers.

Our coaches.

Those coaches work for a pittance.

They have to deal with way too much as it is already to allow this disgrace to go unfettered.

Coaches need respect.

Coaches need positive support.

Coaches are doing the best they can.

Can they do better?

Sure.

We all can.

Yes. Students get cut from teams.

That's how competitive teams work.

If you don't like that, don't participate.

Yes. My own children got cut from teams.

And yes, I watched someone get cut from a team in part because of the way she spoke to her mother on the phone.

The captain of that team made a comment to the coach about that behavior and yes, that mattered.

It should.

It speaks to how that person would be on a team and as a team-mate.

Should a person be cut from a team because his/her parents are difficult??

Well, that's up to the coach.

And, yes, that's his/her call to make.

We need to stop what we're doing as individuals in our town and let our kids and teachers and coaches know how important they are.

We need to speak up.

Someone's got to...

because when we're silent, we give the impression that it's all  okay.

And, ummmmm it's not.

Not even a little.

We give the impression that we're fine with it.

And, I'm not.

Not.at.all.

Where's the grace???

In the coaches and teachers and students who still have faith.

Who still trust the process.

Who believe that it will all work out, 

if they just keep working hard and keep their eyes on the prize.

It's for them that I write this.

You, yes you, are my inspiration.

Keep at it.

We've got your back.

Life

What do you think makes for a happy life?

Truth is...it's not much.

Something to love.

Something to hope for.

Something to do.

Those are the "grand essentials" of happiness...if you have that, you are pretty much batting 1000.

Sometimes we go through times where we are out of balance:

I have too much to do and nothing to love.

My dreams feel out of reach...my "hope for" is a joke.

My "something to do" feels mind-numbing and monotonous.

But, the process of life forces us to find a way to make room for the big three.

And when we do...it's magic...poof: happiness.

So, on this anniversary of the biggest decision of our courts to allow abortion to be legalized I want to ask all of you...

are we better off choosing death over life?

Does our world see the sacredness of life?

In our world of technology and amazing photography we can all clearly see that life in utero is most definitely going on in there.

We have fingernails and toes and full 3-D images that show perfect profiles of the children within.

Can we at least establish that the "clump of cells" concept is out dated?

That's no clump of cells...there's a full fledged human in there.

Now, that human might not be convenient.

It might be the object of very bad timing.

It might be born into poverty or sadness or a messed up world.

But what it takes to be a full-fledged human baby is so miraculous it deserves that chance.

With abortion, we've accepted the idea that life is a convenience.

We have swallowed the idea that some lives are worth living and others are not.

We've been enveloped in a world that takes the sacred and the holy out of conception and birth.

Anyone who has been witness to a birth knows that it is sacred ground.

A portal.

A passage from another world and into ours.

Shutting that down seems like an impossibility but the side that embraces abortion has done just that.

What are the odds that a baby will arrive in your life?

None of us know.

We can try and try and try and still be infertile.

We can have one child and be unable to have another.

We can have sex one time and find ourselves pregnant.

It's a crapshoot.

It always is.

And that's the beauty of it.

It's a leap of faith.

A crazy idea.

A wild, unbelievable blessing.

A miracle.

Yes, friends, every.single.baby.is a full-fledged miracle.

Healthy or not.

Poor or not.

Crack-addicted or not.

Miracle.

Out of the everywhere and into the here.

I have a child that the world views as disposable.

People have asked me "if I knew"...insinuating in the most despicable way (but always with the brightest smile and most interested face) that if I had known I might have chosen better...

I always answer that I did know -- in my heart, with the strongest premonition I've ever had -- but all of my tests came back 

all-clear.  Including my favorite one, the ultrasound where the technician pointed out all four chambers of Patrick's tiny baby heart, when in fact, he was born with no chambers and needed open heart surgery almost immediately.

Yes, I have a child that many, many people believe should be terminated...his life is too terrible, 

too burdensome, too much trouble to be allowed to breathe another breath.

Ummmm, not really.

