Motherhood has a bottom line just like the marketing class I’m taking. In my class, called Power Boost Marketing with Pamela Slim, we have quarterly reviews. Pam asks us about our bottom line numbers: how many people signed up for the newsletter? How many dollars went into the bank? How many new people did I talk to?

Today my altared space is her class, these numbers and the connection it showed me between marketing and mothering.

The numbers make me uncomfortable.

I’d rather stay airy-fairy and pretend I’m getting something done.

But math has a way of cutting through the BS.

I can’t lie to myself.

If the number is zero I need to take responsibility and look at what needs to change. If it’s a friendly number I want to take a moment, see myself and celebrate the good work I’m doing in the world. Remarkably, both extremes have caused a bit of angst in me.

The quarterly review has helped. Tremendously.

It has healed me from blindness and set me on a path of change (after the sting). Because the Truth sets us free every time.

It occurred to me that motherhood has a similar ability to overwhelm. Could I find the bottom line level of clear sight?

When I find the right questions and answer them regularly it gives me the same reality check I get from Pam’s quarterly review.  I want to come out of the motherhood-overwhelm-fog and allow myself to see clearly where I can do more, and where I’m doing things I’ve not yet appreciated.

How many stories?

• did I tell?
• did I listen to?
• did I observe and reflect back?

My teenagers rarely tolerate me reading to them any more, but they listen to a good bit of what I have to say if it’s delivered in a story. These days I need to be quiet for a long while before their stories bubble up. My children want to know I’ve notice them living their life. They like to hear me tell a story about them even if if’s as plain as how they wash their hands, chew their food, or dribble a basketball. They take delight in knowing they were seen by me.

Story makes love visible.

How many snacks?

• did I serve?
• was I served?
• did I appreciate aloud?

The number of snacks served would have to be my son’s favorite number on this blog. He has the metabolism of a hummingbird and has always been hungry 20 minutes after I’ve fed him. The same son, thus, takes great pleasure in making me the perfect egg over-easy because he knows how it can change his life. But a box of raisins brought with loving hands is equally sustaining and simple for a toddler to accomplish. I make a great deal of food as a mother. Going on 20 years now. The whole category of snackage exhausts me. Hence, appreciation saves me. I am sometimes the only one expressing gratitude for food I’ve made and received. If I begin the thanks, however, sometimes others follow suit. Gratitude softens me.

Food is the currency of motherhood.

How many touches?

• did I return?
• did I offer?
• did I sustain?

Toddlers and babies are flesh-connecting machines. How many of those touches am I returning? How many am I deflecting? And what percentage of deflection is self-preservation? Teenagers touch less. Am I inviting connection or discouraging it? A caress of mine that is offered feels so different than one that is merely returned. There is a vulnerability implied.  A hug that is sustained is a gift that will carry a person through their day.

Touch allows love to be felt.

What area of your life is longing for a quarterly review? Do you find touch, snacks or stories to be more nourishing to your soul? What is your toddler’s favorite finger food and how often do you get offered a soggy bite?

I’d love to count a few new numbers next quarterly review. Please sign up for my newsletter here.

“Here it comes,” said my daughter pointing to the faint glow on the horizon. Blue sky surrendered to black and still we’d seen no moon.

I expected to see the moon 20 minutes ago. That was the problem for my son. His 15 year old self had turned 4 again and he was banging around the mountainside throwing rocks, sticks and otherwise crashing and bashing. Evidence of boy boredom.

When my son asked me that afternoon if I wanted to go antler shed hunting I was eager to agree. A nice hike seeking boy treasure just in time to spot the rising moon sounded perfect. Except, on the mountain, the moon was now late.

My son has no patience once the game ends.

His sister, just home from college, and eager to have a brother again, picked up branches and sword fought with him. Shards of sticks flew through the air. I challenged him to heave big rocks over the dirt road where we’d hiked. 15 year old boys do damage when they throw and I wanted to protect my head.

Our friends were with us. Tom had time to ride his ATV to the next valley and watch to moon rise there. Mike stayed and bravely flinched as boulders flew through the air. Still it only glowed where we wanted the moon.

It was getting cold.

And darker.

Everyone was hungry.

Even the dog was asking to go home.

This is parenting. Sometimes it’s about waiting. I knew my altared space was the super moon this night. But it’s not about the moon, it’s about sharing it with my friends and family so I needed to find what is fun about this dark, cold, hungry moment.

