“Hold Mommy’s Waffles.”

 

Let me tell you a thing or two about my daughter, Eiledon. She’s smart, funny, passionate, creative, talented, and outspoken about justice for women, people of all races and ethnicities, and people of every sexual orientation and gender identity. These things lead to fantastic YouTube videos, amazing school projects, active participation in theater, insightful social media posts, and an email from one of her teachers that read in part: “Also, honestly, she’s like the coolest person I know.”

She also deals with some serious emotional and learning challenges: ADHD, Tourette Syndrome, Anxiety, Depression, Sensory Processing Disorder, and while she is not on the Autism spectrum like her brother, she tests “High Atypical” in the areas of inability to take another person’s perspective and inability to interpret social cues. These things lead to unpredictable mood swings and volatile behavior, disorganization, underperforming in school, and a general perception by her peers and some of her teachers that she has “an attitude.”

Through years of doctors, medications, therapists (hers AND mine), school counselors, IEP meetings, teacher conferences and the abundant support of my recovery community, I am learning how best to advocate for her and, just as importantly, when to let things go. I am generally able to blow off her meltdowns. They are not personal and when she has regained some control, she is always genuinely apologetic. Things are relatively peaceful at home and I have a wonderful relationship with my daughter. For the most part, I “get” her.

But once she steps out the front door in the morning, she’s on her own. Out there, no one “gets” her and High School, a soul-sucking juggernaut for any kid, can be a special kind of hell. She stays relatively positive on the whole, but there are days. And there are people. Certain people who just actively dislike her and make no bones about it. This is where I have a much harder time letting go.

One young woman has been particularly difficult for my daughter because this girl—let’s call her “Sarah” because that’s nice and generic—is involved in theater, as is Eiledon, so the two of them cross paths a fair amount. Sarah has said things to Eiledon such as, “What are you, a f--king idiot?” So, you know, it’s not like Eiledon is reading into things this girl is saying. They’re that blatant.

Eiledon just got through doing tech for a production of Hairspray Jr. It’s a great show, but the absolute best line, bar none, happens when Velma Von Tussle insults the main character, Tracy, in front of Tracy's mother, Edna. Edna, who is played by a male actor in drag, is holding a bag of fast-food waffles, and when she hears the insult, she steps up to Velma and begins sweetly, “Tracy, be a dear,” and then drops into a full-on male voice to say threateningly, “Hold Mommy’s waffles.”

I’m telling you, every time I see that girl, Sarah, it’s all I can do not to stalk up to her and snarl to Eiledon, “Hold Mommy’s waffles.” But these are not my battles to fight. They’re not my growing pains to experience. In these moments I call on every 12-Step resource I can muster to detach with love. To be supportive without interfering. To let her live her own life. But oh, I am SO human sometimes.

Let me tell you something else about Eiledon. Something which, more than anything else about her, truly blows me away. She is capable of unbounded compassion.

I picked her up from rehearsal one evening and saw Sarah sitting at the curb waiting for her ride. Eiledon got into the car, looking a little sad, and stated for the umpteenth time, “I really don’t know why Sarah hates me so much,” and went on to share yet another run-in that evening in which Eiledon was called “a f--king idiot,” by this girl. I had sort of had it, and all my good-12-Step-mommy tools went right out the window.

“Who knows why she doesn’t like you. Probably because she’s fat, ugly and untalented.”

“MOM!” yelled Eiledon. “How can you say that?!? Maybe she’s a little overweight but she is NOT ugly! And she’s a really good actress! I can’t believe you said that!” She went on to speak highly of Sarah in several regards and berate me for my un-called-for insults. I was flabbergasted. This girl treats my daughter like absolute crap and makes it extremely difficult for her socially within the one community where she has the greatest chance of actually being accepted. But Eiledon won’t hit below the belt. Who IS this child and where did she get this maturity?!?

I would like to think she is learning it from me, but then I remember why she is berating me in the first place. Yikes.

I apologized to my daughter. “In the wild,” I said, “a mother animal will kill anything that threatens her young. Right or wrong, there is a definite instinct that kicks in when I feel like you’re being hurt.”  I sighed. “But that doesn’t make it okay for me to say things like that. And every kid has issues. Who knows what’s going on in Sarah’s life that might make her act that way toward you?”

Eiledon’s disabilities and personality don’t earn her many friends. I know it can be pretty painful for her a lot of the time. And as a mom, I want nothing more than to protect my kids from pain. But as a friend shared with me, the Buddhist monk Thích Nhất Hạnh said something like, “I would never shield my children from suffering, for it is only through suffering that we learn compassion.” And as hard as it is for her, she has shown me that in the midst of her struggles, she is developing compassion even for those who hate her.

I think maybe I need to learn to hold my own waffles.

Read the Fine Print

“Then Gideon said to God, ‘In order to see whether you will deliver Israel by my hand, as you have said, I am going to lay a fleece of wool on the threshing-floor; if there is dew on the fleece alone, and it is dry on all the ground, then I shall know that you will deliver Israel by my hand, as you have said.’ And it was so. When he rose early next morning and squeezed the fleece, he wrung enough dew from the fleece to fill a bowl with water. Then Gideon said to God, ‘Do not let your anger burn against me, let me speak one more time; let me, please, make trial with the fleece just once more; let it be dry only on the fleece, and on all the ground let there be dew.’ And God did so that night. It was dry on the fleece only, and on all the ground there was dew.”    --Judges 6: 36-40

I’ve always looked a little askance at the audacity of Gideon. Here he’s just asked God to perform a miracle to give him an unequivocal sign and God has done just that. But then Gideon says, “Well. Um. That’s great and all, but, like, could you maybe—and don’t smite me for asking or anything—could you do it again? But slightly differently this time. So, you know, I can be really sure I’m not going to get it handed to me by the Midianites and their allies?”

Seriously? You’re looking at an absolutely clear sign and that’s not enough for you?!?

