2012

It's New Year's Eve and I am feeling the pressure to reflect on this past year of my life, but because I hate doing anything normal, I won't, which is really too bad because maaaan, is it ever entertaining. The events that unfolded in the year 2012 were at times so bizarre that they're almost unbelievable.

Instead, I'm going to write about Steps.

The boys share a room and every evening Steps waits impatiently at the top of the stairs for Freddy to go to bed so Freddy can pet him. Later on when Jake goes to bed, Steps will jump down off of Freddy's bed and jump up onto Jake's for some more pets. Once Jake is asleep, Steps jumps back down and up onto Freddy's bed for the night.

It is obvious to anyone that Steps absolutely loves Freddy way more than Jake. Jake is not oblivious to this fact and has one time stated that Steps is indeed, a "user" and yet Jake will openly oblige to petting Steps at any and every opportunity. Would and should Jake be petting Steps since Steps is just using him? No. But that's what love does: love makes us pet users when they don't deserve the pets. Plus, petting makes us feel all warm and fuzzy and happy, too.

So, instead of hearing all about what I did in the year 2012 and how much I've learned and all of my goals for 2013, you get to take with you this one golden nugget of truth:

You can't get the last minute and a half back of the year 2012 that you just spent reading my post about Steps.

You're welcome.

By Life

Contrary to what the majority of people think, grace takes practice. I think most of us were taught that grace is something that's being constantly poured into us by some sort of intrusive free pass to be lazy assholes. Grace has been referred to as an "easy way out" or a lazy man's excuse to stay stuck. We fuck up, pray a little prayer and then dive right back into our stench. It's not surprising that the idea of grace has been left sitting in the dusty bookcase between the Bible and the spare key to my 1987 Firefly that I sold in 1999.

It's almost like there's two major groups of people: the grace abusers and the grace refusers.

The grace abusers are the people we love to hate. They mess up like we all do but then the second they walk through those church doors on Sunday they assume that they're all good to go again. Church on Sunday? Check. Best casserole brought to the church ladies' brunch? Check. Pole stuck sideways up their bums? Check. Check. Check. They "do" all the right things, desperate to try to erase that nagging voice in their hearts that tells them that the ropes on their wrists can simply be untied by their good deeds. The sun comes back up on Monday and they, pregnant with good intentions, realize that they can only control their lives for so long before their white-knuckled grip starts to slip and they fall right back into their mess, throwing grace out with the bathwater.

The grace refusers wear martyr masks. They're the people who have an extremely hard time accepting free coffee bought by the people in the car in front of them in the drive-through. They bend backwards so far in a gumbyesque fashion that their heads end up in their asses. They say things like, "oh, save it for someone who really needs it," or "I couldn't possibly" and "I'll be okay (wearing a wounded expression) but thanks so much anyway!" They're not secure enough in who they are to be able to plant both feet firmly on the ground to receive that much-needed bear hug. They crumple and slink around, hunched over and pathetic, desperate for others to stroke their martyrdom.

I've been both a grace abuser and a grace refuser. Honestly, I felt much better about myself being a grace refuser. I felt stronger and more authentic, like I was doing the world a huge favor by not taking any handouts. At least when I was a grace abuser, I put in some sort of effort to accept grace. By refusing it, I simply became even more self-centred despite my seemingly selfless outlook on grace. It looks selfless on the outside but because I refused grace, I simply got stuck in my mess. We all shit the bed, but grace refusers just sit in it, reeking like death. People come to visit us, offering us buckets of water and soap but we refuse their help, reassuring them that, "I'll be okay, but thanks so much anyway!" Time goes by and we realize that we are alone and we wonder why.

It's the great paradox: grace is free but it takes an insurmountable amount of strength to receive it. Not strong by white-knuckling self-control, no, and not independent self-absorbed "strength" where we assume we "don't need anything from anyone." I'm talking about the strength that comes from acknowledging that sometimes, we need. It's so easy to puff our chests out in hot-headed pride and refuse help and sure, we'd "be okay" for a while. But by pushing everyone away, we'll end up awfully lonely.

There's a third category of people and this is where I want to be: grace believers. The word belief comes from the term, "by life" which essentially implies that a belief is not stagnant but dynamic--something that is lived out. Grace believers are strong enough to acknowledge that we need, and then we clean house and move forward. And because we know how to receive grace and then walk in it, we will then be able to hand it out to others. All we can do is hope that the people we give it to will be strong enough to believe in it too.

Ride

For a lot of us, the next 48 hours will be a blur of bone-crushing quantities of turkey and pie. If someone were to follow me around for the next two days and figuratively sweep up the carnage I leave in my wake, then upon taking a peek into the dustpan one would most definitely find these things: sticky cinnamon bun crumbs, fallen pine needles from the Christmas tree that died 3 days after we got it about 3 weeks ago, a few sore throat candy wrappers from the unfortunate strep throat epidemic that has overtaken our house, and the leftover bits of all of our worries and stresses and grudges and resentments that we have chosen to leave behind.

