Whoa... six months since my last post, huh? yeah... Winter wasn't so good here. In fact, I think of the last Winter and I see that guy from Game of Thrones, wrapped in furs, brooding with his big sword. (I don't actually watch Game of Thrones.. I just follow the meme on FB. Don't judge.)
But it's half way through the half way month. A very on - the - edge sort of evening. A could go either way type of night.
A good day for starting and ending.
I came to a realization today, that I've slowly been working my way to over the last few weeks. The last few years, really. It wasn't an easy realization, although the truth became more apparent every day.
My dreams were making me bitter.
Not my dreams that I have at night, which are a different story altogether. My DREAMS. My wants, my desires, my longing ... to move West. To live in the Rockies. To wander.
I was sitting on my porch, breathing in the sweet smell of my aspen tree (I savor this, the week each year it blooms. It is the smell of home, to me.) and I realized that the smell of the tree.. the scent of my dreams.. made me feel bitter and angry.
Which kinda sucks, right? I mean, if you don't have your dreams, what do you have? Aren't we always told to hold on to our dreams? Isn't that the current pop psychology? "HOLD ON TO YOUR DREAMS. MAKE THEM REALITY."
Right. But.
Here I am, sitting on my perfectly nice porch, in my perfectly nice town, with an up and coming business of my own, a handsome teen son, a ferociously cute toddler boy, and a husband who works harder than he should...
and I'm not happy because I'm not in Colorado? Good Almighty Elements, Hil; YOU"VE EVEN GOT AN ASPEN TREE!
So I said to myself: "Seriously. Get a grip. You're turning in to someone you don't like. And if YOU don't like you, ain't nobody else gonna. Rule #1: Let go of what you want. If you love something, let it free. Be Here, Now. (Insert platitude.)"
And I heard a little voice.. a tiny, small voice.. the sort that could have come from, ooooh, a talking frog, let's say.. speak "Oh, Thank God. You got it. Here endeth the lesson."
I take it as a testament to my Higher Power's faith in me that they held on this long. I never lost faith in Them, either, even if They do sound like a frog. I just forgot Rule # 1. Let go of what you want.
I'll always love the West. I'll always see the Rockies when I think of home. And someday, I'll be there. But now, I'm here. And I've got a couple boys who seem to like me. I've got a big dog that I love to walk. I've got a good man. I've got a business of my own, and the probability of a partner to help me make it even better. I'm super lucky, and I know it. And if I can't be in Colorado, well then, Colorado will just have to come to me.
I've already got the Aspen Tree.
Here Endeth The Lesson.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Holidays, Faith, and other Tetchy things
Oh, Holiday Season. ... you are like a very pretty pebble caught between a silk stocking and the finest of footwear.
Tis the season for people to get tetchy. I'm pretty sure that's a Yiddish word, as the Jewish seem to have the best vocabulary for categorizing annoyances.
The annual online war is being waged: Don't say Happy Holidays to me, I'm Christian! Don't say Merry Christmas to me, I'm Pagan! Don't put your Jesus in my neighborhoods secular display! Don't put your Santa in my manger! What the hell is Eid?
I have to say that most of the Jews I know just stay out of the whole mess, keep their heads down, and have beautiful Hannukah celebrations despite the rest of us.
I try to stay out of it, or at least keep it funny. (That's my philosophy for a lot of things.) I don't turn down a blessing of goodwill and cheer, no matter what flavor of faith it comes from. I try to peg my own blessings based on the person; and I hope that when I fail and say Merry Christmas to a non believer, they'll take it in the spirit that it was intended.
This is the time of year, though, when I receive the most questions and commentary on my own faith. Mostly it's people who want to say the right thing, and that's sweet. Sometimes it's not, and that's irritating, but I figure it this way:
If God said for the people who were sure of their faith in him to go forth and prostelytize... well. God's a tricky bugger, and a bit more cynical than me... but I know that when I send a kid out to teach something, what I'm really looking for is for them to learn something new. Maybe this whole 'GO FORTH and SPEAK the word of GOD' thing is just as much for the preacher as the heathen. (Heathen: one who lives on a heath. Not: ONe who doesn't believe in God, eats babies for dinner, worships Satan. See where I'm going with this?)