So yeah, um, I’m feeling a bit like Gideon right now. Because, you see, I had just made the monumental decision not to go back to school at Luther Seminary because the money didn’t come through and anyway, I had no business doing school full time with the demands of my family and my life in general. I was just waiting for the confirmation letter for the lesser (but very generous) scholarship I had already been awarded before I called the seminary to let them know I wouldn’t be coming. That it just wasn’t time.

The confirmation letter came yesterday and I opened it this morning. I don’t know what possessed me to read it thoroughly. I already knew that the scholarship was contingent upon me being a full time student at the seminary, which would simply not work. But I read it anyway. And saw the words “There is no minimum course per term requirement.”

I’m sorry, what?

“There is no minimum course per term requirement.”

I took a deep breath. I put the letter down. I took care of a couple of tasks in the house. I sat back down by the computer and picked up the letter.

“There is no minimum course per term requirement.”

I called the seminary and talked to my admissions counselor. “So I got the confirmation letter, and it says I don’t have to be a full time student.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Are you kidding me? This whole time I’ve been laboring under the delusion that the only way I would get scholarship money was to go full time. I was planning to call you as soon as I got this letter to let you know I wouldn’t be coming.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I hope I didn’t give you that impression. The only scholarship that requires full-time attendance is the Presidential Scholarship. In fact, by not receiving that, you’ve been given a whole lot more flexibility.”

Well that’s a horse of a different color. I thanked her and told her I had a few more conversations to have, but I would get back to her early next week with my final decision.

Yeah, God? You know that drenched fleece you gave me? Well, you sure did make it absolutely clear that being a full-time seminarian was just not for me. Oh, and about not getting the full ride scholarship? Um, yeah, thanks for that, okay?

Just like I hadn’t consciously set out that first fleece on scholarship weekend, I hadn’t consciously set out a second one in deciding to wait for the confirmation letter before terminating my enrollment. I really hadn’t. I had fully accepted that seminary was just not going to be possible. So, you know, it wasn’t quite the audacity of Gideon: the whole, “Are you sure, God?” The analogy isn’t perfect. But I’m sure as heck happy to have been wrong. Because with a little effort—and some divine help, seminary just might happen after all!

A Drenched Fleece

“Then Gideon said to God, ‘In order to see whether you will deliver Israel by my hand, as you have said, I am going to lay a fleece of wool on the threshing-floor; if there is dew on the fleece alone, and it is dry on all the ground, then I shall know that you will deliver Israel by my hand, as you have said.’ And it was so. When he rose early next morning and squeezed the fleece, he wrung enough dew from the fleece to fill a bowl with water. Then Gideon said to God, ‘Do not let your anger burn against me, let me speak one more time; let me, please, make trial with the fleece just once more; let it be dry only on the fleece, and on all the ground let there be dew.’ And God did so that night. It was dry on the fleece only, and on all the ground there was dew."                                                        --Judges 6: 36-40

When I was in high school, I remember Pastor Larson talking about “putting a fleece before the Lord,” sharing a story about a decision he had to make and the way he asked God to give him a clear sign. I thought that was a load of horse poo. It was the spiritual equivalent of consulting the Magic 8 Ball I had gotten for my 9^th birthday. Even at fourteen, I knew God didn’t work that way. (I knew everything when I was fourteen.)

I see it differently now. It’s more about having the humility to set aside what I think should happen, and being open to see and hear what’s really going on around me.

Last June, I applied to Luther Seminary almost on a whim. I had been doing some serious vision work and the results were clear. I was passionate about creativity—writing, drama, art, music—and my faith tradition. I started a children’s drama ministry. I continued to volunteer in the education department at my church. I realized that far from being a chore, this kind of work fed me, filled me, inspired and excited me. It was my outlet from the much more demanding work of parenting high needs children, which is my primary vocation.  In support of this, I thought it would be fantastic to take some seminary classes, so I investigated. It was possible to apply online, so I applied, thinking it would be months before I would have to make any sort of commitment.

I was accepted within two weeks and offered an extremely generous scholarship that would require me to be a full-time student. I figured this was clearly meant to be and started trying to figure out a way to make it work, with the understanding that student loans were not an option. The other possibilities I investigated did not pan out. The last resort was to defer enrollment for a year and apply for a Presidential Scholarship, which would cover the full tuition. I knew that without that scholarship, seminary would not be an option for me right now. But in my mind, I had sort of decided it would all work out somehow and I’d be starting in the fall of 2015 for sure. After all, they awarded twenty-five of those scholarships. I figured my odds were pretty good.

Last Sunday and Monday, I went over to the seminary for “Scholarship Weekend,” the culmination of the application process, which included an interview as well as several events and opportunities to experience the campus and meet fellow incoming students. I went with no expectations. In a way, without consciously realizing it, I “laid my fleece before the Lord.” If I was meant to be at seminary in the fall, it would be clear. The threshing floor would be covered with dew and the fleece would be bone dry.

I did not "connect" with Luther Seminary. I wanted to. So badly. The Sunday evening was enjoyable enough. A somewhat awkward un-facilitated “mingle,” which, for an introvert, was not entirely pleasant, but mercifully brief. A moving worship service, marred only by the use of a couple praise songs (strike one) including one song which included a passionate plea that God would “reclaim this nation,” (a strike so egregious I wanted to go and quietly throw up in a corner.) A lovely dinner at which I sat with another prospective student, a current distance learner, my husband, and the academic dean (who was truly a wonderful person!) Dan and I went home having had a nice time and liking the atmosphere and the staff and faculty with whom we had interacted. But there hadn’t been that instant connection I was hoping for. An excitement or anticipation of being part of that place. Was that a little bit of moisture on the fleece? It was hard to say.

The second day I had my interview followed by a student panel, chapel, lunch, a campus tour, and a sample class. It was all great, actually, and there were some particular highlights. But I went home absolutely exhausted and not at all convinced that as a non-traditional commuting student I would have any success integrating into the campus community they work so hard to build.  That evening, as I was extraordinarily crabby, biting everyone’s head off and yelling at the dog, I wondered, “Am I even capable of going back to school full time? Do I have the physical stamina to do this?” I didn’t want to spend the next two years being a raging b-word to my family.

