Category Archives: Life at Home

Monday, Monday

27 Monday Apr 2009

Posted by in Life at Home, Mesta Park

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“Monday Monday, can’t trust that day

Monday, Monday, sometimes it just turns out that way

Oh Monday morning, you gave me no warning of what was to be…”

-The Mamas & the Papas

 

I use to pack so much life into my day that I always had leftovers.  But I’m a new woman these days.  My goal each and every day is to live a ‘just right’ life – not too skinny and not to fat.  But today should have been Fat Tuesday, because by supper time, my hair looked as harried as I felt.

 

Who knew zippers would be busting all day from the stress of fullness?  I woke up Monday morning relishing the fact that I would be having a lovely relaxing pedicure and then maybe a fun lunch and a movie with Kara.  Oh sure, I knew I was dropping the dogs off for their monthly grooming, but I didn’t anticipate that this would create any problems.  And who knew that the upholstery man would want to deliver my reupholstered couch right before class tonight?  And that I would be eating supper on the run at 4:30 in the afternoon, because it was the only open slot until after 8:00 this evening?

 

When I dropped off the dogs at their new groomer, they were surprised to learn that the poodles were standards and that I hadn’t brought in their immunization records.  And I was surprised that they were surprised.  And I confess, I don’t deal well with surprises – the stress just put too much pressure on my lip zipper.  So out came words of frustration pouring from my mouth.  And once spoken, always regretted.

  

Getting the surprises pushed back into the box where they belonged caused me to leave late for my relaxing pedicure appointment.  But traffic was moving smoothly.  It looked like I would only be ten minutes late.  Stopping at a traffic light gave me a minute to kill, so I dug through my purse to find some lip gloss.  When I picked up my cosmetic bag, the zipper surprised me by breaking, and since I had the bag upside down, all the contents scattered into the bottom of my big purse.  Was this a metaphor for my day?  No time to ponder.  The light changed green and I left the mess and the metaphor for later. The pedicure was lovely, interrupted by one follow-up call from the groomer.

 

I dashed straight from my pedicure to eat lunch with Kara.  Then we spent most of the afternoon together, beginning with independent shopping carts up and down the aisles of Wal-Mart to parking ourselves on Kara’s sofa to watch a few episodes of “Sex and the City”.  During this time, I had two more follow-up calls from the groomer.  Much to the groomer’s surprise, the dogs were taking longer than anticipated.  I was surprised at neither the groomer’s surprise or the fact that the dogs were taking a long time.  

 

But what did surprise me was that I picked up poodles who have never looked better.  It had been worth the wait and the early surprises and the three follow-up phone calls and the two phone calls to former vets to have shot records faxed over.  And even though I knew I was packing in way more than I should, I couldn’t help myself.  I just had to reward Max and Maddie with a short poodle walk.

 

But who could have anticipated that this would be the day that a perfect stranger would zoom out of nowhere to quickly park and hop out of her pickup truck to strike up a friendly conversation about everything poodle, just as we were doing a mad dash around Mesta Park.  And of course, I was not the least bit surprised when she asked me for the name of their groomer. It was the perfect refrain for my own little “Monday, Monday can’t trust that day…” 

 

But now that’s its Tuesday, I’m wondering if the three follow-up calls weren’t in response to my upzipped lips of Monday morning.  Were the groomers simply trying to manage expectations to avoid unpleasant surprises and the possiblility that their day would end as it began?  Because their Monday morning gave them a “warning of what was to be…..”   

 

Why does it take the morning after to discover the truth that humbles and silences me in a way that nothing else does. Oh, “Monday, Monday, sometimes it just turns out that way…”

Growing Up Lion Kings

26 Sunday Apr 2009

Posted by in Life at Home

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Thanks to my dad’s taste in movies and music, I grew up enjoying Broadway Musicals.  I liked them so much I brought them to life on my own backyard stage.  I can remember belting my heart out in song while stretching wide my seven year old arms and anchoring my legs into the shape of an upper case ‘A’ on top of our backyard picnic table.  Of course, I didn’t know I couldn’t sing like Ethel Merman.  But how I remember dropping my enrollment in Junior High Glee Club after Mom broke that terrible news to me five years later.   