Does this mean I sit down to for coffee with every evangelical-mormon-watchtower-passing-free-love-hippie that comes along, and try to sway them to my point of view? No. I'm not that bored.
If I were going to, ahem, express my views on the holiday season, though, it would go something like this:
This is the season of the dimming of the light. This is the time of cold winds and ice storms. Nothing grows now. This is when the shadows and darkness take over the world. This time is a test. Will you light your own candle, and have faith in it? Can your undying devotion turn that tiny flame in to the resurgance of something greater than itself?
Your light can be Jesus, or God, or Santa. Your light can be Krampus, the Sun, or magical oil that burns for days. Your light can be the Hadron Collider at CERN. You can call your light whatever you want. It doesn't matter, as long as you light the candle, and have faith in it. As long as you beat back the shadows for another year.
Tis the season for people to get tetchy. I'm pretty sure that's a Yiddish word, as the Jewish seem to have the best vocabulary for categorizing annoyances.
The annual online war is being waged: Don't say Happy Holidays to me, I'm Christian! Don't say Merry Christmas to me, I'm Pagan! Don't put your Jesus in my neighborhoods secular display! Don't put your Santa in my manger! What the hell is Eid?
I have to say that most of the Jews I know just stay out of the whole mess, keep their heads down, and have beautiful Hannukah celebrations despite the rest of us.
I try to stay out of it, or at least keep it funny. (That's my philosophy for a lot of things.) I don't turn down a blessing of goodwill and cheer, no matter what flavor of faith it comes from. I try to peg my own blessings based on the person; and I hope that when I fail and say Merry Christmas to a non believer, they'll take it in the spirit that it was intended.
This is the time of year, though, when I receive the most questions and commentary on my own faith. Mostly it's people who want to say the right thing, and that's sweet. Sometimes it's not, and that's irritating, but I figure it this way:
If God said for the people who were sure of their faith in him to go forth and prostelytize... well. God's a tricky bugger, and a bit more cynical than me... but I know that when I send a kid out to teach something, what I'm really looking for is for them to learn something new. Maybe this whole 'GO FORTH and SPEAK the word of GOD' thing is just as much for the preacher as the heathen. (Heathen: one who lives on a heath. Not: ONe who doesn't believe in God, eats babies for dinner, worships Satan. See where I'm going with this?)
Does this mean I sit down to for coffee with every evangelical-mormon-watchtower-passing-free-love-hippie that comes along, and try to sway them to my point of view? No. I'm not that bored.
If I were going to, ahem, express my views on the holiday season, though, it would go something like this:
This is the season of the dimming of the light. This is the time of cold winds and ice storms. Nothing grows now. This is when the shadows and darkness take over the world. This time is a test. Will you light your own candle, and have faith in it? Can your undying devotion turn that tiny flame in to the resurgance of something greater than itself?
Your light can be Jesus, or God, or Santa. Your light can be Krampus, the Sun, or magical oil that burns for days. Your light can be the Hadron Collider at CERN. You can call your light whatever you want. It doesn't matter, as long as you light the candle, and have faith in it. As long as you beat back the shadows for another year.
uh oh. He's getting smarter.
Holy brain formations batman! Sawyer has, so far this morning, tried to play his harmonica and guitar at the same time (Youtube stream of Springsteen & James Keyes has been going all AM) and then started running around naming shapes. Which sounds boring, but: "ODEN BUM!" ... lifts tail... "CIRCLE!" AHAHAHA!" is not boring.
Monday, December 12, 2011
It's taken 35 years for me to write this.
I've tried to write this post a bunch of times. Each time I've given up, either because I lost my thread, or my voice, or more often, because it made me weepy, and I hate crying. Tonight though, I think that I'll just get it out, and maybe a few tears, and see where it all goes.