Maybe that should have been enough. The fleece was certainly damp.  But my own desires and expectations reasserted themselves and I explained it all away. No, I just hadn’t slept well. It was pretty intensive all day and classes wouldn’t be like that. I would find my niche in the community. I could make it work.

Except that when I had gotten home from the seminary that afternoon, I found out that Gavin had forgotten the passcode to the garage and didn’t have his phone, so he’d had to sit outside in the freezing cold for an hour and a half until Eiledon got home to let him in, since I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there. Unavailable. Wasn’t it more important at this point in my kids’ lives that I be around? Was the fleece just damp? Or maybe a little soggy?

Well, no, it was just a reminder of all the things that would have to be put into place in order to make this work for the family. Making sure of phones. Hiding a key somewhere outside. Stuff like that. We could figure it out. Surely the kids are old enough now not to need me so much. They need to learn to be more independent after all.

It took me until Wednesday to really recover my energy, and a sort of resignation was setting in. I started to accept that if I didn’t get a Presidential Scholarship, seminary was just not going to happen. The signs continued to support this.

On Thursday I wrote a children’s sermon on the themes: God keeps God’s promises, and God’s ways are not human ways. Um. That night I read the daily reading for a group I’m a part of and it stated unequivocally that we don’t incur debt to get a college degree. Okay. Friday morning I went to a meeting about transitioning my autistic 8^th grader to high school next fall. Transition. Autistic. High School. My potential unavailability suddenly seemed utterly foolish.

By the time I got the call at eleven that I had not been awarded a Presidential Scholarship, the point was moot. The fleece was already drenched, right along with the ground.

I still cried. I’m an overachiever, after all, and I don’t like to fail. I’d been talking about seminary for months and wasn’t relishing the idea of telling people it wasn’t happening. I didn’t want the people around me to feel bad or insist there must be a way to make it happen for me.

It’s not time.

Does that mean it will never be time? Not necessarily. But just for today, my life is incredibly full. I can go back to my original idea of taking a seminary class here and there as a distance learner when I have the resources to do it, rather than feeling all this pressure to barrel through it as a full time student.

In the end, there was nothing all Magic 8 Ball about the decision. It was just about laying out the fleece and being open to seeing the reality of its condition in the morning. I know a lot less than I did when I was fourteen, for which I’m extremely grateful, and it turns out Pastor Larson wasn’t completely crazy after all.

22,577,760 Minutes

My father-in-law has often expressed that he doesn’t “feel” his age. By that, he means that even though he is well into his seventies, he doesn’t feel any different than he did when he was twenty-six. So much so that it is sometimes a surprise to see himself in the mirror and recognize that he is not, in fact, twenty-six any longer. I understand this. I am not, as a general rule, aware of my age.

But there are moments in which I feel every minute of my nearly forty-three years.

It happened yesterday afternoon as I was going to pick up my son from school. He had been suspended again. For the first time this year, but not for the first time. The back-to-school honeymoon was over. The push-back, normalcy, had begun.

As I drove through the mottled autumn sunshine, crisp, brown leaves intermittently sailing across the road, I felt, acutely, my age. My motherhood. The weight of having a child with Asperger Syndrome. The almost crushing sense of responsibility and painful now-ness of dealing with the issue at hand.

Spiritually, I am always striving to “be present in the moment.” And yet some moments, like that in which I felt the collective burden of all of my 15,679 days, I would like to have over with as quickly as possible.

My iPod was playing a track from “No Jacket Required,” which sounded as pristine through my car stereo as it did when it was released in 1985. When I was thirteen.  But all the gorgeous imperfect perfection of Phil Collins’ voice from thirty years ago couldn’t transport me out of my presence. The middle school came inexorably closer as I slid along the winding, tree-lined road, not even dreading. Just being. Heavily.

I am not someone who spends energy morbidly reflecting on my age, the passage of time, mortality, or any of the rest of it. But in that moment of awareness yesterday, I recognized that I will never again be thirteen. I will always be the mother of a special needs child. Even when he is an adult. I don’t know what will happen to him in the future. And when I start to think about his future, I am quickly choked with panic bordering on despair so I have to stop. Not out of denial. Out of practicality. I’m of no use to my son when I am operating from a place of fear.

Today, I am 42.93 years old. I don’t feel them right now. I just feel like a mom who fiercely loves her son, and is willing to do whatever it takes to help him be successful and happy in life, whatever that may look like for him.  I am enjoying the gently scudding clouds in the blue sky outside my window, the cool autumn temperatures and vibrant color, my hot coffee and warm apple slices. I am grateful to have had time and energy to talk with my son’s clinic nurse, and his strong, supportive school staff as we all collaborate to meet his needs.

I am content to be present in this moment.

Do You Wanna Build a Snowman?

I saw the movie Frozen the other day and quite enjoyed it.  (The title of this blog entry is the name of a song from the movie.)  One of the messages of the story is that a life lived in fear is a life half-lived.  In order to be free, to live the life you were meant to live, you have to be open and honest about your fears, your secrets. You have to be vulnerable. 

Vulnerability was also the topic at the last Adult Forum at my church.  The class watched a TED talk by Brene Brown in which she talked about how people who were honest about and accepting of their vulnerability were happier and healthier.

This double message has inspired me to share the truth of my own fear. I hadn’t been able to put words to it until this morning when I heard myself say to a friend, “I have been afraid I am losing my son to his Autism.”

Gavin has always been a light in my life.  He was an easy birth, an easy baby.  Even as his behavioral difficulties began to manifest and often brought me to tears of frustration, his enormous heart, infectious laugh and joy of living far outweighed the challenges.  We recognized his atypical behavior early, even though we did not get an Asperger’s diagnosis for several years, and he had amazing support from the school district from the very beginning. He had friends and was academically successful. There were good years and bad years, leaps forward and frustrating setbacks. But he always remained Gavin, at least at home. Sweet and funny and full of life.

