The Wabi-Sabi Life

"The notion is called Wabi-Sabi life, like the cherry blossom, it is beautiful because of its impermanence, not in spite of it, more exquisite for the inevitability of loss."

-- Peggy Orenstein

We don't consider our impermanence too often...unless we are forced to.

Having it thrust upon us.

Third graders virtually never do.

About a month ago I saw this article

on Katrina Kennison's Facebook page.

It startled me. 

It wowed me.

It made me see everything that was laying on the ground outside as an object of beauty

a piece of a puzzle

a gift.

An artist named Ja Soon Kim who lives in New Mexico 

collects things...

leaves, petals, twigs, stones, crabapples, feathers, sea shells

and carefully, 
mindfully, 
intentionally 

selects a spot on a square of white or black

and creates art

Exhibit A

These happen to be little red leaves...but it could be

Exhibit B

...bark.

These works of art of hers aren't glued down or shellacked or in some way made permanent.

She takes a photo.

She posts it to Instagram.

She moves on...

and leaves the rest of us wanting more...

pondering about what else could be selected so carefully and placed so meticulously.

Exhibit C

Fallen crabapples.

*****

When I saw her work, I wanted to see what third graders might think.

I wanted to take them on a walk and watch them look at the discards of our natural world and ponder a white space and where it might find a place.

I wondered if they would think it was weird...

or dumb...

or pointless...

I wondered if they could possibly understand impermanence.

Savor the fleeting.

Turns out they could.

I've done art with many classes of many ages over many years.

For me, this lesson was very likely my most successful.

They understood.

They made the most of their walk...their freedom to pick and choose 

and delight in something nature no longer needed.

When it came time to place the objects, none wanted to glue it down.

Maybe the knowledge that there was a photo to commemorate it helped.

They were eager to design and savor and click a photo and start again.

Here is a sampling of their designs...

Exhibit A

 Kate: "In everything there is a swirl of light."

Exhibit B

Kerrigan: "Every day you bloom to be a new person."

Exhibit C

Lauren: "Everything is flowerful."

There is a whimsy, a lightness, a generosity in their quotes...

the impermanence is beautiful and they relish it.

Maybe it's their distance from big loss.

Maybe it's their childish wonder.

Maybe it's the purity and grace of childhood.

Exhibit D

Gabby: "Nothing lasts forever."

And Gabby states it so clearly, so simply, that it gives me pause.

Those dandelion fluffs already disintegrating...

so fragile that with any movement, a seed is lost.

She knows what we all know...time is passing...things fall apart...people must leave...
but she stops.
She creates.
She leaves her mark.

We all must.
We are called to create.
To love.
To sing, dance, write, wonder, experiment...
connect.

And from all of these beautiful impermanent moments maybe that's what matters most.

I do know it's a Wabi-Sabi life and somehow having a name for it helps.

Thank you Ja Soon Kim.

Thank you third graders.
Thank you for spotting the beauty in the gutter...
in the cracks and crevices...
in the hidden places.

Just look what you did.

Here, for good measure, is Caroline's...Exhibit  E

Her quote: "You wish it, you want it, you make it happen."

Lastly, my darling niece Lizzy reminds us of what really matters...

Exhibit F

Lizzy: "Smile."

It's a Wabi-Sabi life...there's nothing to lose (or maybe there's everything to lose)...
let's push the pause button...and smile.

You Find What You Look For

** This is my second in a series of essays for Jack, our oldest son who will be graduating from college in a few months. These are just rambling thoughts of a mother whose only gift she can think of are words. **

"Look and you will find it, what is unsought will go undetected." -- Sophocles

If I could tell you one thing that would help you on your journey it is this:
you find what you look for. 

For some reason, when I go on my quote walk-about searching for the right thing to place here, I always find it comforting to find that the Greeks had virtually the same idea all those years ago.

We're not that different.  

Those ancient Greek philosophers and you and me are pretty much on the same journey...
they just have cooler ways of saying it.

So, back to finding what you look for...or in the more Tony Robbins-esque way of saying it:

You get what you focus on.

It really is as simple as that.

I found this truth to be true in all aspects of my life but profoundly true -- powerfully, weirdly, prophetically true -- in the classroom.

The days that I made up my mind that I had the best class ever -- the most inquisitive, hard-working, clever group on the planet -- lo and behold, I did.  I found them cooperating, and answering tough questions and focusing in amazing ways.

The days that I decided my group was tough -- that they were low and difficult and energy-sucking...miraculously, they were.