This post needs a little background: First, my parents are retired Air Force. My grandparents are retired military. So are my uncles, my aunts, my cousins.. it's a theme. I spent my earliest childhood on White Birch St, a housing community on Pease Air Force Base in NH. I moved to York, Maine when I was 5 or so.
My genetic heritage is this: Italian, Welsh, Irish, Scottish, Norwiegan, Cherokee, .. and rumors of a little African thrown in can be verified with one look at my lips. This genetic throw of the dice resulted in my face, which is a face shaped face, and my skin, which is olive. My eyes are dark hazel, although most people would tell you they were brown. My hair is a frizzy, kinky nest of curls that looks dark brown or black, but is pretty darned red when viewed up close and in singular.
I look like everybody. Well, outside of NH or ME in the 80s, I look like everybody. I've been spoken to in Arabic, Farsi, Hindu, Afghani, Pakistani, Egyptian and every single flavor of Spanish and Portugese and Italian. Each time, the speaker thought I would respond in their native languae. I've been told I'm "exotic like Toucan Sam." and I've been told "It's great how far up the ladder someone of your color can come these days." I've been called a nigger, and high yeller,' which is more accurate, but still totally wrong.
What I don't look like, is my mother. We've come to terms with this, and now enjoy the looks we get when we announce we're related. I've got 4 inches on her. She's got red hair and greeny hazel eyes, and burns in two seconds flat on a sunny day. My mother is beautiful, and I've her genetics to thank for my blonde haired, blue eyed and tawny skin, green eyed sons. In black and white, we look like a family. In color photos, we look like a UN meeting.
There's the background. Here's the story.
My God Mother is of Mexican descent, and also part of an Air Force family. So, obviously, are her children, my god siblings. We all lived near each other when I was small. I have a photo of Sandy and the children, taken in the 70s, and that's about all I knew of them, thanks to the Military moving us all over. There are other photos, which show my christening, and I remember looking at those when I was small. I remember asking who they were, and my mother telling me that *this* was my god mother, and *this* was my god father, and *these* were my god siblings.
My mother tried to explain to me the concept of god parents, but I was about 4, and took away very little fact, and even less memory. What I do remember is this: My father was gone most times, and so it was just me and my mother, whom I looked nothing like. Here were photos showing me as a baby along side my god family, whom I had the same coloring as.
So I decided, in the manner of a 4 year old, that when God gives you a 'God Family', he must make you look like them, so you'll fit in later and know each other when you find each other. Because Mom and Dad, they know who you are, so you don't need to look like them. But looking like your God Family might come in handy for ID purposes down the road.
I spent most of Kindergarten and First Grade telling people I was Mexican. I believed it to be so.
Now, 30 years later, I'm back in touch with my God Mother and my God Sister, thanks to the wonder of Facebook. I'm pleased to report that they are even more wonderful that the fantasy I created in my mind all those years ago. My parents made a good choice, when they picked my God Parents.
And here's the lesson: It's not about what the color says, it's not about what you look like in black and white. It's about what you believe, and what you have faith in that counts. Always.
This post needs a little background: First, my parents are retired Air Force. My grandparents are retired military. So are my uncles, my aunts, my cousins.. it's a theme. I spent my earliest childhood on White Birch St, a housing community on Pease Air Force Base in NH. I moved to York, Maine when I was 5 or so.
My genetic heritage is this: Italian, Welsh, Irish, Scottish, Norwiegan, Cherokee, .. and rumors of a little African thrown in can be verified with one look at my lips. This genetic throw of the dice resulted in my face, which is a face shaped face, and my skin, which is olive. My eyes are dark hazel, although most people would tell you they were brown. My hair is a frizzy, kinky nest of curls that looks dark brown or black, but is pretty darned red when viewed up close and in singular.
I look like everybody. Well, outside of NH or ME in the 80s, I look like everybody. I've been spoken to in Arabic, Farsi, Hindu, Afghani, Pakistani, Egyptian and every single flavor of Spanish and Portugese and Italian. Each time, the speaker thought I would respond in their native languae. I've been told I'm "exotic like Toucan Sam." and I've been told "It's great how far up the ladder someone of your color can come these days." I've been called a nigger, and high yeller,' which is more accurate, but still totally wrong.
