September always makes me think of new beginnings. The start of school for so many, the approach of autumn and all the changes of the new season, these things help me to realize that every day is an opportunity to begin again. Just yesterday, my son, Solomon, had a meltdown about starting over. He reached for his computer game and realized that somehow the difficult level he had passed hadn't been saved. As Solomon put it, all his hard work was lost.
"This is what life is about Solomon," I said. "It's all about starting over. The beauty is you keep your experience so each time you begin it's easier."
Solomon wiped away his tears, sighed and reached for his game.
Not even an hour later, a colleague called me. He was very upset. A month's worth of work was lost in a computer glitch. I found myself saying pretty much the same words I'd said to Solomon. And with a groan and a sigh, he too started over.
Each leaf reminds me how fleeting today is and the importance of beginning, of working toward our goals. With determination and prayer all things are possible, but it's up to us to take the first step.
No complaining. If you asked me how I'd feel after a week of not complaining, I would have said on the verge of exploding. But that's completely wrong. In fact, I've really been able to focus on getting things done, looking towards the positive and even finding peace.
I have to admit it's been a stressful last few days. Getting ready for the beginning of school. Coming to terms with my procrastination on Solomon's tie shoes and how I'd planned to have him tying them like a master by now with my driving to Target on the last day of summer and purchasing no-tie sneakers. Compromises...
The other day Solomon, Henry and I were walking home from my mom's. Henry and Solomon walked through the huge puddle that always seems to be right between our houses. I've told Solomon and Henry over and over again that if their feet are wet they'll have to change their socks and shoes. I've pleaded to stay away, walk on the edges and steer clear of jumping. My neighbor laughed out loud watching them go ahead and stomp until their pants were soaking wet.
I sighed and shrugged my shoulders. "You have to pick your battles," I said and he nodded with recognition.
It's true, when you think about it, in years to come when I pass the puddle, I'll remember the glee they found stomping about. Who knows, now and then I might even stomp myself.
Seems like a little more laundry is a small price to pay for enjoying the moment.
Solomon started this sunflower in kindergarten and brought it home as a fragile sprout in a miniature terra-cotta pot. Though I had doubts it would make it, we planted it in our small garden where we watched it grow. Very slowly it climbed toward the sky. Finally, this week it bloomed. I can't help smiling each time I see it peek at me through the kitchen window.
Now that I think about it, I've gotten a lot done over the past few days. I cleaned out my office, sorted and donated lots of clothes that my sons have outgrown, filed two months worth of papers, organized some of the attic, brought down my Halloween decorations, and even fit in a long nature walk with the family that led us down to the river's edge on a trail we'd never taken before.
I don't think it's a coincidence that I have more energy. It reminds me of Solomon. He is a very picky eater. When he was two we used his favorite character, Thomas the Tank Engine, to help him understand why he can't just eat cookies and candy. "Sol," we'd say each time he'd groan at a sandwich, "you need to feed yourself good coal. Bad coal won't get you anywhere."
I guess complaining is just bad coal. Besides, isn't it better to look at the window and see the sunflower that seems (and maybe it's just me) to smile back!
Writing about Day 2 without complaining is a bit of a challenge. At first I wanted to list every time I was tempted and fought the urge to complain. Once when I slipped up and stopped mid-sentence. But that seemed like an outlet, a big list of things I'm trying not to do, like a dieter keeping a list of foods they didn't eat. So instead, I'll focus on what I've noticed.
I complain in my head, a lot. Walking around picking up socks, putting away toys, you name it, my thoughts seem to focus on grumbles. Oddly, I never realized this before. But now that I do, I've been changing my thoughts to things I'm thankful for. Each time something negative comes up, I replace it with something good and without a doubt, I can feel my whole body relax as I change my mood.
Today Solomon decided he wanted to learn how to play chess. My husband went up to the attic and brought down our old set from a long time ago. The one we used to bring to laundromat and play while our clothes spun in the washer and dryer. It's funny how our games from before we had kids are perfectly put away with every piece in its place. I laughed when I saw how precise we once were, because now, well, let's just say it's only a matter of time before there's a missing piece and if all the pieces are there, they're sort of in a big lumpy mess on the bottom, usually with a goldfish cracker or two mixed in, just for good measure.