It's messy, but it's merry.

Katie feels the spirit of Christmas year-round, bless her heart. I have been singing "Silent Night" to her every night for as long as I can remember. Kids are creatures of habit, but Katie takes it to another level. It HAS to be "Silent Night", and only the first two verses. I can't sing it too fast or too slow, and I have to sing it like I mean it. Once in a while she will sing it with me and to this day she sings the last verse like this: "Christ, the Sailor is born, Christ the Sailor is born." I don't have the heart to correct her as she sings it so passionately, so sweetly, from her heart. 

Whatever we all do over these next couple of days will look different from one house to the next. Some of us have ham instead of turkey. Some of us go to church together, some of us drink together. Some of us do both. Whether or not we celebrate Christmas and however we decide to celebrate, let's share this commonality: to let go of whatever it is that is dragging us down and holding us back from all the good stuff that is ahead.

Whether Christ is our Savior or a Sailor, let's not miss the boat. I'll be standing on the bow carrying a fruity drink and wearing a big grin... or... I'll be puking in the cabin. But either or, I'll be riding it. 

Hope

There's something about Christmas that gives us all a sense of newness and hope.

I have a "notes" section on my phone that I use constantly. I love lists. I write down the names of recommended movies and books and I have an ongoing Costco list (cheese, chicken breasts and laundry detergent) and Walmart list (toilet paper and cereal), but I also write down random bits such as quotes from books or the names of people I need to remember.

I have this one note that's been there for a few years now and all it says is, "Hell is that state where one has ceased to hope... page 279." Do you think I made a note for which book it came from? No. I have no idea why it was important enough to me that day to write it down, but I guess I can take something from it today, the day where hope is supposed to have disappeared: the end of the world.

What is hell? I think everyone at some point has burnt their forearm on the frigging oven rack while reaching in to pull out a cookie sheet. It hurts! Do you think any of us would want to feel that for eternity after we die? A whole-body eternal cookie sheet burn without the reward of soft gooey chocolate chip cookies to self-sooth our woes? Don't put me on the sign-up list, that's for sure. So we are told that there's a hell and that we have a choice of whether or not to avoid it. Hmm... that's a toughie. Pass me my wings and halo and send me up to the chocolate chip cookies and can I get an "amen, sister!?"

But it's certainly not hard to believe that we have our own hell here on earth, that we really need not wait until the end of the world to suffer its burning heat. But the hope that we hold if we so choose is that today is a new day full of the people we love, the peace that comes with making the right choices, and the joy that is birthed out of these surroundings. If we don't have hope for "what is to come" then we will spend our lives stuck inside an incubator of hopelessness.

What works for me today, is that I choose to focus on the good parts (there are so many!) of this last year, and hold out hope for many more in the year to come.

I hope for much peace, love and joy to you and your loved ones!

Always

I'm not sure if it is because of Friday's tragedy but I notice that I have been traveling down memory lane quite a bit in the last few days, and not even intentionally; I'll be standing there peeling carrots and I'll just have a random flashback pop into my mind.

The kids had some friends over yesterday and we were all sitting at the table eating dinner. Jake stood up and executed some sort of dramatic imitation of someone and as we all laughed at his performance, I had a flashback of when he was a baby looking up at me with those eyes, those cheeks. All of a sudden in that moment all of his layers peeled back and I saw the core of who he is, as he always was from the moment he was born, from the second I knew him as my baby. He may wear skinny jeans and skater tees, have the beginnings of facial hair and speak with a deeper voice, but I know that boy so intimately as if not one single second has passed from when I first held him against my chest.

It's report card time. I asked Jake to bring me his report card and I noticed he seemed to hunch over a bit, dragging his body up the stairs as if he was worried about my reaction to his grades. Jake is a smart kid. I won't go on and on about how smart he is because I'll lose approximately 100% of my readers if I did shit like that and quite honestly, I don't blame you because I'd drop it like it's hot too if someone started pulling that on me, but ya. He's smart.

The last few years have been a massive adjustment for our family. To name just a few: we moved cities, we changed schools, we got divorced, and my dad battled cancer. We made it through and we have so much to be thankful for and I will forever be a glass-half-full person but at the same time I need to respect the distance. We had some rough moments. For Jake to get Bs and Cs instead of his usual straight As is not only okay, but understandable.

I read his report card and I told him I'm proud of him. He was shocked, and asked, "aren't you mad at me for not getting straight As?" I answered his question with a question of my own, "Jake? Are you happy? What's the state of your heart? What letter grade would you give your heart?" and he grinned at me because he understood what I meant. "I'm happy, mom, " he said. And that's all I needed to know. I didn't even need to ask him because I can see it in his eyes, in the way he carries himself, the way he hugs his grandma and grandpa, the way he tells me he loves me before he goes to bed each night. He struggles, but so do we all. But he hasn't lost himself to adversity for I can still see Jakey in there when I look into his eyes. They sparkle with life. His cheeks are full and healthy. He laughs like his uncle Jeremy, from his soul. His heart pours out through his words with vibrancy and empathy and love. The chicken wing replaces the baby cookie, but he's still my baby Jake.