What I don't look like, is my mother. We've come to terms with this, and now enjoy the looks we get when we announce we're related. I've got 4 inches on her. She's got red hair and greeny hazel eyes, and burns in two seconds flat on a sunny day. My mother is beautiful, and I've her genetics to thank for my blonde haired, blue eyed and tawny skin, green eyed sons. In black and white, we look like a family. In color photos, we look like a UN meeting.
There's the background. Here's the story.
My God Mother is of Mexican descent, and also part of an Air Force family. So, obviously, are her children, my god siblings. We all lived near each other when I was small. I have a photo of Sandy and the children, taken in the 70s, and that's about all I knew of them, thanks to the Military moving us all over. There are other photos, which show my christening, and I remember looking at those when I was small. I remember asking who they were, and my mother telling me that *this* was my god mother, and *this* was my god father, and *these* were my god siblings.
My mother tried to explain to me the concept of god parents, but I was about 4, and took away very little fact, and even less memory. What I do remember is this: My father was gone most times, and so it was just me and my mother, whom I looked nothing like. Here were photos showing me as a baby along side my god family, whom I had the same coloring as.
So I decided, in the manner of a 4 year old, that when God gives you a 'God Family', he must make you look like them, so you'll fit in later and know each other when you find each other. Because Mom and Dad, they know who you are, so you don't need to look like them. But looking like your God Family might come in handy for ID purposes down the road.
I spent most of Kindergarten and First Grade telling people I was Mexican. I believed it to be so.
Now, 30 years later, I'm back in touch with my God Mother and my God Sister, thanks to the wonder of Facebook. I'm pleased to report that they are even more wonderful that the fantasy I created in my mind all those years ago. My parents made a good choice, when they picked my God Parents.
And here's the lesson: It's not about what the color says, it's not about what you look like in black and white. It's about what you believe, and what you have faith in that counts. Always.
Kids and Christmas. Give Values.
Things Sawyer played with today: welding goggles (superhero) carboard from under the frozen pizza ( frisbee), the dog (noble steed), Aunt Amber (jungle gym), moms ring measurer ( sword), Ruler (sword with numbers), markers and paper (airplanes, train tickets, and eventually a tattoo of a watch on his arm. ) The remote (phaser). People, parents, listen up: Kids DO NOT NEED MANY TOYS. They need supplies, which are oftenth free. With Christmas looming, please, get kids one thing, if you want, that you think they'll LOVE.. and donate the rest to charity. That would be the best gift ever. Heifer INternational is great, you can name the gift after a child. How about a stuffed water buffalo with a reciept of the amount you gave, and a photo of the water buffalo named George? How coll would that be?!
Sunday, December 11, 2011
A moment.
Today was hard, I think because it was so normal. And because normal in this household has become defined by hard. My husband works 7 dyas a week. We have two kids, we have a brother living with us, we have a giant dog, we have bills to pay. Christmas is looming, and with it my yearly anxiety attacks. Sawyers birthday is coming up, and 3 is very different than two.
So I was a bit introspective today, listening to music and pondering as I waited at one of Dovers longest stoplights. I was staring out the window at nothing, waiting for the green to mean go. Above the light, a bird soared on a thermal. I looked, and looked again, and realized it was a hawk. I wasn't far from home, so I wondered as I watched it if it was MY hawk, who hunkers down in my aspen tree from time to time. I thought it was funny that for years we've had crows in that tree, and now we have a hawk.
The hawk landed on a branch as I watched, and I glanced at the light, praying for red so I could keep it in view for a moment. I got my wish. I looked back up at the magnificent bird in front of me, and saw a speck beyond it, in the sky. A black dot, getting larger. With none of the dithering circles that the hawk performed, a crow landed in the same tree, a few branches away.