It wasn't them.

It was me.

Almost every time.

I remember the day I discovered it.

I had had the most amazing morning.
My group was working hard, sticking with the tough problems and asking great questions.

Then we went to lunch.

And I had to deal with a car insurance company that didn't want to help in any meaningful way.  My insurance was going to cover nothing and I was going to have to figure out how to buy two new tires and I didn't have my paycheck coming for another week.

I came back from lunch and my group was inattentive, goofing around and making me crazy.

They could do nothing.

The more I looked, the more I found students who were causing trouble and flat out not paying attention.

It was a hard afternoon to say the least and I let them go and exhaled at my desk after school obsessing on my tires and my class and their terrible ways and like some sort of Oprah moment it all came crashing down on me.

My class hadn't changed.

MY focus is what had changed.

MY interest.

MY engagement.

MY level of connection...

and they felt it.

Like a giant mirror, they reflected it back to me perfectly.

As soon as I realized this, like some sort of mystical force, I could see it happening.

I had the awareness...which meant I had the ability to change it midstream if I wanted to.

As I've gotten older, this has become my life's mantra.

It's so obvious it can be painful at times.

Watching a parent create a self-fulfilling prophecy for their child.

Watching a teacher create the negative, non-supportive classroom that they most want to avoid.

Watching myself continue in a down-ward spiral even as I know it is happening.

Last night was a perfect example.

There we were with you at a delicious authentic, cozy Italian restaurant.

Our tastebuds were delighted in every way.

The candle light was flickering in just the right way to make the moment feel dream-like and joyful.

We were laughing and relaxed.

We leave the restaurant and Patrick gags.  He gets ready to throw up.

He throws up outside (but not terribly) and the magic is erased like a bibbity, boppity, boo swish of a wand.

It really wasn't that bad.

He really didn't make that big of a mess.

He just really needed fresh air...and a little extra room in his tummy.

He regained himself and we made it back home...but the moment was lost for me.

I decided to get angrier and angrier.

I kept reliving that one split second over and over...forgetting the million previous magical moments.

I lost the night...because I chose to focus on puke...

instead of my precious time with you...

instead of the conversation,

the laughter, 

the comfort of family,

the kindness of our driver,

the ability to take deep, cleansing breaths of fresh air.

All lost.

So, my sweet son, I beg you to see the power of your focus.
Your attention.
Your efforts.

Today, I choose to focus on the beauty, the grace and the time I get in your neck of the woods.

Like some sort of metaphor, the vomit is cleaned up and the day is sparkling and crystal clear.
What will I find?
What treasures will unfold?

I can't wait to see them...with clearer eyes.

25 Ways

July 1st, 1989, John and I got married.

It was a sunny day filled with family, friends and a lot of good music.

We knew nothing...

we were babies.

And now, flash, ka-bam, whoosh...25 years have gone by.

25 years.

Silver.

I read somewhere that Anne Lamott (whom I adore and admire) thinks that there are only three important prayers:

Help, Thanks, Wow!

Although I love the simplicity, I'm not too sure about that...seems like God might be able to handle a little more depth there.

But in a marriage...that's where those three prayers just might be miraculous.

HELP!

So many ways, so many days, you have helped...

with the midnight barfing,

the conundrum of children's sports/activities and conflicting schedules,

the indoor/outdoor messes that just never end,

the endless garbage taking-out chore

(traded, in a moment of sheer brilliance on my part, for the endless bed-making chore)

with the big questions of life...

which leads me to THANK YOU!

For never missing a single chemo treatment for Patrick's 3+ year leukemia journey...

that alone makes you a complete bad ass.

For always having a smile or a joke or at the very least an inappropriate remark at 

the exact right moment.

For being able to see the bright side, even in the middle of darkness.

For being the ultimate DJ, always having a playlist and a song that IS the moment.

For being one hell of a dad, daddy or dobby depending on the day --

trust me, that devotion and irrational love is crazy sexy.

For taping your eye shut when my eye needed to be taped shut...full solidarity...in a terrible time...

that act of love is my inspiration to this day...

I want to love like you.

which morphs into WOW!

4 kids? 

really?

never would have believed it and yet, here they are...

what crazy, amazing gifts -- our very best dreams come true -- together.  

Out of the everywhere into the here.

Wow!

One dog, one rat, two bunnies, five cars, three different addresses, 

countless hours of late-night Christmas Eve put-togethers,

hundreds of barbecues,

silent nights,

loud, obnoxious mornings, 

25 years of

silly

scary,

sublime

slivers of time.