The transition to seventh grade has been a train wreck. We had no indication from his general performance in elementary school that he would tank so completely.  We had to pull him from the school we preferred and put him back in the local district.  He is now in a Level III setting—small group, contained classroom; the least “mainstreamed.”  I have no idea how he is doing academically, and I don’t really care at this point: each day the phone doesn’t ring is a victory.  I think he is settling in nicely, at last.  I love his case manager/primary teacher, and the district has, once again, deeply impressed me with their commitment to him.  I am trying not to kick myself for trying to move him this past fall in the first place.

But even as things have been going reasonably well the past few weeks, I have been worried.  Gavin hasn’t eaten much.  Hasn’t smiled much.  Won’t talk to me.  As it is, he spends the majority of his free time on technology: it’s calming and it’s what he enjoys.  But I have been feeling like he might be dealing with some depression, yet I can’t get any communication from him.  Don’t get me wrong: he’s never been chatty about difficult things. But he’s always been able to talk to me.

I have been afraid I am losing him to his Autism.

Then yesterday, as I was waking up from a nap, I heard the garage door open.  Gavin was home from school.  I waited to hear him come up the stairs, grab a snack and come into the bedroom to use the computer.  Nothing.  Some thumping downstairs and then a door slamming.  I waited, figuring he was stopping off in his room for something or other.  But the minutes stretched out and, still, I didn’t hear him.

At length, I pushed myself up and stumbled into the kitchen for my own afternoon snack.  I let my fears whisper in my ear.  He’s in his room, depressed, non-functional.  He’s left the house and won’t come back—nah. He’d miss the computer.  Reality kept the fears at bay.

Then another slam.  Some more thumping and rustling.  And finally Gavin came up the stairs.  His hair was a mess, his eyes bright, his cheeks red, and he was wearing a huge grin.  “Mama, guess what I did?” he asked cheerfully.

“What?”

“I built a snowman!  I saw how the snow was and I said to myself, ‘it’s not gonna be this perfect again.’  So I got on my snow pants and boots and went out and built a snowman. It had to be done.”

My heart swelled with relief. My sweet, funny, joyful kid was still in there.

I recently started a support group for parents of kids with Asperger’s through a Yahoo! group called “Eden Prairie Special Kids.”  Our first meeting had eight moms in attendance, whose kids range in age from 5^th grade through college. It was amazing just to sit and listen to the stories. To be authentic and vulnerable.  To know I am not alone.  We will meet monthly and hopefully, we will be able to help one another accept what is, access resources, and share in the little joys like snowmen.

Reflections on Sewing

I just got back from a three-day personal retreat, the bulk of which I spent sewing.  I love to sew, but it’s something I don’t allow myself much time to do.  As I spent hours accompanied only by beautiful fabric, good music, and the cheerful whirring of my faithful sewing machine, I had room to contemplate. And, in fact, thoughts and ideas sprang to mind without effort, illuminating the spiritual underpinnings of the very methodical, physical activities of my hands.  

Ironing and Meditation
The first project was a duvet cover I had been planning for well over a year.  The concept was simple.  Two king-sized bed sheets and a gorgeous Celtic-patterned bedspread I’d found on Amazon.com.  I had washed all the pieces and ironed the bedspread, but had thrown the sheets into my luggage fresh out of the dryer in the interest of time.  Now, laying everything out on the floor in order to measure it, I was faced with the decision of whether or not to iron the bed sheets.  They seemed okay when stretched out.  A little wrinkly, but not bad.  I was chomping at the bit to get going and for a moment, I contemplated skipping this first step.  But I caught myself and thought, “If you want this to turn out—and you’re still not entirely sure it will anyway—you need to do it right.  Iron the sheets.”

Grumbling and eye-rolling, I set out the board and turned on the iron, dreading the prospect of having to take the time.  King-sized sheets are enormous, and it’s a bear to try to get them uniformly flat on an eighteen-inch-wide, three-foot-long board.  I set to, section by section, trying not to sigh as I lifted and readjusted the sheet every couple minutes.  But as I went, I began to enjoy the satisfaction of seeing the wrinkles disappear, feeling the warmth of the cloth under my hands, knowing that this was the right decision, and that the final product would be of much higher quality.  “This is meditation,” I thought.  “What?!?” I thought back at myself.  “No, seriously,” I thought. “First of all, the simple, repetitive action is certainly meditative, and frees the mind for thought.  But it’s more than that.  It’s the basis of everything. The beginning. The foundation.  If I take the time to stop and smooth out all the wrinkles, to create the optimum raw material, the blank slate, my outcome, no matter what it is, will be that much better.  It will come from a purer place.”  “Wow,” I chuckled, as much at the fact that I was having this silent conversation as anything else, “that’s deep.”

But it’s true.  Is it a coincidence that I’m working through Step Eleven in my recovery program at the moment? “Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God.” I hate meditating.  Well, hate is an awfully strong word.  Let’s say I’m resistant to it.  The same way I’m resistant to exercise.  I know it’s good for me, but I don’t want to take the time.  My mind is too busy.  I can’t even iron a sheet without philosophizing, for crying out loud.  How am I going to sit still for minutes (or, realistically, seconds) without mentally running off in all kinds of directions?  The prospect causes me anxiety.  But here I was, ironing for a long time, and after a while, I was enjoying it.  And the results were entirely worth it.  Is the duvet cover perfect? Well, more on perfection later. But it turned out as well, if not better than I’d hoped.  Isn’t that what I want for my life?  For each new day?  Why wouldn’t I want to start it with the spiritual discipline of meditation?

Stupid bed sheets.

Taking Risks

There comes a point in every project when you have to just shove down your fear of failure and go for it.  With the duvet cover, it was the moment it was actually time to sew.  I had laid out the Celtic bedspread on the top sheet, making sure it was centered, allowing for how it was going to lie on the bed, etc.  The bedspread is a hand-woven thing, cotton but with a linen look, and with a fair amount of stretch to it.  On the floor, I smoothed it as best I could in order to get the pattern straight.  The edges weren’t perfectly squared, so it pointed a bit at the corners.  I was terrified that the minute I picked the whole thing up to carry it to the sewing machine it would go all wonky (that’s a technical seamstress term) and turn out with all kinds of wrinkles and folds and bubbles in it.  I pinned it to death, but I still had a feeling that this fabric wasn’t going to cooperate.  I looked at it for a long time, lying perfectly on the floor, wondering if it would still look like that when it was done.