When my boy was little I carried little green frogs in my purse my sister-in-law had given me. They jumped when you pressed on them. These frogs as well as a deck of cards were lifesavers during the many waiting moments of parenting.

At restaurants before the food came we’d jump frogs across the table or play a round of cards. In the doctor’s office we kept boredom at bay by pulling the party from out of my purse and recruiting other kids to play.

Life is moments punctuated by long pauses of waiting, waiting, waiting staring at the glow of anticipation.

We laughed at my son’s Scottish Highland Games in the dark. We dared him to rip up burnt trees. “Run to that tree and heave this dead branch as far as you can.” Childhood stories bubbled up from the dark of stillness while we stomped our feet to shake off the chilly night air as our sweatshirts felt thinner by the minute.

Until.

The moon began to rise.

And rise.

And rise.

That’s when the waiting was over and my daughter climbed on her brother’s shoulders and put the moon in her hands.

What stories do you tell in the glow of anticipation? How do you keep your child busy when waiting for the moments of your life to arrive? What’s your favorite shadow and light combination?

For an exciting explanation of the collision course a rock in space took in order to become our moon visit the frog blog.

Try brushing a toddler’s teeth and watch your patience fray like the too-tight strings on a guitar. Zing! Twang! Yop!

Our tooth brushing session would begin so sweetly. Those tiny teeth were the size of water droplets, perched in a pigtailed head that was 40% of the overall body-mass. I would brush these niblets with the latest fantasy character. Ariel, the mermaid, made regular appearances in our home. Who would think this sweet beginning could end in such tears?

But it did. Almost every time.

I’d begin well. My hand on her chin, her tiny mouth beginning to foam. “I need to spit,” she’d say and pull away. We’d been brushing 4 seconds. 116 to go. But she’d return, open and, my hand on her chin I had something cheerful to say as I brushed her rear molars.

Her lips closed around the toothbrush. “Ah habe to spib.” She held the toothbrush as she spit this time. 111 seconds more. Something inside me churned.

I grabbed the toothbrush more roughly this time. My grasp on her chin more forceful. She pulled away. Clearly she was running this show. I could only count the remaining seconds and note my mounting frustration. About this time I would blow, “We have to get this done. Do you want cavities?” Then tears. Hers first then mine. Apologies. Back to tooth brushing.

I remembered being 9 years old, visiting a friend and watching the nighty ritual as my friend’s mom sat on the stairs and all 4 children approached, laid their head in her lap and opened while mom brushed. Why isn’t that gentle love happening at my house? She was a single parent, her husband had died. This woman taught school all day. What do I do???

Even at 9 I could feel the love of that tooth parade. I needed connection to replace the adversarial relationship that had begun. Less toothpaste, more togetherness. No spitting, just stillness.

So I instituted a new plan. “You brush your own teeth with toothpaste, then come let me brush them without the toothpaste.” I had her lay down on my bed, mere feet from the bathroom. She put her head in my lap.

“I’m proud of you.” She opened her mouth and I began to brush.

“I’m proud of you for the way you threw the ball for the doggies. Open a little wider please.”

“Wasn’t it amazing that you were able to pump yourself on the swings?”

She pushed my hand away, “I need to swallow.” I took the toothbrush out, watched her soft throat move down and up, then she opened her mouth back up.

“I’m proud of you for standing on the chair next to me and helping me with the dishes. I love to watch the bubble cakes you make. I’m amazed at how much foam you squeeze out of that sponge.”

She pushed my hand away again, “You just have to keep putting on soap and,” here she demonstrates the squeezing motion with her hand.

“Oh,” I say and return for more brushing.

So it went.

From tantrums to togetherness. Overnight.

Were I to do it over again I would add one thing, because even the proudness game got tired for me. I am a mother and the end of the day is not my finest hour. Some nights I found it difficult to come up with 120 seconds worth of accolades so I could offer sufficient brushing.

I would spend 60 seconds telling my child why I’m proud of her and 60 seconds why I’m proud of me.

I know it doesn’t seem like they would listen but I think they would. My children are amazingly interested in me. I am their favorite person. They want to grow up and be like me.

Just a little time to remind myself of my day would go a long way. “I’m proud I thought to put raisins in the pocket of the stroller so that we had a snack and could stay longer at the park. I’m glad we read stories when we got home because I’m always tired when we walk through the door and there’s something about lying down that makes me feel better and close to you and soothed and easy and I love stories. I’m a better mom when I read, plus I think children’s books are about the best books going.”

