Child's Work

A scene from Cutter's baseball practice: The coach turns from helping a boy bat to find the 7 yr. old shortstop drawing in the sand. Coach yells, "Tommy, no playing in the dirt," to which Tommy responds seriously, "I wasn't playing. I was drawing a symbol."

This called to my mind a situation that occurred on a recent warm day. Joe and Cutter were out and I was seized with spring cleaning fever, the kitchen my target. I moved a heavy bookshelf from kitchen to writing space and took bins of utensils and dishes to the basement for donation.

The next morning after I woke, I entered the kitchen to find that everything, down to the last spatula, was back in its place, as though I'd done nothing the day before. I stood baffled for a moment before I turned to look at Cutter in the living room. He was sitting on the edge of the couch watching me closely. His eyes told me that he knew I had the power in that situation. That he knew I could undo the kitchen again, change it just as I had the day before, without consideration or consultation. What to do?

I went to that beautiful amazing boy and I hugged him and said, "Wow, you really did a lot of hard work this morning didn't you?" As Joe joked later, I could have just waited a few days and moved everything back a second time. Instead, I trusted that Cutter was doing his own work, different from mine but equally necessary. When I asked later that day why he had moved things back, he said he "didn't want anything changed that was the way it was when Isaiah was alive." Again, I could have just told him that things always change and re-arranged the kitchen again to prove just that point. Instead, we've been working together to honor the needs of each of our family members, my need for more space from clutter, Cutter's need for more space to hold onto Isaiah.

It came to me (with much practice) that when we set ourselves up as rulers of our children for their own good, we eradicate any honest work they may do. I am speaking of external work, but that necessarily requires internal work; the internal work of knowing and understanding and trusting one's judgement in relation to self and others in the world; the internal work that we, as adults, pay thousands of dollars in counseling fees and self-help books to learn; the work that children do naturally while they play, watch and live unencumbered by our own adult ideas of work, which frequently involve subverting your own voice beneath arbitrary rules that may apply to one situation or individual but not to every situation or individual. I consider food a prime example, especially in this country. If you force or coerce a child to eat when they are not hungry because, e.g. "9:00 a.m. is breakfast time" or to eat all the food off their plates though they've stated they feel full, you effectively, over the course of a childhood, teach a child that there is no wisdom inherent in their own body; that any wisdom or knowledge to be had must be given to or placed upon them by external forces. By the time they've grown to adulthood, they no longer recognize hungry or full, among multiple other things.

Consider the next time you find yourself in a struggle with a child: What work might my child be doing... are they trying to grow in experience, knowledge or power? Am I simply trying to control the situation because I can, because I have the power? And what do I lose if I allow my child to express their own wisdom, voice, needs?

Just some thoughts from my daily parenting practice. Wishing you peace in your practice, whatever it may be.

Cutter and I are trying to take frequent pics, to post one pic each a day. An idea from the lovely Ohman family.

From Cutter, a glimpse into the backyard life of Saint Francis. It's a snowy life.
From me, how I get my sunshine on a snowy day: carrot/orange/ginger juice.

The Passengers on the Bus

This pic has nothing to do with the bus. It's a tunnel Cutter and friends made in the deep snow. I like it.

Last spring, after a time in which I felt a lot of anger and confusion surrounding my world, I began talking with a wonderful woman. She has gifted me with many useful navigational tools, and one of my favorites is the symbolic bus. Each of us has a bus. We are, each of us, the drivers of our own bus. We cannot control the speed of the bus and there are no brakes, but we can control the direction in which the bus moves. The challenge is in how we interact with the passengers on the bus. The passengers are many and varied and frequently quite loud. They are your high school English teacher telling you you can't write or your grandma saying you're ill-mannered. You can sit in the back with your passengers, arguing with them, trying to cajole them to understand your point of view, or you can admit that they're there, they're not getting off and you can still direct the bus down the path you want to take. When I find myself feeling frustrated or angry, it helps to ask who's driving the bus. Is it me, and do I want to head in the direction of the frustration or is it one of the passengers directing me that this is how it's done, the right way?

This week Sunday we celebrate Isaiah's birthday. It doesn't come into my mind to think, He would have been seven, he would have been doing such and such because he will never be seven and I would rather hold the joy of who he was than the sadness of who he might have been. So we will eat pizza with special sauce and share the light blue napkin he loved and celebrate his joy.

Driving to the aquatic center last night, Cutter asked if I could park close (the temperature was near 0). I said I would, except all the close spots were reserved for cars with handicap tags. As we pulled into the last spot in the row, Cutter said, "I wish Isaiah were still alive." I turned to look at him and asked what made him feel that way just now. He passionately said, "Because he was my brother and he was fun and I loved him.... and we could still park in handicap." And then he burst out laughing, me along with him. He said the first part was true, the second part just a joke. I could have listened to that societal passenger just then, told him that death wasn't funny. Instead, I celebrated that he did not find death a fully depressing subject, that he has integrated the sadness and the joy of life.

Wishing you joy and laughter in the dance, especially when the steps are most complicated.

We who have so much

cannot comprehend, but that we keep trying...

The Gift

The day my mother dropped a net
of oranges on the kitchen table
and the net broke and oranges
rolled and we snatched them,
my brother and I,
peeled back the skin and bit deep
to make the juice explode with our laughter,
and my father spun one orange in his palm
and said quietly, "This was Christmas, 1938,"
said it without bitterness or anger,
just observing his life
from far away, this tiny world
cupped in one palm,
I learned I had no way
to comprehend an orange.


by SEAN LAUSE

Happy Thursday in December.
May you find your joy
in the day.

Peace.

Happy Holidays!

Make a Smilebox slideshow

The names we give

My mind has been pondering names a lot lately. The names we're given, the names we forget. As many of you know, the boy has been traveling his own path with names. The name we gave him at birth morphed into Joey as he became a bundle of energy and words. In the last year, as he discovered the world of Guitar Hero, the passion of rock music, he came down the stairs with a slip of paper, on it written his new name: Jos. It sounded edgier to him. Recently, he discovered the ElfQuest comic series and, after a character, has taken the name Cutter.  Cutter is so named because he has skill with a blade and cuts through deception to find the truth of a matter. 

We are, most of us, myself included, amused by this boy who chooses his own name. I wonder what happens if I deny him these names. If I refused Cutter, would I also refuse some part of him that wants to be brave, that desires to be strong and protect his loved ones. The name I call him does not matter so much to me, as I think he's an amazing being regardless of the word he's taken to describe himself. 

I wonder about those names we once wished for ourselves, and what happened to them. As a girl, I loved Kallie Marie. I suppose it sounded musical and unusual, coming from Jennifer Dawn. Later, in college, I was drawn to Xavier, my own edge and shadow. 

I ask, what name have you forgotten? Who have you hidden inside?

How I Give Thanks

or why I gather grey feathers and fallen leaves with my son.

Happy 

Thanks

giving.

Peace.

by Adam Zagajewski

Try to praise the mutilated world.

Remember June's long days,

and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew.

The nettles that methodically overgrow

the abandoned homesteads of exiles.

You must praise the mutilated world.

You watched the stylish yachts and ships;

one of them had a long trip ahead of it,

while salty oblivion awaited others.

You've seen the refugees heading nowhere,

you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.

You should praise the mutilated world.

Remember the moments when we were together

in a white room and the curtain fluttered.

Return in thought to the concert where music flared.

You gathered acorns in the park in autumn

and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.

Praise the mutilated world

and the grey feather a thrush lost,

and the gentle light that strays and vanishes

and returns.