And then I sighed.  “At some point, you just have to be fearless,” I thought.  I didn’t answer myself this time. It was pointless to argue.  I was never going to have this duvet cover on my bed at home if I didn’t pick up the stupid thing and start sewing.  I might risk damaging the bedspread or having it not come out well. But was it an acceptable alternative to leave it unfinished in a box at home?  Just to avoid the risk of failure?  Duh!

There was nothing left for it but to grab the edges and—carefully!—whip the whole thing over to the machine.  At that point, it was out of my hands.  Well, technically it was in my hands. But you get the point.  I was pleased to note, as inches of cloth sped under my fingers through the flying needle, the bedspread behaved itself like a total gentleman, and the only wrinkle was at the final corner where my last stitch met my first, and it wasn’t nearly the massive bubble I'd feared.  In fact, with the comforter stuffed into the cover and the whole thing draped over my bed, you don’t see it at all!

So how many things in my life are just as perfectly laid out in front of me? Brilliant ideas and plans waiting to be executed, which just sit there because I'm afraid? It's time to whip the whole thing over to the machine, people.  I might just be surprised and thrilled with the outcome.

The Right Tools for the Job

My second project of the weekend was a shift.  That’s a loose-fitting dress, slip or chemise, for those of you dwelling solely in the 21^st century.  I wanted something comfortable to wear under some of my previous dress projects that were scratchy or not warm enough.  Something out of a crazy-soft (“yummy” is the term I think best describes it) fabric that flows and hugs.  But something pretty enough to be seen.  I chose an off white crushed panne velour.  For those of you who do haunt the occasional Renaissance Festival, that’s the shimmery stuff they use to make the skirts and cloaks you see for sale at every clothier in the place.  Cheap stuff, actually, but pretty and soft.  And knit.  Waaaaay stretchy. 

In the past whenever I’ve worked with knits, the results have been subpar.  My seams pucker, my hems snap when overstretched.  I know there are ways to compensate for this. I don’t really know what they are.  But my mom had advised me to get a ballpoint needle for this kind of fabric.  So I did.  It made a huge difference.  With the exception of the hem (more on that later), the seams were straight, flat and lovely.  Now, I know I could have taken the time to research the best way to sew knit fabrics. I could even have read through my sewing machine manual, since I know there’s a stretch stitch setting on it somewhere.  This advice might have fallen under the whole ironing-as-meditation-take-time-for-the-foundation-steps part of this writing.  And there is truth to that.  Some day I will take a class on sewing knits, as much because it would be fun to take a class as to actually learn this particular skill. But you can’t deny that the right tool is essential, and that’s true spiritually as well as practically.  

What I am realizing in my life right now is that time and space to think and reflect, to meditate even, are essential tools.  They’re not just optional.  Not if I want sanity and serenity.  It’s so easy for me to get overwhelmed by all the stuff I have to do that I forget to set aside time for necessary self-care.  Unstructured time.  Uncluttered space. This retreat was a perfect example, but it doesn’t have to be quite so formal.  That’s like taking the class and using the right stitch setting and the right kind of thread and the ballpoint needle.  That might not be practical in the immediate moment.  But now I have that needle and I can pull it out and use it any time I need to.  And when I make my “to do” list each morning, I can put in the time I’m going to take to write for myself, as I’m doing right now.  Sometimes I even make a “not to do” list, on which I put any and all tasks that are stressing me out that I know I’m not going to get to that day.  That way they’re on paper and out of my head and I can get on with what I have to do, like taking a little time for myself while wearing my new yummy-soft, crushed panne shift.

The Inevitable Imperfections of the Creative Free Spirit

I learned to sew because I hate clothes shopping.  Hate is not too strong a word here.  I have simple needs.  I like simple things.  You can’t buy simple things in stores.  I like pretty things—colors, patterns, textures—and my tastes don’t change much from year to year.  Stores change their clothing offerings constantly and 99% of the time, the options are ugly.  I like wild and crazy things.  Renaissance Festival things.  Stevie Nicks things.  Stores don’t carry these things unless you want to pay through the nose for them.  And even then, they’re never exactly what I envision.  Going shopping for one clothing item is inevitably an exercise in frustration, discouragement and depression for me.  So I’ve learned to make my own clothes.

Except finding patterns can be frustrating, too.  A lot of them are close, but not quite it.  So I’ve had to learn to adapt.  I’m no professional seamstress, believe me.  What I lack in practiced skill I make up for in completely making things up as I go along.

I have this one dress pattern that I adore.  It’s one of the first patterns I ever bought.  The dress I originally made from it didn’t survive my 70-pound post-marriage weight gain. Plus it required ironing. In any case, I kept the pattern for years and after my 60-pound weight loss, I pulled it out of retirement.  But this time I wanted it different.  I didn’t want buttons down the front.  I wanted a pullover with contrasting front and side panels in a sort of Ren Fest style.  I didn’t want sleeves.  I didn’t want to line it.  It came out beautiful.  A bit big (I overcompensated for the pullover feature, since it wasn’t a stretch fabric) but I put in a back tie and called it good.  I used it again a couple years later with a simple navy waffle-weave. It was a more of a jumper this time, with a scoop neck instead of a square neck, and I left out the pleats. 

This past weekend, I had new plans for the pattern.  Another Ren Fest-inspired work in a gorgeous cotton batik, dyed in rich greens and browns and golds, like a deep, quiet forest.  I don’t exaggerate when I say the fabric called out to my soul when I saw it.  A sleeveless scoop-neck, open in the front with a laced closure, to be worn over the simple shift described above.