Tooth brushing is like rounding up cattle: if I’m calm, the cows are calm. Everyone gather ‘round and open up.

Do you ever tangle with a toddler while brushing teeth? What conflict in your life is longing for the space to become a connection? What snack did you bring that allowed the fun to last longer?

I love how patient this big sister is. She is great at toothy connection. Look for more at Child’s Guide to Life.

I am learning to text. It doesn’t come easy to me. I am a tunnel of focus hunkered about a campfire of heat trying to get the message right. But those tiny keys fool me.

My son is a texting monster. His devotion to his phone assures me that some day he will pay a mortgage on time. While his bedroom is a sea of clothing dropped like shrapnel from the sky, his phone is charged with regularity each and every day. Skills transfer. Phone today. Mortgage another.

He has learned how much he hates doing laundry and he begs me regularly to do his. “Sweetheart,” I tell him, “I have to keep my promise to you. If I break my promise you won’t feel you can count on me, and I so want you to know I’ll always be here for you.” The promise I made him put laundry on his to-do list when he was in the fifth grade.

I was sick of the balled socks I found regularly in the laundry. Unballing socks is not my favorite pastime. I requested that he sift through the tornado wreckage that covered his floor and serve to me the items that needed washing. If he couldn’t do this, he was going to be on his own for laundry. I gave him 3 chances.

I don’t think he believed I’d stick to it.

I think he believed that as soon as he fumbled with the washing machine, or mixed his white socks with dark jeans I would have a cow and intervene to take over. He was wrong.

I learned so much not doing my son’s laundry!

I learned that how he looks is not a reflection of me. He was criticized by a teacher at school for his appearance and I allowed it merely to inspire a fabulous conversation between my son and I. I was amazed that he got to the heart of the matter, “Mom,” he said to me, “She shouldn’t care about how I look. She should care about who I am.”

Indeed.

And.

People make judgments about us all the time based on our appearances. I asked my son about people he knew that were slovenly. I described a few people in my life about whom my opinion is lessened because they don’t tend to their appearance. “I wish it weren’t true,” I confessed, “but it’s the reality.”

He didn’t take better care of his appearance after that. Another year of half hearted laundry followed. His shirts reflected the fact that they’d been balled up in the corner of forgotten before he put them on. But he was busy riding his bike, squishing bugs and seeing if he could hit the road sign with a stone while standing in front of Tom’s house.

Then a girlfriend entered the picture. I knew she was responsible for the outward cleanup when we visited the dentist. “Your teeth are looking great,” said our favorite hygienist, “what’s her name?”

How’d you know? We both asked. She confirmed that this is the phenomenon. Boys begin to care about how they smell, look and taste when there’s someone to kiss.

Becoming motivated to clean up his act did not mean my son had the capacity. His room still looked like a tornado, but his clothing smelled remarkably cleaner and those spider web creases on his t-shirts were swept away. That’s when he began begging me in earnest to do his laundry.

Santa Claus had given him 3 laundry token for Christmas. He cashed one in with me. I did 6 loads of laundry, folded it and put it away in drawers and in the closet. His world was radically different. “It’s incredible to keep opening my drawer and find SOCKS staring at me ready to wear without needing a sniff test first.”

He’s motivated. He’s seen how wonderful life can be. He knows how awful hell is. It might be time.

I made him an offer he can refuse. All too easily. When he was little I made him star charts. Brush your teeth? Get a star. Make your bed? Get a star. We’ve all been there. Potty training with M&M’s. But neither he nor I were going to be any good at a star chart these days. I had to come up with a system that organically fit into his system. That’s when I remembered his phone.

Each day I’m asking my son to take a photo of his room and send it to me. When he has a week with 6 days of photo-quality-room-readiness I will do his laundry. I will even send a few friendly reminders. Sounds simple right? I can promise you it won’t be.

Here’s where I predict we’ll derail: he will forget to text me. I will forget to remind him. Both of us will lose interest and the room will get messy again.

BUT.

He will need clean clothes again. This will remind us to try again. So we’ll chat about how the system is working or not. How we might be better teammates for one another. I really want to be able to do his laundry for him. He’s a super sweet kid and he brings an abundance of joy into my life. I’d love to make life easier for him. But I’ve got that promise to keep.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

Have you ever used a star chart to motivate someone? Do you text to make deals? When have you realized you’ll fail even as you begin, but it’s worth engaging anyhow?