No one I'd rather spend it with...

my love.

Thank you for being my help, my thank you and my wow!

Thank you for 25 years...

how can that be?

Sunset selfie...June 2014.

Anything Can Be

Anything can be.

Anything.

Tonight is proof.

5,445 days ago a little baby was born.

He had Down Syndrome...a heart defect and later leukemia.

5,445 days ago I didn't know a thing.

I was biased and prejudiced.

Flattened and broken.

I believed the mustn'ts and the don'ts.

And the universe handed me a child...and his soul whispered to me,

"Anything can be."

I didn't know what to do or how to be.

But my older two kids did.

They knew how to love and they poured it on thick.

They were delighted with this baby filled with shouldn'ts and won'ts.

They knew the secret:

Anything Can Be.

Slowly.

Following the path of love and the glittered steps of preschoolers who knew best, I learned.

I learned that mothering this new baby was the same as mothering those other two...

love, belief, faith, being there....day in and day out.

*****

Recently I read this essay about wishing out loud.

I loved it.

In it, Mitchel encourages you and me to: "Share your wishes freely to anyone who will listen."

I've been doing that for awhile.

Wishing out loud.

LOUD.

Please, please, please let all children learn alongside each other.

LOUD.

Back in 1999, when Patrick was born, honestly, it felt like my wishing flame pilot light had gone out.

I didn't know what to wish for.

I felt alone.

Isolated.

I had no road map...and for someone who used to pour over the giant world atlas, that felt weird.

What does this new world of mine look like?

Who is with me?

Am I as alone as I feel?

*****

5,445 days have gone by.

The baby has gotten bigger, grown stronger, and is sitting on the edge of manhood.

He's reading, writing, passionate, funny, exuberant and his very own self.

Incomparable.

Inexplicable.

Indefinable.

Miraculously irreplaceable.

I could never have known his place that he alone would carve out for himself in this world of ours.

I could never picture his truth.

All I could do was live alongside him and show up each day...learning the lessons meant for me alone.

5,445 lessons...perfectly circular...perfectly balanced.

Tonight it all came together.

Tonight Patrick graduated from 8th grade...from a Catholic school.

He's the first in the diocese to be fully included in the regular classroom,
learning alongside his typical peers,
attending the same school as his big brother and sister.

The first.

In blue cap and gown he walked in holding a lit candle.

Light in the darkness.

Another reminder.

Anything can be.

He strode up to receive his diploma.

He sat back down and listened to the award winners.

Award winners for art, math, science, social studies, PE, literature.
His name wasn't called.
It didn't matter.
The award for most improved in Computer Class came and his name was announced.
He popped up -- eager to be singled out and awarded.
It felt good.
We moved on.

Suddenly, the teacher mentioned a special award.
She spent time explaining the award.
She detailed the recipient.
Describing attitude, effort and perseverance...lessons taught, day in, day out.
Patrick's name was the one on the award.

And like a crazy dream, he leaped up to receive the award
as his classmates cheered.
His classmates stood up.
The audience stood up...
the room transformed into a full standing ovation
I just sat there...
until the energy of the room pulled me up and I turned to my mom and asked,
"Is this real?"

I couldn't take it in.
Couldn't really make sense of it.

Anything can be.

This child of mine -- so broken to the outside world -- was fully seen, fully recognized,
fully accepted on this day, in this moment, at his school.
He was worthy.
He was good enough.
In fact, he was admired and awarded.

And in this moment, in this dream-like world, we were one.
Every single one of us in that big church belonged.
We were valued.
We were loved.

The message was loud and clear.
You, Patrick Foraker, have taught us something.
Something we didn't know until you showed us.

There will always be mustn'ts and can'ts.
Don'ts and wont's.
None of it matters, friend.
Anything can be.

So today I am grateful for this moment of hope and encouragement.
Profoundly grateful to the many, many encouragers who met us on this path.
Grateful to Sarah and Steve and Ashley and the many priests, principals, teachers, aides and staff who found a way to make anything be real.
Grateful for ordinary holiness, sacred acceptance, and this moment right now.

Anything can be.

Dreams come true.
Share your wishes out loud.
Wait.

Watch what happens in a few thousand days.

Happy Graduation, Patrick!

Tea for Two

"Enjoy life sip by sip, not gulp by gulp."