Pulling out the pattern pieces was like seeing an old friend.  I couldn’t wait to get reacquainted!  But I was wise enough to pace myself, knowing I would be making some pretty serious changes—again—to what was laid out on the brown tissue paper in front of me, some of which I hadn’t even decided upon.  Not exactly.

The inevitable by-products of making things up as you go along are imperfections.  There are some sloppy seams in the sleeve linings since I wasn’t following a pattern.  I topstitched in the front with an assumption of how I was going to do the laces and then changed my mind, which left the seam allowance by the topstitching loose, instead of finished. It would have been too labor intensive to fix it, and might have damaged the fabric in the process.  So. Not perfect.

Once again, as I stood at the ironing board, this time trying to figure out how best to make loops to hold the front lacings, I had an insight.  “This is what life is like,” I thought.  “Now you’re just being pretentious,” I thought back.  “No, really.  Aren’t we all just making it up as we go along?  We have a general idea of what we want.  We have a basic pattern that we’ve gotten from our parents, our education, our society.  But beyond that, we’re just winging it.  So it can’t possibly be perfect.  Why waste so much energy being a perfectionist?  Honestly, if I had just stuck to patterns, I wouldn’t have any of my favorite clothes.”  “Some of your favorite clothes you’ve bought.”  “Don’t be cheeky.  You get my point.”

Yes. I’m in therapy.

Seam Ripping

Sometimes you have to rip seams.  I’ve often said that a sewing project isn’t truly a Rebekah Moir original until I’ve had to rip at least one seam.  Mistakes are inevitable.  Some imperfections can just be left to give the project personality, but sometimes you have to make it right, or the integrity of the entire piece is compromised.  I put one of the sleeve linings on the wrong side of the dress.  No way around that.  Had to rip it and put it in the right place.  I’ve made mistakes like that in my life.  Screaming at my daughter.  Micromanaging my husband.  Failing someone in some way.  Ignoring those things will make them fester and ooze, and the infection will poison the relationship.  Best to re-open the wound—carefully!—and treat it properly. Make restitution. Commit to working toward change.  Then it can heal.  Rip the seam and re-do it correctly.  Words to live by.

Down the Mountain

The second evening, I started working on a sort of lace cardigan thing with big bell sleeves.  I cut it out and set it aside. I was a little concerned about the sheerness and stretch of the fabric and wanted to get through my shift and dress first, before dealing with what might turn out to be an exercise in futility.  After the dress came off so well, I was itching to get going on the cardigan that last morning.  But, alas, when I looked at the clock after the dress was complete, it was already eleven-ten and I needed to hit the road at noon.

I scrambled to get everything into the car except my sewing machine and the actual fabric I was working with.  I had been packing as I went that morning, and most things were ready.  Then I stopped to eat my lunch.  It was beef vegetable stew; nothing you could eat while sewing.  When all was squared away and I was free to sew once more, it was 11:45.  Fifteen minutes for me to determine whether working with this stretch lace was even viable.  But I had to know before I headed south.

I was delighted when the first seam went off almost without a hitch.  With a few adjustments to the way I was handling the cloth, I was able to get solid, straight stitching and became convinced that, with a commitment to topstitching all my seams, this could work! And then it was noon.

Sigh.

Sometimes you have to come back down the mountain.  A retreat is a glorious thing.  But the whole point was to rest and recharge so I could be more present in my often-challenging reality.  All the reflecting and insight would be pointless if there was no opportunity to apply it.  I often think about running off and becoming a monk somewhere.  Spending all my time in quiet contemplation, prayer and meditation, spiritual writing, singing, steady work like sewing.  It would be lovely at first. But I think my nature is a little too wild, too exuberant.  I’d wind up like Maria in Sound of Music, with the other monks singing songs about how to get rid of me.

Not that my day-to-day life is all that wild or exuberant. There are days I’m just slogging along. But I can take these opportunities for rest and reflection and do my best to employ them to find the peace and the balance within the stresses of raising highly challenging children, financial uncertainty, and trying to figure out what I want to be when (if?) I grow up.  It’s about finding Joy in the Longing.

And lastly, a word about Hems

I suck at hems.  They never turn out.  Luckily most of my dresses are floor length and no one gets down to examine the hems.  I have nothing deeply spiritual to say about this.  I just wanted you to know.

License to Panic

I don’t scrapbook the way I used to.  Time was, I would take every opportunity to spend a couple dozen hours poring over photos and programs for kids’ activities and ticket stubs and the like.  Now it’s maybe once a year.  Maybe.  So when my friend, Julie, invited me to a scrapbook event at her church last weekend, I thought I should go.  Especially since the last time I had scrapbooked was at the same event the previous January.

I was not prepared for the weekend, so I went to gather my coupons for my local craft stores in order to stock up on paper, adhesive, a blank scrapbook, and insert pages.  I opened the desk drawer where I generally stick my weekly Jo-Ann mailer and was disappointed to find that I hadn’t saved the last one.  But what was that little card at the bottom of the drawer?

It was a reminder that my driver’s license would expire on my next birthday.  November 3^rd.

2012.

I had a small heart attack.

I had been driving with an invalid license for two months.  I am not proud of this.  I can blame it on my undiagnosed ADHD all I want, it doesn’t change the fact that this was completely irresponsible.

My very first priority at that moment was the renewal of my license.  My brain went into panicked overdrive.  Would I get a scolding? A fine? Would I have to take my drivers’ test over?  How could I even GET to the licensing station knowing I would be driving illegally? What would my father say? Why was I worrying about what my father would say? Aaargh!

The phone rang.

It was a friend from my 12-step program.  Did I have time for an outreach call?  DID I!  I couldn’t think of anything more necessary right at that moment.  I spilled the story at a feverish pace (I’m amazed he kept up), and then listened while he talked me down from the panicked ledge I was teetering on.  It wasn’t the end of the world.  I wasn’t going to jail.  The person behind the counter was a bureaucrat and didn’t care about my deadline. Yeah, it was illegal if I drove to the licensing site, but he’d never known a cop who would give someone a ticket on their way to renew their license.  Then again, he encouraged me to drive carefully.