Speaking of your kid inspiring a change of perspective, check out my friend Kate Rifkin and how her daughter inspired her to see things in a new way.

I realized I was lost at the airport when I got off the elevator and saw the orange campfire instead of the blue trout. Will sending my daughter on a plane ever get easier? Will I always go left when I should have gone right after I wave goodbye and wipe away the tears?

The airport with my college daughter. Whew.

We arrive the requested 2 hours early, get a boarding pass and grab something to eat before I take her to security. She leans on me and I feel that quiver of a body who hates to cry in public but hates even more to leave home.

She’s happy at college. That helps. She simply misses her life with our dog, a slow wake up and breakfast at our island with public radio instead of electric guitar in the background.

We hug for a long time and then she stands in line holding her plastic bag of cosmetics while I race around and up the escalator. “I’m beside the Colorado flag,” I text, glad to have a landmark I can offer her. We trade texts until she gets close enough to begin taking off her shoes and unpacking her laptop.

I comment on funny things I see around her: bright luggage and a crazy hat. Then I watch my daughter. She organizes her things in 2 of the stacking bins and wipes away a tear. But when she is beckoned through the scanner she has a big smile and an exchange of words for the attendant. As she gathers her items I see her hand a lost belt to the woman in front of her who is obviously appreciative.

Then she walks directly under me and we wave a final goodbye, each of us crying. I cannot go where I do not have a ticket. I stumble alone into the elevator, go down 6 flights, and that’s when I realize I’ve gotten it wrong. I’ve exited on the wrong side of the airport.

My daughter is the one who knows which way we should have turned to find the blue trout. She’s also naturally pretty shy. At 10 years old she couldn’t bear the idea of asking our server for ketchup. At 13, in a classroom filled with boisterous kids she was the one in the background, her head in a book. Even as a high school student she sometimes conned her little brother into paying at the check out lane in Target so she could stay quiet.

If you’ve raised a shy child you might understand that there are moments when it can feel awkward for a parent. I experienced one difficult summer just after we moved to Albuquerque when I was trying a bit too hard to make friends. Glued to my hip was this cling-on kid who wore a swim cap even after her lap race was over. She shivered as she leaned on me so that I was always moist.

When she swam I cheered. But then I managed to find something to keep me busy. Did they need me to officiate a lane? Sell some Gatorade? Pick up towels? I wanted to be anywhere she couldn’t find me.

This is difficult to admit. Because my daughter was lost and alone that summer, I ache for her.

I was also lost and alone. I had no easy orange campfire sign to guide me back on track. Parenting is not always like the airport because it’s not a destination. Parenting is a journey.

Eventually I grew uncomfortable enough with the way I was treating my daughter to look into my own heart. I was willing to see my own insecurity. I was tired of moving, of making new friends and feeling like everywhere we went people were life-long friends and I was the new girl trying to prove I was worthy.

I began a ritual of self-care. Each morning I either strung beads or wrote about them. My beads were the talismans of spiritual healing and, as I wrote about or touched each bead I felt myself deepening. I was becoming my own friend, never to move away.

As I offered myself a friend I became much kinder to my clingy daughter. I was waiting, poolside, when she emerged from her race and I held open a towel. I didn’t worry about making friends. Neither did I push my daughter to make friends. I simply was there to be the quiet space of familiarity while she squinted in that Albuquerque sun that makes everything a bit too bright.

My girl was just home from college for spring break. She made 3 skirts. My daughter has begged me to hem her pants her whole life. I never knew she could sew. There were a few moments that she asked my advice, but mostly she had it under control. However one tricky conundrum with elastic inspired her request that I help.

My help consisted of standing by her side while she did all the work. I felt like I located the airport-blue-trout of parenting. Only rarely have my children needed me to intervene in their lives. Mostly, they want my presence while they try something new and unfamiliar. They want to know that, when they’ve made it though security on their own, they can look up and give a final wave to the person who most loves them before they board their plane.

Do you text after security when you say goodbye? Have you gotten off an elevator to realize you were in the wrong place? Has anyone stood beside you while you did something unfamiliar?

When a circle of helpers meet a circle of needs the bodies shuffle around and a new circle is made.

I am interested in how people belong to circles, how circles evolve, and how “helping” and “needing” draw people to the circle or push them away.