-- The Minister of Leaves

A tiny taste of heaven.


Do you have a secret place?
A spot you unknowingly find your way to when you need a rest or need to take a deep breath.
I have several secret spots that refuel me, that calm me, that bring it all back to the real stuff that matters.

When the world feels too crazy, I make my way to one of these places and
s-t-o-p
and breathe...big, long, deep oxygen-rich breaths.

It's not so serious.
No to-do list is that important.
It's all going to get done anyway...
who cares if it's not all done at the exact perfect time in the exact perfect way.

This, this right here -- is way more important.

And that's how I was feeling last Saturday.

I had chores to complete.
Work to finish.
Emails to return.
And a presentation to get done.

None of it mattered.

I woke up on Saturday and decided to share my secret place.

Caroline was ready.

So I zoomed out of my pj's (which really isn't-Saturday-morning-like-me), showered and got ready and whispered to Caroline...
"I'm taking you someplace special this morning, just me and you.  Will you get dressed?"

She needed no prompting...she got herself together in a flash.

We completed a tiny subset of the regular Saturday stuff that must get done and headed out...on bikes.

*****

[Now I must add here that I've been wrestling with the constant intrusion of my cell phone.  I've been feeling like it's been owning me rather than the other way around.  And then a tiny little seed sprouted in my mind...I know it shouldn't be too crazy of a thought...but sadly, it was for me...I decided to make my cell phone optional.  I was going to make Saturday (and maybe even Sunday if I got good at it!) my cell-phone-free day. And since that little thought just kept going around and around in my head, this very Saturday seemed like the day to try.  So, I told John that I was going to be out of touch for a few hours, left my cell phone on the counter and away we went.]

*****

It was the weirdest sensation!
I felt naked and free and vulnerable and information-less and
finally, finally,
blessedly undivided.

I could attend to this moment, right now.

Distraction-less.

Focused.

Centered.

Attention squarely on the important things of the moment:
this little girl, seven turning eight,
what table to choose in this darling garden patio?
what tea?
should we get a scone or another type of pastry or the fruit cup?
what is Devonshire cream anyway?

how are you?
what have you been noticing? or thinking? or hoping?

I began to notice her eyes;
the way she fashioned words;
the grown-up way she was sitting;
the way she perused the menu.

Time, so often my enemy, stood still.

Without my phone to capture the moment,
I took snapshots in my mind.
Froze it...right there.
Noticed the sunlight.
The tiny purple zigzag fringed flowers in a tiny vase on the table.
Her eagerness to watch the sand timer count out the three minutes -- the perfect amount for steeping the peach tea that we had chosen.
Her willingness to pour our tiny glass chiseled cups carefully full of the golden elixir.

We marveled.
We sniffed and savored and stopped.

We giggled at the dollhouse sized wooden spoons that were what allowed the Devonshire cream and jam to make it to our scones.
We talked and talked.

It goes without saying that my secret place has become her secret place...and, as is the worry with sharing secrets, she loved it so much she wants everyone to go there.
Immediately she asked if Daddy and Patrick could come next time.
How about her cousins?
Maybe this was a place for a birthday party?

I just smiled...and told her sometimes secret places have to be kept quiet and shared carefully.

My answer to every question was Cheshire Cat confusing...maybe...we'll have to see how it goes...
maybe.

Right now I want to hold it close and keep it tucked out of sight.

But I know it won't last long...
she's itching to go again...trying for a second Saturday in a row.

I know she loved the tea and the garden and the Devonshire cream but I really think she's asking for more undivided attention.

I'm going to honor that request...try even harder...and I admit, I've done a poor job this week.
But, there's always Saturday.

Glorious Saturday:
 A pot of tea
Some denim blue eyes
Time, lingering and lounging like a friend,
And the supreme comfort of really being present
as my present.

I Got Another One

Yesterday, I ignored my outrageous pile of clothes that needed folding.  

I plucked through them and pulled out Patrick and Caroline's clothes for the next day.  

I gathered them and looked at them and held them close.

I breathed them in and closed my eyes.

I have one more day of doing this...

this...

the mundane...

the boring...

the rituals of living...

I got another day...

she did not.

A lady in my town that I only knew as a "friend of a friend" passed away.

She leaves behind so many, including her son, age 14, and her daughter, age 11.

No more packing lunches.

Figuring out carpools.

No more chances to argue about clothes...

or bedtime...

or homework...

or showering.

No more music that reminds her of something special.

No more silly jokes.