 

Some early experiences have a way of defining what we hold sacred as well as the people we later become in life.  For example, as a mother of four, I tried to never discourage my children from self-expression in the arts or athletics.   When Bryan wanted to be a baseball pitcher, I supported his dreams with afternoon pitching practice and playing the role of Team Mom.  When others discouraged Kate from cheerleader try-outs, I told her to ‘go for it,’ and wasn’t at all surprised when she made it.  When Kara wanted to be a ballerina one year and a gymnast the next, then this was what she got to pursue.  And when Kyle wanted to experiment with art, I found an art teacher to show him the way.      

 

With both husbands out of town, Kara and I pursued the arts on our own this weekend, by taking in yesterday evening’s performance of “The Lion King”.  Surprisingly, it wasn’t the glorious music but the story line and rich colors of the props and costumes that captured my attention.  I had all but forgotten the nuances of the storyline:  how the young lion cub Simba runs away from his destiny when he believes his Uncle Scar’s lies; how two sympathetic souls help Simba anesthetize his pain with their own happy-go-lucky philosophy, which fits for a time but leaves him restless and searching after he grows up; and how Simba frees himself to claim his original and true destiny by facing his past and overcoming the lies.     

 

If only.  If only brokenness were as easy to mend in real life as in a Disney fairy tale. If only the early and often dashing of children’s hopes didn’t breed more harm than good.  Because criticism, whether it be good or bad, serves to hem us in by keeping us shrunken, a mere shadow of what we are fully intended to be, rather than inviting us to stretch wide our arms to embrace life fully, even at the risk of singing off key.    

 

I made many mistakes when raising my children.  But giving them the freedom to discover their own personal truth in art and athleticism–this I hope I did right.  Growing up lion kings … this was what I tried to do as a parent.

 

As for myself, I’m just growing up.  Into what… well that remains to be seen.   

Magical Suitcases

25 Saturday Apr 2009

Posted by in Home Restoration, Life at Home, Soul Care

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In a couple of weeks, my ‘noisy’ Ignatius retreat will be over.  My bags are a little lighter for the journey but I’ve still plenty to unpack, which will help make room for the ‘spiritual writings’ I can once again read. 

 

In anticipation of this, I’ve set about collecting old favorites and buying a few new ones. For some reason, I’m especially drawn toward picking up writings of Evelyn Underhill.  Someone once told me that Ms. Underhill called God by the name ‘Reality.’  I want to know more about how she came to her God name just as I wish to know more about anyone who found God real enough to name ‘Reality’.       

 

Being real is important to me, which goes hand in hand with this idea of being more comfortable in my own skin.  I think my journey with Ignatius has helped with both, though God knows, my work in both areas has only just begun.  My pretending to be something other than who I am began early in life.  First grade, actually.  So I’ve acquired more than a few masks and costumes and magical tricks along the way.  It will take a lifetime to unpack my acccumulations and my tendencies.      

 

For instance, why do I begin thinking about moving every spring?  I’ve worked so hard on this lovely old house we live in, and while some work remains, I know the lion’s share is already done.  It’s hard for me to rest on my laurels.  I want to go out and buy another historical ‘diamond in the rough’ and start all over.  Hocus Pocus, presto chango:  The ugly duckling becomes a beautiful swan.  The house next door would be a good duck candidate.   But my neighbor is probably a ‘lifer’.  And this much neglected house will outlive both my neighbor and my own magician’s interest.     

 

Then there’s my writing.  Right now I have a writing project in mind.  And even though I began it about a week ago, I can’t motivate myself to get back to it.  I’ve no excuses other than fear or lack of interest, because with my husband gone, I’ve time on my hands to devote to it.  Time and a too quiet house, with a new writing desk pushed into the corner, with shades drawn.  I’ve all the necessary ingredients, but no interest in the task at hand.  

 

I grow bored easily, and while I enjoy the creative process, the creating process can be a lot of drudgery.  Except those times when I begin writing words I had no notion to write.  Sometimes words just come and leave my fingers all tingly from their writing.  And I imagine some of those ‘spiritual’ writers that I long to read know exactly what I’m writing about.  This may be part of the reason I wish to cozy up to them right now.  I want to unpack their thoughts and let them rest in my own mind and heart.  And maybe something of their experiences and words will stir me to unpack and write about my own sacred souvenirs. 

 

Sounds a little like magic.  But probably more like ‘Reality.’