There was smoke last night billowing up from my neighbor’s place. I wandered up the road to see if the fire was under control. Where I live, everyone burns their property this time of year. Sometimes, when the wind kicks up, a fire can get out of hand quickly. I wondered if she needed any help.

I like to be helpful. That’s my MO. It’s how I belong. Helping is my front door of friendship. “You need something to eat?” I can cook. “You need a ride?” I can drive. “You need me to listen while you unload about your sister who tied you to her bedpost 30 years ago?” I’m your gal.

So I wandered up the road, following the clouds of smoke, in hopes of finding a place in her life by offering help.

But it was peaceful and lovely. There were no fires to put out. I lingered there, unneeded… until we ended up chatting while the dead grass turned to black soot and the sun set, burning white clouds  into flame.

The truth was I  had had a hard day. I was complaining. I was lonely and I didn’t know where I belonged anymore.

And then we were laughing.

This is the magic of friends and fire and big skies filled with a setting sun.

That first picture up there is my tribe of coach friends. They are all helper-identified-people like me. The second circle of hands belongs to murderers and sex offenders. They long to help also.

I brought cupcakes to the last writing class I taught at the facility where they were being detained. They lit up when tears caught in the corner of my eyes because that was all the confirmation they needed to be assured they’d impacted me. Changed me. Belonged to me.

There are so many times in my life that I head down the road thinking I’m going to go offer help.  “I’ll teach the prisoners,”  I  say, eager to march through the front door of belonging.  Then I am the one who gains clarity on the other side of my pen.

I love that life is a circle.

I love that every time I think I’m offering my gift to the world, the world lays a present in my lap. This is humbling and hopeful at every turn.

I went to help fight a fire at my neighbor’s house and I ended up venting about my bad day. I took my pencils and paper to prison and learned about freedom.

I am in need. Will you come sit at my fire circle? For real? I want to sit in a circle with others where needs and helps are equally exchanged and one currency is not more valuable than another, but each simply allows more space around the fire. I’m not even sure yet what I’m trying to make.  I’m just thinking about circles and fire.  What if I lit the match in September?  Would you come add your hands?

Are you more comfortable helping or needing?  What is at the center of your circle that links you to other people? Have you ever had a fire get away from you?

When we were on the phone you said, “I always have trouble when it comes to what I want.” That is familiar. I feel it. I hear it again and again.

Today I  want to cheer you on.

It’s TIME.

It’s time to let yourself want.

It’s time to know what flavor you prefer and ask for it upfront.

It’s time to choose the restaurant, the movie, the hiking spot, the music in the car, the station on TV.

It’s time for you to wear the clothes that feel just right against your skin.

It’s time for you to stand up for yourself when others are saying you belong seated.

It’s time for you to own your dreams and believe in yourself. No more delay is allowed. Pleasing others must now take a back seat to pleasing yourself because, in the end, what the world needs most is your happiness. We are starved for that laughter that bubbles up deep inside you and cannot be faked.

I know you’re frightened because someone will think you’re woowoo, full of yourself or simply wacko.

But I want to see the inside of you.

I want to see what you bring to the Table of Life.

I want your offering of horses and mandalas and days sitting on your porch to come flying at me on a zip line out of the sky.

I want to meet the giant elephants and feel my heart soften because they slow me down. I want to know what it is to speak the same language as my dog.

Then I want you to show me how to dye my skin a new color and twirl until I am the rainbow I imagine.

I want to meet you in the hardware store where I am full of dismay, confused and undone and I want you to put me back together with your laughter.

I want the wide net that you knit to include me as you create your community. I want you to teach me so I feel stronger. I learn from you. I belong more completely because you are in the world.

Out of a pool of holy water you are meant to bathe the earth and set our feet upon the high terra firma so we can leap and fly into our great unknowns. You give us our beginning.

I want you to find a room of your own, a corner of solitude, a space in time that is yours alone. In that carved out spot I want you to grow, and live and have your being.

For when you do that...when you become…I become as well.

Please allow yourself to WANT.

The Earth is waiting for the Beauty that only you can Imagine.

Do you ever struggle to know what you want?  Are you more likely to make an altared space out of an animal or a paintbrush?  Where would your zip line begin, and where would it go? 

My class, Altar Your LIfe: A Soulful Cleanse, just wrapped up. We had a great time, and, because there was a waiting list to get in, I’m offering it again. I hope you’ll be able to join us. I met some wonderful people. It made me love blogging even more. If you want to see the next class I’ll be offering, it’s coming up soon as well: Altar Your Life: The Stories We Tell.