Tonight, while Henry and I read his favorite book, "The Baby Goes Beep", I could hear Solomon and his Dad go over each piece. Solomon giggled each time his pawn took another pawn, and each time he remembered that the Bishop moves diagonally. My husband patiently went over the ins and outs, how each piece moved, how you have to watch all the pieces.
Listening to them, I couldn't think of one thing that could make my night better, and now I have a perfect memory to think about the next time I'm tempted to complain.
"Do everything without complaining or arguing, so that you may become blameless and pure, children of God..." —Philippians 2:14-15
I'm hungry. I'm cold. I'm tired. Sometimes I say these things completely unaware until my husband offers up some sort of solution like, "Can I get you something to eat?" Then I look at him as if he's read my mind until he gentle reminds me I've been complaining again. So, when I read about a no complaints challenge, 30 days where you consciously make an effort to avoid complaining, it seemed like something I should try.
Hopefully, this doesn't sound like a complaint, but thirty days seems a little long to me, so to begin I'm aiming for one week. Seven days where I look on the bright side and no matter what keep my complaining ways to myself. Even my prayers will be about thanksgiving.
I remember hearing somewhere that there are two types of complainers: those who think they have not received what they deserve and those who do receive what they deserve. I'll remind myself of this when it's difficult to bite my tongue but most importantly I'll keep my focus on a joyful heart.
Over this next week, I'll keep a journal and share my experience here. Who knows, maybe I'll be able to keep going for more than a week. No matter what, I'm sure my husband will be grateful.
A few years ago, I was in New York City and came upon this interesting little booth in a corner of Grand Central with the word StoryCorp on the side. I remember reading the brochure which described StoryCorps as a national oral history project giving everyone the chance to record the stories of family and friends. I thought it was a very beautiful idea and even put it in my folder of things to do someday. Then like a lot of things in that folder, I forgot about it.
Little did I know, one day my uncle and cousin would go into a traveling StoryCorp mobile and tell their story. My Uncle David has had a difficult two years. He survived open heart surgery, two strokes and has been on a brave and long road of recovery. You can listen to his story here which played on North Country Public Radio where he talks about his journey, what he's learned and the reason he's alive today. Listen.
My cat, Toad, is having a hard time. Toad is my first cat as an adult and she's been with me over 18 years. The hot days of summer haven't agreed with her and she spends most of her time sleeping on the chaise lounge in our upstairs hallway nook.
She's now on medication, twice daily from the vet for the rest of her life. The vet gave me a look when he said "the rest of her life" and he sells me the medication in 3 weeks supply, so I'm figuring it's time to come to terms she's most likely near the end of her life with us. You never know though, Toad just might take her ornary attitude and use it to prove that vet she hissed at wrong.
There's always been a lot of debate over if pets go to heaven or not. Though I've read the arguments and can understand where both sides are coming from, for me it's never really been anything I've doubted. Toad go to heaven? Of course.
In fact, I've always seen animals as little bits of heaven right here on earth. Even with Toad's balkiness, there's nothing sweeter than the slight weight of her on my chest in the morning. "Get up with me! Get up!" she seems to whisper. Though my husband would insist her morning antics are for food, I like to think she just wants my company, to sit on my lap after her breakfast as I drink my coffee, nuzzle her head in my free hand and purr.
Growing up, I heard a story that often comes to mind when things seem to be troubling me. A young boy goes into the woods near his home. He thinks he hears someone so he yells out, "Hello!" In moments, "Hello!" responds back. "Who are you?" the boy asks. "Who are you?" the voice answers. "Tell me your name," the boy commands. "Tell me your name," the voice responds. "No. You tell me your name." " Frustrated, the boy goes home and tells his mother about the mean little boy he met in the woods.
His mother quickly understands that her son has met his echo. She suggests tomorrow he go back to the woods and start fresh, this time offering kindness and friendship.Taking her advice, the next morning the boy heads back into the woods. This time he yells out, "Hello, my name is Tom. Want to be friends?"
Whenever I'm dealing with a problem, I think of this little boy and ask myself what voice am I using to greet the world. Often I've found if I step back and approach with goodwill, the world responds back in kind.
We went to the Dutchess County Fair today. The first year without Maria. I've been dreading it a little, the way that these sort of things, even fun things, have become milestones to get through but I love the fair so I was excited, too.