No more snuggles...

or books that keep you reading until way too late...

or chances to try again.

Honestly, sometimes this world is too hard.

Why did she have so few days?

Why do I have more?

No clue.

I wish I could make sense of things that seem utterly wrong...

and rotten.

But I'm no sage.

I just get another...

and I'm not taking it for granted.

I'm going to squeeze this day like it's a soggy pool towel...

kiss my babies about a hundred more times than necessary.

Text those two that think they're big.

Hug that hubby.

Snuggle the pooch.

Dance.

Sing.

Write letters.

Check crap off that enormous list of stuff to do...and smile while doing it.

I get another day!

I'm going to eat good food.

Buy a brand new baby girl something special.

Plan a trip.

Daydream.

Make time for yoga.

Kiss long and hard that sweet guy who spends his days with me.

I'm gonna thank my mail lady.

I'm gonna buy someone a coffee.

I'm gonna give someone the benefit of the doubt.

And pay that parking ticket.

No more nagging.

No more procrastinating.

No more delaying.

I got another.

How to cherish it?

How to hold it dear?

How to make it count?

Fill up that grateful spot and let it flow...

let the universe know how much you love this time...

precious time...

always ticking away...on the good days and the bad days...

Today, you have another...

one more chance...

one breath at a time...

one smile at a time...

let's enjoy it.

It's not coming back...
but it's ours right now.
Grab it.

"I still find each day too short for 
all the thoughts I want to think, 
all the walks I want to take, 
all the books I want to read, 
and all the friends I want to see."  
-- John Burroughs

365 More

"525,600 minutes, 525,600 moments so dear.  

525,600 minutes.  

How do you measure? Measure a year? 

In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee. 

In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife.

In 525,600 minutes -- how do you measure a year in the life?  How about love?  

How about love?  How about love? Love.  

Measure in love.  Seasons of love." 

-- "Seasons of Love" from Rent (the musical)

I've had her for three hundred and sixty five more days.

An entire extra year.

Hundreds of thousands of minutes, countless moments, dozens of books and a myriad of chances to squeeze tighter, hold closer, give second chances and measure in love.

Today, of all days, it happened to be her First Reconciliation.

The irony of talking about sin and transgressions with someone who still believes in Santa and carefully writes notes to the Tooth Fairy and still sleeps with a multitude of stuffed of animals is not lost on me.

She knows about making good choices.  She knows how to be kind and thoughtful.

She does it pretty much every day.

I'm not too worried about her spiritual health.  

She's closer to God than almost anyone I know.

And yet, this is when our church says she's ready...and on this terrible anniversary of losing 20 six year olds, 

a whole bunch of seven year olds made another step forward.

In the glow of candles, amid family and friends, they spread out among four different priests and went up there and asked for forgiveness.

So much lighter now!

Caroline was worried about this whole process and so her teacher helped her out.  She asked her to hold a book.  Then she piled another one on top, and another, and another -- until she was holding five heavy books.  She told Caroline that when you do something wrong, it feels heavy and weighs you down. Then she swooped in and removed all the books.  She told her that she would feel so much lighter after Reconciliation. 


As we walked up to church, Caroline wondered aloud if she would "feel lighter".  She couldn't wait to find out.
She wasn't fearful.  She wasn't anxious.
She was curious.

Afterward, she sighed and said, "I'm so much lighter!"

I smiled...that lucky smile.
The smile of a momma who had someone else give their child a gift.
Someone else had given her another way to see the world.
I was so so grateful.

Walking home, I tried to hold her hand but she was skipping ahead.
My heart is always lifted when she skips...but then it remembered the twenty who no longer skip...and the many, many heavy hearts surrounding those twenty.
My heart always holds those twenty close.
I can't look at Caroline and not see them.

At her birthday, I thought of the quiet homes with no extra candle to add.
When she lost another tooth; got bolder swimming; started voraciously reading.
All of the days she spent singing, dancing, creating, laughing and telling knock knock jokes.


Six moving to seven -- 525,600 extra minutes.


What did I do with those precious extra?
How did I spend them?
Sadly and beautifully, we just went about our days...taking hikes, trying new things, making new pictures,
learning and wondering and asking and celebrating...
nothing too special...

until it's gone.

So, Newtown, Connecticut and most especially the families who have not had that extra,
I want you to know that your insane, mind-numbing loss is not forgotten.

You are alongside us on our journey now...forever.

We are lighting candles,
remembering
and choosing love every chance we get.