A few of the prisoners had never had a cupcake baked for them. I knew this because it is where I taught writing for 8 weeks at a youth correctional facility near my home last summer. I learned that even my sub-standard cupcakes that are sometimes the last to be purchased at school bake sales can fill the world with a heavenly aroma.

I made the cupcakes as a celebration. They had learned to chant poetry with my fellow instructor, Wendy Videlock, to write stanzas and stories, and to listen carefully when someone else was reading. Half way through that last class one of the students said, “Those cupcakes sure smell good.”

While we were eating them one of the prisoners asked me why I did this. He wasn’t just asking why I brought cupcakes. He was asking why I taught the class, he wanted to know was it real…did I actually love him?

I answered, “Because I have a son who leaves his socks around the house in little balls.” Several weeks into the program one of the assignments was to tell a story about a favorite gift you’d received. This nineteen year old boy, who’d spent more than 2 years in prison, wrote about a pair of socks.

This facility is located in the heart of the desert where the sky is expansive.  But people share a small cell instead of having a bedroom, and privacy is hard to find. They also share socks. All the socks, it turns out, go into a large dirty clothes hamper, get washed, and returned randomly. This boy was given a pair of socks by his cell mate and they were his very own.

The day before I heard the students’ pieces about the gifts they treasured I had posted a story about my son’s socks on my blog. I commented about the balls my son carelessly leaves  around our home. I was poignantly made aware both what freedom looks like and how much we all want the same things.

When I told my prisoner-sock-friend the story of the smelly sock balls that were planted randomly around my home my eyes got a little foggy. The other students in the room got rambunctious. “Are you crying?” they all shouted, and giggled. They love to know they’ve affected me.

They were a rowdy bunch of puppies, constantly making me attend to the physical world anew. In the first class I taught I did what teachers have done for decades: I took 12 pencils and handed them to the person on my right and asked them to get passed round the circle. What I didn’t know was how long it would take for the pencils to make it around that group.

At first I could see no difference between the dozen yellow, #2 pencils. But then I noticed one was a tad longer. Another had a bulkier eraser. One pencil had teeth marks and it was the last to be chosen. It took 20 minutes for those pencils to make it around the circle of choice. When there is so little liberty, each decision must be weighed with more consequence.

My daughter and I love to choose pencils too. We adored back-to-school shopping for just this reason. We savored that moment in the pencil isle where so many colors and patterns wave at us. We also took time to linger over lunch choices.

I made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for my daughter almost every day she went to school. Then I asked her if she was ever bored, she shook her head violently, “No Mom. I can taste the love when I bite into that sandwich.” It’s the kind of corny thing only a really little kid will say. But I gobbled it up like any starved mother would.

I thought about my daughter when I arrived at the prison. I thought about her standing in line for lunch at school. My prisoner students lined up every time they moved about. They walked with their hands clasped behind their backs: one wrist in the palm of the other. Or, if the day had been particularly rowdy, both hands on top of their heads. They walked single file 2 feet apart.

When I arrived, at the far end of a long hallway, they could see my face brighten and I waved to them. My favorite guard looked the other way when a few of them forgot and waved back.

One girl, typically quiet and shy always waved back. I was surprised when she kept badgering me. “Are you going to eat one of the cupcakes? You need to eat one.” Then I realized why she wanted me to have one when she said, “They taste just like love.”

I’ve never tasted gratitude as profound as I did in that room of a dozen criminals. After the first class, when I left, they shook my hand over and over thanking me for coming. All I’d done was tell a few stories about my dog who had come to me the year my brother died. I was simply my raw self, and those teenagers lapped it up like thirsty camels.

As we were finishing the cupcakes, there was a rare moment of mild mayhem and my sock friend pulled me aside, extending his hand for a shake. “Thank you,” he said, “You’ve changed my life.” I patted him on the shoulder and told him he was destined for solid change. He stopped me and looked me right in the eye. “I mean it. You’ve changed my life.”

What I did in that room felt so tiny. I baked cupcakes and listened. I told a few of my own stories that originated from a real spot deep inside. But these are things I do without trying. Because he stopped me and made me accept his compliment fully I understood that accomplishing something worthwhile in my life doesn’t mean I have to try hard, it means I need to be willing to be authentic about the person I am, even when that embarrasses me because the frosting doesn’t look professional.