After lunch Maria's daughter, Regina, decided she was old enough to go on a big ride. We looked at the offerings and she happily chose the Ferris Wheel. We waiting on the long line that stretched before us.
As the line got closer and it was almost our turn to get on, Regina jumped up and down. Right behind us, a nanny pushed a boy in a wheel chair. The boy was about eight and was disabled, unable to speak or control his body.
When it came our turn to get in the umbrella bucket, the boy and his nanny sat across from us. "Joshua," the nanny said cradling him in her lap, "you'll like this."
As we lifted in the sky, Regina pointed at the animals we'd seen earlier in the far distance. Our bucket reached the top of the wheel. Joshua laughed - a beautiful long laugh. My eyes filled with tears.
I looked up at the sky. It was no accident that of all the people we got the chance to sit with this boy, who shared his gift of pure joy and the beauty of appreciating what we have, right here, right now.
It's five months today since my sister died. I felt an undeniable draw to go the cemetery from the time I woke up. And though it's not unusual that I go there, today there was something stronger guiding me to pick a large bouquet of flowers from our field and then make the seven minute drive. Seems I woke up my body knowing it before my mind did. The same way I have an internal alarm clock, my grief has its own knowing.
We're still deciding upon the stone for my sister, the design, the right words so the temporary cross of wood that my father made as a marker stands out in the sea of granite. (The pic on the left is taken from a cemetery in Wellfleet where we found a stone from the 1800s that Maria loved, one we're modeling hers after.)
It's hard to believe five months has gone by. Even more difficult to think that six months ago was my son, Solomon's birthday party and that Maria came to watch Henry because I had invited every boy in Sol's kindergarten class never thinking everyone would come so the idea of watching a two-year-old while entertaining thirteen five and six-year-olds seemed like a bad idea.
Maria went to my mom's house (mom was vacationing in Florida) and played with Henry while Solomon's party thrived. I remember when she came back she was holding Henry and worried he felt warm. Henry did come down with a fever that night and I felt guilty that it would spread through Ria's family, but only Henry got sick.
Henry wasn't talking yet except for a few mamas and dadas. It's only in the last few months that his words have really begun to flow. Now when we drive past the cemetery, Henry points his small finger to the top of the hill and says in an excited voice, "Aunt Ree Ree! Aunt Ree Ree!"
September always makes me think of new beginnings. The start of school for so many, the approach of autumn and all the changes of the new season, these things help me to realize that every day is an opportunity to begin again. Just yesterday, my son, Solomon, had a meltdown about starting over. He reached for his computer game and realized that somehow the difficult level he had passed hadn't been saved. As Solomon put it, all his hard work was lost.
Writing about Day 2 without complaining is a bit of a challenge. At first I wanted to list every time I was tempted and fought the urge to complain. Once when I slipped up and stopped mid-sentence. But that seemed like an outlet, a big list of things I'm trying not to do, like a dieter keeping a list of foods they didn't eat. So instead, I'll focus on what I've noticed.
"Do everything without complaining or arguing, so that you may become blameless and pure, children of God..." —Philippians 2:14-15
My cat, Toad, is having a hard time. Toad is my first cat as an adult and she's been with me over 18 years. The hot days of summer haven't agreed with her and she spends most of her time sleeping on the chaise lounge in our upstairs hallway nook. 
Growing up, I heard a story that often comes to mind when things seem to be troubling me. A young boy goes into the woods near his home. He thinks he hears someone so he yells out, "Hello!" In moments, "Hello!" responds back. "Who are you?" the boy asks. "Who are you?" the voice answers. "Tell me your name," the boy commands. "Tell me your name," the voice responds. "No. You tell me your name." " Frustrated, the boy goes home and tells his mother about the mean little boy he met in the woods.
We went to the Dutchess County Fair today. The first year without Maria. I've been dreading it a little, the way that these sort of things, even fun things, have become milestones to get through but I love the fair so I was excited, too.
It's five months today since my sister died. I felt an undeniable draw to go the cemetery from the time I woke up. And though it's not unusual that I go there, today there was something stronger guiding me to pick a large bouquet of flowers from our field and then make the seven minute drive. Seems I woke up my body knowing it before my mind did. The same way I have an internal alarm clock, my grief has its own knowing.