The birds both looked to the south, ignoring each other but completely aware of each other at the same time. I breathed a word of gratitude, and the light turned green. I kept them in sight in my rearview mirror for a block, after I turned, and they were still watching the south, seeming to look right at me.
I don't know how rare this is, but I have to imagine, pretty rare. It's a big city. There's a lot of trees. There's a lot of trees just where I saw these two, and either one could have had a tree to itself, plus a buffer of branches. But they chose the same tree, just feet from each other. Just when I was watching. Just when I was thinking.
So thanks, mothernaturegodgoddessrandomchance, for that moment. I'll be wondering on that for awhile.
So I was a bit introspective today, listening to music and pondering as I waited at one of Dovers longest stoplights. I was staring out the window at nothing, waiting for the green to mean go. Above the light, a bird soared on a thermal. I looked, and looked again, and realized it was a hawk. I wasn't far from home, so I wondered as I watched it if it was MY hawk, who hunkers down in my aspen tree from time to time. I thought it was funny that for years we've had crows in that tree, and now we have a hawk.
The hawk landed on a branch as I watched, and I glanced at the light, praying for red so I could keep it in view for a moment. I got my wish. I looked back up at the magnificent bird in front of me, and saw a speck beyond it, in the sky. A black dot, getting larger. With none of the dithering circles that the hawk performed, a crow landed in the same tree, a few branches away.
The birds both looked to the south, ignoring each other but completely aware of each other at the same time. I breathed a word of gratitude, and the light turned green. I kept them in sight in my rearview mirror for a block, after I turned, and they were still watching the south, seeming to look right at me.
I don't know how rare this is, but I have to imagine, pretty rare. It's a big city. There's a lot of trees. There's a lot of trees just where I saw these two, and either one could have had a tree to itself, plus a buffer of branches. But they chose the same tree, just feet from each other. Just when I was watching. Just when I was thinking.
So thanks, mothernaturegodgoddessrandomchance, for that moment. I'll be wondering on that for awhile.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
The Softer Side of Sears
I've made it my personal mission, these last couple of weeks, to be a little more Willow, and a little less Cordelia. For the most part, this has meant me breathing lamaze style through moments.. occasionally hours.. of wanting to be blunt. Blunt like candlestick in Clue blunt. As for the effectiveness of the lamaze breathing? I"d like to remind the reader that I had two C sections.
The big problem, really, is that I'm just not a Willow. I'm a Cordy. It's an honest effort for me not to say what I'm thinking, when I'm thinking it; and I have a hard time accepting that rephrasing my truths isn't being manipulative. It's that balance between "I'm going to say it this way so you do what I want." and "I'm going to try to speak your language now, so that we understand each other."
Hence me spending a major portion of yesterday and the day before being enormously frustrated and irritated with someone. And then realizing, sometimes it's not me. I can phrase and rephrase and smile and breathe until I'm so zen I pass out, but if the other person isn't listening? If the other person is so wrapped up in their own world? I might as well sing Dixie at the top of my lungs and stick my thumbs up my nose. That, at least, would get their attention.
The one place where I've seen some pretty noticible results of this experiment is with my teen. I've read that non reaction is key when dealing with the pubescent race, but I didn't really get it 'til now. I'm not saying it's perfect, or that Tris and I have suddenly become a finly tuned team working in unison.. but the blow ups are shorter. I'm more aware of when the drama is running away with the actors. It's a good thing.
So, in a gesture of help me help you, I spent this evening with a sharpie and my groceries. I labeled everything. "Nope, has gluten!" or "This is just for Tris! Hands off!" I used the calculator and the interwebs to figure out how much insulin he needs to take for each serving of each food, and then a visual comparison of the serving size. So the granola bars are labeled (individually) "2u for 1, 4u for 2" and there's a note on the fridge that says "A cup of potatoes, 4u.' with a drawing of a cup. In scale. I even took a measuring cup and figured out how many cups of milk each of our glasses hold, and labeled them by type. The little blue tumblers, 2u. the big plastic glasses, 6u.