The photo you see above was originally me behind the camera. I stood on a chair, excited as I directed the photo opportunity. I wanted their hands. I was about to snap the photo when the dear guard who was a nearly silent presence at each of our classes told me my hand should be in the photo as well.

Sometimes I forgot. I forgot they were murderers and sex offenders. I forgot they held guns to people’s heads while they robbed people. To me they were kids I was trying to feed, first with words and then with a little dessert. But it was this man’s job to remember.

He was there to line them up and move them from our classroom back to their cells.

He was the one who said, “Your hand should be in this photo.” So he stood on a chair, higher than all of us.

There we were. The hands that murdered, petted dogs, robbed, balled up socks and made cupcakes. All of us. Together. I love this photo. I love those kids. They changed my life.

When has a story brought someone new into your circle? Has a cupcake allowed you to create an altared space? Do you linger over pencil choices too?

I’d love to have you join my circle. Please sign up to get my blog delivered to your email box so we can stay connected.

Would you like to support programs like this one in the prisons? Western Colorado Writers’ Forum could use your help.

My lectures aren’t very popular, especially with my son. He rolls his eyes at me. I am soooo uncool. And I don’t get it: the pain in his life. We are on opposite sides of the world just now. He wants to shut the door on me every chance he gets. I understand. This is what he’s supposed to do. He’s becoming a man. It just sucks, because I’ll never be able to articulate to anyone how much I love that kid.

When someone hurts him I just want to go crazy. I have a lot to say. I want to go on a tirade and explain the psychology of people around him. I don’t want him to take things personally so I go to epic proportions of explanation of convoluted psychology about relationships….which bores the snot out of him. 

I can’t do it. 

It’s better if I find a way to connect. 

I remind him of when he was really little. Frances had a lousy best friend. Do you know Frances? A Bargain for Frances was a hot-ticket item when we visited the library each week for story hour during the toddler years.

Frances had a friend, Thelma, who tricked her. Frances was saving her money for a real china tea set all in blue. Thelma convinced her that a plastic tea set was preferable and sold hers to Frances, then promptly spent the money on a real china tea set all in blue. Thelma is the same friend who helped Frances to get doused in the freezing pond when they went skating and other adventures that didn’t turn out so well. When Frances discovers she’s been duped yet again she uses some trickery of her own. Backsies or no backsies.

It’s a story about manipulation and trust. I have an eager and trusting son. Just like Frances, he never remembers when a friend hurts him. I use the story of Frances a lot. It is my cautionary tale; a shorthand when I’ve said “Be careful,” one too many times.

Other story book characters are alive and well in our family lore. I adore the one I read below about Mr. Putter. It illustrates that there are dozens of ways to get what we want if we’re willing to simply surrender to the fun of life and forget about being cranky. Plus it involves tearing up a lousy present from a relative. Who doesn’t want to do that?

Do you use story to change the narrative in your children’s lives? Who are your favorite characters?  Have you ever cut up underwear to make a slingshot?

Can stories distract us? Here’s Alix Spiegel’s investigation about serotonin and how people want to simplify the complications of depression by treating biology. 

I want to hear your stories and the altared spaces they’ve created in your life.

What’s the best thing you’ve done as a parent? How can you give that to the child inside yourself?

As a parent one of the things I’ve done really well is decorate our family tree and create seasons of celebration that are simple and unique to our family. Every Valentine’s Day I tell my family I love them with little missives on hearts, or in a letter with a heart to match.

I hide them around the house on Valentine’s Day…a sort of treasure hunt for my love.

The process evolved

• Paper hearts became felt hearts
• Felt hearts became fabric hearts
• A single fabric heart each year accompanies a written letter

This year I’m trying something new. The story of my great love has worked well to develop children with strong identities. Can I give the same gift to myself?

• By making hearts
• And listing things I see that created intimacy for me?

 What altared spaces do you celebrate that treasure the love you have for yourself? How has becoming a good parent taught you to nurture yourself? What packages do you use to wrap up the story of your love and deliver it to someone special?

I spent January thinking about cleaning up and letting go. Now I’m leading a class called Altar Your Life: A Soulful Cleanse. Wanna join us?

 I love this story about unconditional love from the program This American Life. One of my favorite quotes is drawn from this transcript. “Creating love is not for the soft and sentimental among us. Love is a tough business.”