Blood pressure normalized, I thanked him for his wisdom and hung up.

At that moment, I let it all go.  It was no longer in my hands (it never had been).  I just had to do the next right action and leave the outcome up to God.  The licensing station in Edina opened at 10:00am.  It was now 9:15.  I had two errands, which conveniently, were in Edina and on the way to the station.  I gathered my coupons and headed out.  Carefully.  I might have been all serene about everything at this point, but you bet your backside I was the single most courteous and law-abiding driver in the south metro last Friday morning.

I stopped at Michael’s and got what I needed there.  I headed to Jo-Ann and got what I needed there.  I pulled out of the Jo-Ann lot at 10:01 a.m. and saw the licensing station was a block away.  I found a good parking spot (what?!?).  It turned out the station had opened at 9:00am so there was no line to check in.  I took my number, filled out my application, paid my registration fee, did my vision check, had my picture taken, and was out of there in under 25 minutes.  No one said WORD ONE about the fact that I had been driving without a valid license for 2 months.

What had just happened?

As I pulled out of my parking spot and headed back to France Avenue, there was a police car in front of me.  I felt a sense of sunny camaraderie with the officer.  “Pull me over if you need to,” I said cheerfully to myself.  “I have a valid driver’s license!”  I turned right onto France and saw that the very next left was the street I needed to take to get to my church to pick up some things for my daughter’s homework project.

As I tripped happily down West 70^th, I thought, “I can’t believe how smoothly this has all gone!  Unbelievable!  I hadn’t needed to panic, just go with the flow.  And how well it all flowed!  Amazing!”

I’m not advocating forgetting to renew your drivers’ license on time.  But I am advocating talking to another calm, rational person when something like this happens, and then letting it go.  Seriously.  Because there was nothing I could do at the moment I realized my mistake except go fix the problem.  And once I traded in my panic for acceptance, I was able to do what needed doing with a positive attitude, come what may.

I had a lovely weekend scrapbooking with my friend.  And I’m very grateful to her for inviting me and unintentionally bringing my negligence to my attention!

Best. Thanksgiving. Ever.

When Eiledon was a baby and Gavin on the way, Dan and I had a discussion about the importance of family dinners.  We both grew up in happy, healthy homes and had many fond memories of times around the table, and this was something we wanted for our own little family.  Up to that point, our dining together had been very informal and often in front of the television.  So in 2001, we made a New Year’s Resolution to have dinner at the table as a family thenceforth.  And so we have.

Of course, we couldn’t have known at the time that our children would both have ADHD, which makes it impossible for them to sit still, and sensory processing disorders that make them both extremely picky eaters (and not even picky in the same way).  For years, dinnertime has been an exercise in barely-controlled chaos and not one we as parents have much enjoyed.  But we persevere and it’s a non-negotiable with our kids: we eat our evening meal at the table.  Therefore we accept that meals are loud, often fraught with drama, and extremely short.  The kids have a hard time conversing appropriately, eating with decorum, or remaining one millisecond longer than the moment they’re full.

Holidays are no exception and many a Thanksgiving dinner has ended with rolled eyes and shrugs from Dan and me as we cleaned up, mildly disappointed by the distinct lack of Norman Rockwell sensibility to the event. 

This year, we had invited extended family for Turkey Day but it didn’t work out, so we decided to just lie low at home.  I made a small bird and a few simple fixings and set all on the table at noon, with formal china and crystal, and set aside all expectations of placid sentimentality.

But from the start, something was different about this year.  The kids were both at the table as soon as they were called, with no cajoling or threatening on my part.  They sat still while I took some pictures.  They were quiet and thoughtful while we prayed and filled our plates.  Who were these people and what had they done with my children?

Then the real magic happened.  I asked each person at the table to share five things they were thankful for.  Aside from family.  Because in addition, each of us had to say why we were grateful for each other.  Sure, there were plenty of gratitudes about video games.  But there were also moments of transcendent beauty.

Eiledon said she was grateful for the bullies at her school, because they were teaching her to stand up for herself.  Gavin was grateful for his sister because she was “full of joy and fun.”  Both kids were grateful for their father’s love of music and sharing music with them.  They got to hear Dan and me say how grateful we were to have each other as our best friend, and how grateful we were for all the gifts and joys our children bring to our lives.

Truly, it was a moving experience.  Sure, toward the end, they started to get a little antsy, but they ate everything on their plates (another miracle), and asked politely to be excused.  As they left, I glanced at the clock and realized they had sat with us for nearly forty minutes.  I shared this with Dan, incredulous, and as we finished up in each other’s company, we marveled at the gift that had just been given us.

Of course it didn’t last.  Lunch today was quite back to normal.  But we know it’s in there somewhere.  And what we were most thankful for this Thanksgiving was the opportunity to experience something so beautiful with our amazing, wonderful family around the dinner table.

Leaf Thief

Maybe you saw me, slipping into your front yard, my eyes wide with wonder, cast longingly upward or scanning the ground.  Maybe you noticed when I plucked a treasure of exquisite color and shape from the guarding tendrils of green grass, or from the gracefully extended fingers of a sentinel oak.  I know what I do is wrong: if everyone followed suit, what would be left to marvel at as green turns gold, sky turns bold, air turns cold? But I am a leaf thief. I cannot help myself. 

I cling with desperation to the glory of autumn, wanting to hold it, to own it, to be the exuberance of magnificent hues splashed brilliantly across the hillside, of trees glowing from within like smoldering embers.  How can I contain myself when yellow comes in a hundred shades, sometimes half a dozen on a single leaf, when red creeps like lace from spiderweb veins to the serrated edges of emerald foliage, when luxuriant piles of orange fire spill across lawns beneath maples.

I collect and amass, and apply every idea to stop the decay: clear contact paper, paste, mod podge, wax paper and enormous books to press flat, to preserve.  Despite desire and determination I fail, again and again, to maintain the vibrancy, vivacity, vividness. Edges curl, red darkens to black, orange to brown, yellow to beige.  Contact paper obscures, mod podge glares, nothing, nothing can arrest the march from autumn bright to winter blight.  Even photographs seem not to be able to capture what the human eye experiences and I am left, as each new wind or rainy day strips branches bare, with the grim acceptance of defeat.