This is all stuff Tris knows. We're going on 10 years living with diabetes. BUT, his ratios changed, and doing the math and remembering the new numbers was a hassle. So I did it for him. I can't go to school for him, but I can do this, and he doesn't have to worry about it any more.
In return, I got blown up at. Because he's a teen. And human. And change is scary. And having things like your diabetes pointed out to you is embaressing. And it's easier to yell "yep! I'm a screw up! I can't do anything right!" and storm away than it is to remember how good you are at so many things, and admit you need help catching up in school.
Remember: However much you try to change? Give the people around you time to catch up. Or not. It's their call. You worry about you.
The upside is this: After the explosion and the storm, and a hot shower for him and a cup of tea for me, the kid came back downstairs. With a better attitude. And questions. And we worked together for a bit on the system. We didn't let the explosion carry us through the night, or the week, being mad. We set it aside, and found a solution to the problem.
That's the goal, right? Acknowledging the problem and finding solutions to them? There's no shame in that. Tell your kids. I think this is one everyone should hear:
It's ok to have problems. It's ok to make mistakes. Just focus on the solutions. Don't beat yourself up. Have the courage to find the answer. It's harder, but you only have to do it once.
The big problem, really, is that I'm just not a Willow. I'm a Cordy. It's an honest effort for me not to say what I'm thinking, when I'm thinking it; and I have a hard time accepting that rephrasing my truths isn't being manipulative. It's that balance between "I'm going to say it this way so you do what I want." and "I'm going to try to speak your language now, so that we understand each other."
Hence me spending a major portion of yesterday and the day before being enormously frustrated and irritated with someone. And then realizing, sometimes it's not me. I can phrase and rephrase and smile and breathe until I'm so zen I pass out, but if the other person isn't listening? If the other person is so wrapped up in their own world? I might as well sing Dixie at the top of my lungs and stick my thumbs up my nose. That, at least, would get their attention.
The one place where I've seen some pretty noticible results of this experiment is with my teen. I've read that non reaction is key when dealing with the pubescent race, but I didn't really get it 'til now. I'm not saying it's perfect, or that Tris and I have suddenly become a finly tuned team working in unison.. but the blow ups are shorter. I'm more aware of when the drama is running away with the actors. It's a good thing.
So, in a gesture of help me help you, I spent this evening with a sharpie and my groceries. I labeled everything. "Nope, has gluten!" or "This is just for Tris! Hands off!" I used the calculator and the interwebs to figure out how much insulin he needs to take for each serving of each food, and then a visual comparison of the serving size. So the granola bars are labeled (individually) "2u for 1, 4u for 2" and there's a note on the fridge that says "A cup of potatoes, 4u.' with a drawing of a cup. In scale. I even took a measuring cup and figured out how many cups of milk each of our glasses hold, and labeled them by type. The little blue tumblers, 2u. the big plastic glasses, 6u.
This is all stuff Tris knows. We're going on 10 years living with diabetes. BUT, his ratios changed, and doing the math and remembering the new numbers was a hassle. So I did it for him. I can't go to school for him, but I can do this, and he doesn't have to worry about it any more.
In return, I got blown up at. Because he's a teen. And human. And change is scary. And having things like your diabetes pointed out to you is embaressing. And it's easier to yell "yep! I'm a screw up! I can't do anything right!" and storm away than it is to remember how good you are at so many things, and admit you need help catching up in school.
Remember: However much you try to change? Give the people around you time to catch up. Or not. It's their call. You worry about you.
The upside is this: After the explosion and the storm, and a hot shower for him and a cup of tea for me, the kid came back downstairs. With a better attitude. And questions. And we worked together for a bit on the system. We didn't let the explosion carry us through the night, or the week, being mad. We set it aside, and found a solution to the problem.
That's the goal, right? Acknowledging the problem and finding solutions to them? There's no shame in that. Tell your kids. I think this is one everyone should hear:
It's ok to have problems. It's ok to make mistakes. Just focus on the solutions. Don't beat yourself up. Have the courage to find the answer. It's harder, but you only have to do it once.
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