Tonight, I had a regular old boring night.
I made breakfast for dinner.
Walked Caroline through the basics of borrowing in subtraction.
Found my son who is "disabled" more able than me with our TV system...finagling some way to watch You Tube on our TV?!?
Read books with both Patrick and Caroline before bed.
Listened to their prayers.
Cleaned up some dishes.
Procrastinated, yet again, on making lunches for tomorrow.

Not one time did I wish my son wasn't born.
Not one time did I watch him interact with his sister and think anything other than I wish they would stop annoying each other.
Not one time.

Babies are miracles.every.single.one.
My prayer is that some day our entire world can hold sacred every life:
the unwanted, the inconvenient, the disabled, the difficult, the very old and fragile.
Every life.

I don't believe any of this is a "choice".
Gifts that are given.
People waiting, just waiting, to rock your world...
one tiny baby footprint at a time.

Tonight, I am grateful for my children.
Grateful for all of the children I have been privileged to know and love.
I am also profoundly grateful for the gift of life...most especially my own.
Ordinary.
Clumsy.
Messy and funny.
Thank you God for this sacred time of being alive.
Man, is it beautiful.

Truth or Dare

"The great enemy of the truth is very often not the lie, deliberate, contrived or dishonest, but the myth, persistent, persuasive and unrealistic."  

-- John F. Kennedy

Tell me the truth...

stop and really consider it.

How do you feel about Down Syndrome?

Does it gross you out?

Frighten you?

Disgust you?

Make you uncomfortable?

Why??

Time for a little truth telling.

I'm gonna keep it real and hope you last until the end.

Do you dare?

Down Syndrome is not frightening.

It's not the problem.

It most certainly does not warrant the death penalty or loss of life in utero.

The problem is the pervasive and concrete-like myths that persist.

Time for a little jack-hammering.

Myth #1:  "They are so happy."

Ummm....not so much.  Patrick has the full deli counter assortment of emotions: anger, loneliness, joy, confusion, sadness, happiness, calm serenity, extreme excitement, embarrassment, love.

Yes, what ticks him off is not what ticks you off...but isn't that true of your other friends and family?

He does not sit around in a perpetual dumb happiness every day -- in fact, that whole idea is just plain silly.

Myth #2: "They are stubborn."

People with Down Syndrome are under a microscope.  

Like it or not, they are held to higher standards behavior-wise than the typical population.

Imagine a line full of kids.

Imagine all of them pushing, poking, and acting unruly.

Who gets nailed almost every time??

Yep, the kid with DS.

He (or she) is easy to spot...I get it...but it's a bummer.

Being "stubborn" could also be called being persistent, having perseverance, demonstrating grit (the hip word in parenting if you haven't gotten the memo)...but almost always, in reference to children with Down Syndrome it is labeled "being stubborn".

I don't buy it.

Myth #3: "Children with Down Syndrome are a burden."

Honestly, this is the one that really prevents children with DS from living a full life.

Children (Down Syndrome or not) are NOT a burden.

Every single child on our big blue marble is a remarkable, stunning, one-of-a-kind gift to all of us.

They are gems...rare and beautiful.

How is that burdensome??

Is there more work involved with a child with Down Syndrome??

Yes.

Does that make it not worthwhile??

Don't you have to dig deep (and hard) for diamonds??

Aren't our kids more precious than diamonds??

If I could crush this myth into diamond dust I would...because this is the vortex of all prejudice.

If people consider you a burden, then you don't get equal access.

Heck, you don't really deserve to live.

If you are trouble, people avoid hanging out with you.

If you are difficult, well then, it's easy to leave you out, exclude you and close doors of opportunity.

Today, this very day, I spoke to two different moms about their children with Down Syndrome and their education.  Both of them are fighting for the chance to have their child fully included in the typical classroom.  One is in second grade, the other in fifth.  One lives in Florida, the other in California.

Honest, gut-level truth right now: their child is not the only struggling student in their class.

Their child could very well be a better reader and yes, a better student, than another child in that class.