Yet I stopped, this year, time and again, to creep into yards, to revel in my senses, to experience autumn in a way I have not allowed myself to do for a long, long time.  While my collages, poor after-images of nature’s perfection, cannot hold these experiences, they will remind me of the time spent, the joys felt, the intense gratitude for the gifts bestowed in these heady weeks.  And you will likely see me next year, the impetuous leaf thief, stealing moments of sensory bliss.

OCPT

My brother, Pete, once told me that he and his wife count every Chrysler PT Cruiser they see. The immediate result was that he passed this strange compulsion onto me. It started out innocently enough. I wasn’t doing a whole lot of driving at the time and so whenever I was out and about and would pass one here or there, I would just think, “One,” and smile, thinking of Pete, and move on with my day.

But a couple years ago, my kids started going to occupational therapy and I started driving from Eden Prairie to Plymouth and back twice a week and from Eden Prairie to Downtown Minneapolis to Plymouth and back to Eden Prairie twice a week. That’s a lot of miles. And, as it turned out, a lot of PT Cruisers.

Now the sad fact is that I can’t not notice these cars! They’re different and fun. First there’s the shape. When they were introduced in 2000, I didn’t like them—they looked like hearses to me. But their retro-style, rounded bodies now remind me more of candy: gummi bears or something like that.

Then there are the colors! While most cars come in your standard neutrals (black, white, beige), and maybe a blue or cherry red, PT Cruisers leap out of the crowd in at least three different shades of red, two or three blues, several purples, forest green, orange and yellow along with the usual slate of colors. They’re often covered with advertising or company logos. I’ve also seen them in two-tone, convertible, with flames painted on the hood, and, best of all, with 1970s-style wood paneling!

The compulsion to count quickly became an obsession, a bona fide mental disorder worthy of the DSM-IV. On a Girl Scout outing last spring, I silently kept track even while chatting with my co-leader (five). One of the women at my church drives one and every Sunday as I pull into the parking lot I think, “One.” I started noticing where the concentrations of Cruisers are largest, at least among places I frequent (the per capita PT ownership in Eden Prairie and Southeast Minneapolis is quite high). It got to the point where I found myself looking for Cruisers more than watching the road I was driving! (Don’t worry, Dad—I don’t do this anymore!)

I was having so much fun with this bizarre compulsion to count PT Cruisers that I decided to pass it on to the next generation and invited my kids to start counting with me. It has become a great road game for all of us. We routinely see at least nine of them on any given day that we’re out and about (our record is 20), and it’s not even the same ones along the same route every time—we know because of all the crazy colors. Last summer on our trip home from Michigan, we counted a total of 31, although I know we passed more than that: We got back into the Twin Cities right at rush hour and I wasn’t about to be looking around for more. (See Dad? Stop worrying!)

The kids aren’t in OT anymore and my weekly driving has dropped back to almost nothing, but I still find myself counting however many I see, like it or not. It’s something I don’t think I’ll ever recover from. Thanks, Pete. Sadly (happily?) Chrysler stopped producing these candy-like contraptions in 2010. So I suppose it’s just a matter of time before they become scarcer and scarcer, and I’ll count fewer and fewer until, at last, I can just forget about them altogether.

Affirmation

Gavin has had a rough couple of weeks. All the fifth graders went on a 3-day, 2-night trip to Long Lake Conservation Camp last week and Gavin didn’t. When he thought he was going, he started to have behavioral issues out of stress. Then we all agreed he didn’t have to go. But when all the kids left, he had behavioral issues out of (probably) the shame of being different and left out. Then when all the kids got back, he had behavioral issues again. I think the bottom line of it was that the whole Long Lake trip threw a gigantic monkey wrench of transition into his Aspergian need for predictability. Things have settled down now. I haven’t had a phone call from the school in three days.

But I did get a phone call about Gavin from a total stranger today: a woman named Patty. Patty’s daughter, Mary Rose, is in Kindergarten at Gavin’s school. Mary Rose is blind and walks with a cane, either trailing the wall or being sight-guided by another student or adult.

Last Monday, Patty was dropping Mary Rose off at school late and, since the hallways were deserted, she decided to try the method of having her daughter follow her voice to navigate. As they proceeded slowly along, Gavin popped out of the boys’ bathroom and, while washing his hands at the sink in the hallway, he noticed the little girl’s hesitant momentum.

“You’re doing it wrong,” he said to Patty.

Mary Rose’s mom explained, “We’re trying a new way for Mary Rose, so she can learn other ways to get around on her own.”

But Gavin was insistent. “No,” he said. “You’re doing it wrong. She always holds someone’s hand. Here. I can take her to class.”

Patty asked Gavin’s name. She could see that he was truly concerned about her little girl, and was impressed that he spoke up for her. He had no idea Patty was Mary Rose’s mom, and he had the courage to address a total stranger on Mary Rose’s behalf.

She decided at that point that it would be appropriate to let Gavin help. “Mary Rose,” she asked, “is it okay if Gavin sight-guides you to class?”

“Yes,” Mary Rose replied.

“Will that be okay with your teacher?” she asked Gavin.

“I’m sure Mr. Busch won’t mind,” he replied. (At this point in Patty's retelling of the story, I cringed. Who knew where Gavin was actually supposed to be at that moment.)

“Okay.”

So Gavin took Mary Rose’s hand and led her to her Kindergarten classroom. Patty was so touched by Gavin’s big heart that she decided to make him a certificate of appreciation for Mary Rose to present to him today. She had called me to ask for permission to take his picture/video with her daughter, which I gladly gave.

This—THIS—is the kind of thing we moms need to hear about!!! Especially when it feels like everything is going wrong with our kids. I am so grateful to Patty for her graciousness! And to little Mary Rose, who probably did more for Gavin in that moment than he did for her.