I traced the metal rivets in the leather chair in which I sat. They were as evenly spaced as the hanging bags and monitors that were keeping my step-father comfortable as he journeyed toward death. The cold of the linoleum floor in the ICU crept through my socks each time I stood to apply chapstick or offer a sip from the straw. But I didn’t want shoes. As I sat down I wanted to cocoon my feet up under me, playing the waiting game.

A single strand of halogen light pierced the room where right and left curtain didn’t overlap and told me night had fallen outside. I could see his features clearly. “Shit,” he’d spit, talking to someone far away. “God Damn It!” came the answer. I was a witness to his war within.

He had a heart condition when my mother met him decades ago. She was concerned about getting involved with a man who was dying. Parents, who have children, often ask their kids permission to marry. She expressed her concern to me about getting involved with a man who was dying. I responded that even dying people need someone to love. I was 9 years old when they tied the knot.

Not only was his heart stronger than we thought, he outlived my mother and was there beside her when she took her last breath. Now it was his turn to cross over that bridge. He was making it a battle, but I couldn’t see who he was fighting.

Life with my step-father was one long tug-of-war. He liked to be right. He’d climb over the top of anyone every time to make himself so. But just like the stack at the end of the playground game, when the struggle was over, and the bodies piled on top of each other in mud or on grassy fields filled with laughter, his embrace was welcoming and warm and without hesitation.

In this hospital room, pierced by an arrow of street lamp from the parking lot outside, my step-father was arguing with death. His face grimaced and white balls of saliva collected at the sides of his mouth as he railed at his invisible foe. The hospital sheet visibly went concave as his chest shrunk, absorbing blows from the enemy he fought.

This went on for hours. Midnight. Two o’clock. 4.

Until he simply let go of both sides of that taught rope.

Every white surface in that small, sterile room took a collective deep breath. The air softened. Although I wasn’t a participant in this battle I knew what happened. He’d had enough tugging to stretch his insides and make room for the Love.

I’d had this battle with him every week while I grew up. I lived in his house where the bills were organized and neatly pinned on a bulletin board with the date they should be mailed penciled inconspicuously on the back. He walked to the corner to mail letters one at a time. He did it to let the interest in his money market gain the largest daily advantage before being withdrawn.

“If you watch after the pennies,” he told me regularly, “the dollars will take care of themselves.” It was the details of his death he was fighting as he spit and swore. I was certain he had no doubts about the big picture.

The white room began to glow. A coral halo framed the curtain and chased away the sword of blue light from the night before. The room was still dim, but the rising sun invited me to pray. I lost all my prayers at church and I didn’t know what to say, so I simply took his hand, and between my tears I said, “Hello.”

Aloha.

I didn’t know it was Aloha that morning. I would discover that years later when I took a class from Laurie Foley. Aloha is the presence of the divine breath, the divinity that dwells within and without. It means I see the presence in you. I offer you compassion.

“Hello,” was enough. It was the butterfly crawling out from my night’s cocoon. A welcome. A greeting. An acknowledgment of all he’d given me in bills with dates on envelopes, precision and argument. My hello was the warm hug we’d shared after many fights. His eyes were closed. The bombs of saliva were gone from the corners of his mouth. And his chest rose and fell with soft breath. Hello. I see the Real You.

Later that day, when my siblings were gathered round he rallied.

The wrinkles on his face were smoothed. The tugs surrendered and let go. He opened his eyes and looked at me, deep mountain lakes stared at me from somewhere in his essence. “You’ve been with my mother,” I said to him. He smiled and nodded. He was no longer afraid.

Whatever final battle ensued during the night, Peace won. He held my hand. He went around the circle telling my siblings why he loved them. He shook my husband’s hand in the same way he had so many times and said, “It’s been such a pleasure knowing you all.” Then he died.

Aloha: I see you. My presence is with you. There is peace between us. Hello and goodbye.

What peace have you found in the midst of a battle? What surrender did you find when you let go? Where is the hello in your goodbyes? And have your feet ever been cold on a hospital floor.

I’ve been looking at cleaning out and letting go in January. I’m making the final preparations to offer a short no-cost class called Altar Your Life: A Soulful Cleanse. You can participate from anywhere that you have a telephone. If you have any curiosity about that class, send me an email with the subject line: Soulful Cleanse and you’ll be the first to know all the details. Or, if you’re a phone person, give me, Rebecca, a call: 970-210-4480.