Always.

Together

I was running earlier today and thinking about this post and how I was going to write it but now that I'm sitting here on my bed with my laptop, I'm sobbing hard and I can feel my dinner traveling back up my esophagus in emotional rebellion. I wanted to write about yesterday's tragedy and so I looked up some articles on it and... and... I saw a little girl in the line up with her hands on the shoulders of the child in front of her, and she looks like my Katie. Her mouth is wide open in a primal wail of desperation and fear and I can't take this. I can't. But we can't keep turning away because it makes us uncomfortable. We need to face this head-on, together.

"Together" is the word that I want to focus on in this post. I keep hearing so many different opinions about what happened yesterday and why they think it happened. I find it fascinating that when something tragic happens that we need to find a reason for it and someone/thing blame.

The God-lovers are blaming the absence of God in the school system. The God-haters are blaming God him(it)self for "allowing" this to happen. USA-haters are making blanket-claims over the American people as if 100% of them are ignorant and pro-guns. If there is a God, his view of us would look like this: we are all standing in a crowded elevator shooting at each other with whatever hate-filled ammunition we are allowed to carry.

Of course we need to find a solution because when we feel pain, our first reaction is to make it fucking stop. I'm not saying that it's wrong to place blame. I may have had dreads but I sure as hell am not a "love all people no matter what" spineless hippie. Sick people need to be held accountable for their sickness. But why in the wake of such a horror do we all have to start hating on each other?

Each time we stand back and point fingers at someone, we segregate each other and isolate ourselves. Gregory David Roberts writes in the book Shantaram: “Prisons are the temples where devils learn to prey. Every time we turn the key we twist the knife of fate, because every time we cage a man we close him in with hate." Each time we take a step back and point our fingers outward, we fence ourselves in. 

When I go to Katie's Christmas concert next week, I'll be sitting among the rest of the parents of the children in her class. Do you think that all of us share the same religious views? Or the same opinion on mental illness? Do you think we all believe, every single one of us, that the lack of gun laws are the reason that this tragedy happened? No the fuck not. But the commonality between us is that we are all sitting together watching our babies sing "Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright." We are mommies and daddies who would rather be burned at the stake than have anyone hurt our children and yet instead of linking arms and kicking hate in the testicles, we turn on each other.

I don't have an answer and if I did, I'd be rich and I wouldn't be sitting on an old Ikea duvet cover in fake LuluLemon yoga pants eating no-name popcorn. Pointing fingers at each other won't make this go away and neither will sitting around a circle singing "Kumbayah" while Jimmy hands out joints stop these tragedies. But please, please, can we stop blaming each other. We will get to the bottom of this, but we can't do it alone. We need to work together.

Opportunity

"The truth is that our finest moments are most likely to occur when we are feeling deeply uncomfortable, unhappy, or unfulfilled. For it is only in such moments, propelled by our discomfort, that we are likely to step out of our ruts and start searching for different ways or truer answers."

-M. Scott Peck 

Remember my post about pain? This is a bit of an extension of that piece. I think about pain quite often because as we all know, it's inevitable and quite common. For many people it's about as common as a traffic light, that it seems no matter how fast we can coast, we still get interrupted at every bloody intersection. But maybe it doesn't have to be that bad! If we can somehow turn it into an opportunity of some sort (like catching up on our texts... just kidding!!!) then maybe we won't let it keep us from totally missing the boat. 

Andrew and I watched a movie on the weekend called Shutter Island. At one point, Leonardo DiCaprio has a hallucination in a cave with a woman and she describes the process of pain to him. Pain is not processed through the flesh like we are all led to believe but rather it is processed through the nervous system. Of course, the sensory receptors in the flesh take the initial signal of pain (touching a hot stove, the finger waves a "holy fuck this is hot" flag and beats the shit out of the neuron messenger that is supposed to carry the message to the spine/brain) but it's the nervous system that is responsible for that feeling of pain. Get it? It tells us how much that hurt, and what we are supposed to do about it. 

I wonder if emotional pain builds up in the nervous system. Scientifically, I guess you could call it an excess of stress hormones like cortisone, etc. So now we have this toxic sludge elbowing its way around our brains. Our brains are telling us, "GET IT OUT OF HERE." When we touch a hot stove, our brain tells our hand to retreat, but when we are feeling emotional pain, more often than not, there's nothing we can do to fix it in the heat of the moment. So our brains are yelling at the rest of our body to get rid of the pain and the rest of our body is like, "oh no... I can't move." 

But as a natural progression, pain produces movement. We touch a hot stove, our hand pulls back. If we allow pain to teach us and move us, then we will save ourselves from standing in that one place with our hand on the fire. It's the same with emotional pain; the longer we stand there, the deeper the scars. If we let pain produce movement, then time will heal.