Their child is the one singled out.

The one that needs to prove their worthiness to even get access to the regular room.

Why??

Because of the pervasive prejudice that continues to this very day.

Here's my truth and I've been a mom to someone with Down Syndrome for 14 years...

so, I'm not Polly-anna, crazy-in-love, rose-colored glasses girl...

just a mom who lives with her gem everyday.

This is my truth.

I don't notice Down Syndrome in my child.

I notice Patrick.

I can see him, his whole beautiful self, clearly.

That is the blessing of loving someone.

I don't believe any myths now about anybody.

Because the myths that people tell me about Down Syndrome are so far off the mark that it's offensive.

My heart got bigger when Patrick was born.

My citizenship with the world was not only renewed it caught fire.

I see myself in every mother...

the one who forgets her child in a car...

the one who doesn't have enough food in the fridge...

the one who can't figure out which end is up and is so clouded in judgement she believes not living is an option.

My truth is clear.

But I wonder about the others...

who will share their truth??

Who will dare to consciously, mindfully crush to dust these pervasive, destructive myths.

Only with truth can freedom ring.

Just a brother with two sisters: truth.

From Here to There

"Skipping is oxygen for the soul." -- Jessi Lane Adams

If you hang around young children, you get to see them skip...from Point A to Point B, skipping is most definitely the preferred mode of locomotion.  

Children can't seem to help it.  

The joy in having these amazing bodies, the zest for living each and every day in this land of wonder and amazement, the natural predilection for fun no.matter.what requires skipping.

The young child is proud of himself.  

It's quite an accomplishment to maneuver that body up and down in a dancing sort of way.  

Smiles just must accompany the movement.

But up around age 7, kids start to notice that adults aren't skipping much.

These readers, writers, monkey bar enthusiasts can't help but slow it down.  It's unintentional, of course, growing up always is...but the average 7 year old doesn't skip as often as her kindergarten friends...except on the soccer field, it seems.

Maybe it's the wide open grass, 

or the companionship of friends, 

or just the joy of a Saturday of exercise and cheering and fun --

I don't really know what triggers it but the skipping just happens.

I cherish the skip onto the playing field...because I know it won't last long.

This bridge from young child to older child isn't a long one and the skipping seems to slow way down as they move across it.

I mentioned it today as I watched my baby girl skip out onto the field after a quarter of rest.

I said out loud, "I love the skipping," to a mom next to me.

Her one and only child was right next to mine on the field.

She paused as if noticing it for the first time.

"I know," she said.  "They love to skip."

Her daughter's in third grade...that much farther across the bridge. I mentioned that it wouldn't last long.  That skipping was a territory in the Young Child Kingdom and that the Older Child Realm wasn't too partial to that form of movement.

As if seeing it for the first time, she pointed out the others.

Three kids from the other team skipped in a staggered line onto the field.

Another one of our little team-mates from the Blue Lightning skipped her way onto midfield.

On the field, impatient to get kicking, little girls couldn't help it...their bodies were dancing and wiggling and giggling and joy-filled.

This tiny window of time is so precious.

And such a reminder.

Our bodies are pretty damn awesome.

Why don't we skip more?

Can you imagine Obama and the rest skipping around D.C.??

Yeah, me neither.

Why??

They have sucked the joy right out of that town.

How about those poor people in Syria?

How about Putin?

Skipping is free.

It takes no equipment.

You don't need to be fluent in a language, literate or know any rules to the game.

You can do it anywhere -- although wide open spaces do actually beg for it.

So why aren't we doing it??

Because we're all a little weighted down.

You need to have a light heart, a real ability to live in the moment and a sense of joy.

Young children carry those things in their back pocket.

Adults, not so much.

So, today I'm grateful for the skipping.

Grateful to the young children who do it on a daily basis.

Grateful to be reminded that I have a healthy body, a joyful life and the chance to skip.

You'll find me skipping around the block and if I'm really brave, I won't even have a kid next to me.

Why not?

I could use the joy, the lift and the fun.

Who's with me??