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Happy 17th Birthday, Abby!

Oct 7, 2015 | Mothers and Daughters

Today marks the 9th year in which I have written a blog post on your birthday – celebrating you, honoring you, loving you.

I wonder if they’re more for me, than you: each year’s addition an expression of my need and desire to somehow capture and
hold onto parts of you that seem increasingly fleeting. I don’t know the answer. What I do know is that year-after-year I want you to hear my heart, to know and believe what I know and believe about you.

This year, in yet another attempt to see you for all of who you are, I’ve drawn upon words previously written to prove my point:

Look how amazing you are! 

At 9
You have struggled with your own emotions – the things that hurt, that seem unfair, that don’t make sense. You have raged, wept, sat quietly, and thought things through, often without resolution, without available answers, without any fix. And still you have laughed, played, danced, sang, created, and loved. I love that about you.

As I have walked through this past year’s days with you, Abby, I have been amazed at your tenacity, your demand for the good, your endless hope, your tender heart, your stamina, your strength, your loyalty, your sense of humor, your laughter, your singing, your love. I love all these things about you.

At 10
You have had a hard year, sweet girl AND you are brave and incredible in the midst. You have cried and screamed many times, just like at your birth AND you have just as quickly and spontaneously burst into laughter or invited those around you to the same. You are full of life, Abby – all of it…not just the restrained, what-you-think others-want-to-see kind of life. Though I know that is painful for you, at times, I wish I had learned to do such by the age of 10 vs. 30+ years later. You are stunning and I continue to learn from you – every day.

At 11
In your grieving and writing, your celebrating and singing, your gooffiness and intensity, I see the woman you are becoming. You are a rare gift, Abby – full of life, passion, energy, intellect, and always strength. As of yet, you still don’t know and believe all this about yourself, but it will come. It can’t not. It’s too clear, too predominant, too “you” to be ignored – even by you!

At 12
You are wizened, courageous, and deeply intuitive. You accurately read the hearts of others in a split-second and then set out to do everything you can to bring healing and hope. You reveal a strength that you don’t yet trust, but that cannot be quenched…Though smoldering at times, you can’t not blaze. Perhaps most profound is that you know none of these things about herself. You struggle to maintain a fragile ego. You ache when misunderstood. Your heart bruises at the smallest of wounds. You are a puzzle, confusing, hardly perfect, and brave. Your self-perception does not oft’ include the objective and affirming eyes of those captured by your gaze; rather it is informed and shaped by the subjective and critical eyes of a near-teen, combined with a culture that continues to assert that you’re not good enough, pretty enough, thin enough, rich enough, loved enough. It’s easy for the blaze to flicker under such conditions.

At 13
You have captured all of me. Gorgeous from the day you were born. Strong in ways you don’t see, don’t believe, don’t yet understand. Tender in ways that pierce your own heart and compel you to compassion beyond bounds. Gorgeous in relationship. Strong in intellect, humor, love. Tender in actions, generosity, empathy.

At 14
You are girl and woman simultaneously, in an ever-shifting orbit of emotions and passions and desires and hopes. Though deeply compassionate and longing for the happiness of those in your world, you speak your mind – boldly, unapologetically, and calmly. You hardly ever raise your voice, but under a relatively calm exterior, a fore smolders. Sparks fly, often.

At 15
You are brilliant, beautiful, and have the kindest, most tender heart in all the world. You can size up a situation in a second, know exactly what’s going on underneath the surface, and slice your way through agendas and drama like nobody’s business. You might not always name or say what you see, but there’s no question you understand. You have a gazillion friends who all think you are fabulous, even though you don’t always believe this is so. You are completely lovely, even though you don’t always believe this is so. You are wicked funny. You are talented. You can sing and sing and sing. And you are a bit of a perfectionist! Falling short is not an option. (Given that I know something about this, I also know the dark side of this trait…) You finish your homework, get great grades, and excel at pretty much anything you put your mind to. And when you’re not busy with other things, you watch endless episodes of favorite shows – The Vampire Diaries (which I don’t really like, other than the soundtrack), Grey’s Anatomy (which is probably not the best choice for a near-15 year-old, but I can hardly tear myself away either, so….), and the two of us together, Sherlock, Dr. Who, and of course Downton Abbey. Microwave popcorn, chips and salsa, and Top Ramen seem to sustain you and you can bake a mean batch of chocolate chip cookies without the recipe.

At 16
I have never loved you more than I do this day. Every part of you – seen and unseen. Every emotion – expressed and hidden. Every sadness – revealed and withheld. Every joy – known and secreted away. Every hope – yours to hold, mine to marvel.

At 17
And now, this year, what more am I to add, offer, or say? As I look at this brief and incomplete history, I realize that much more of your childhood is behind you than ahead; that much more of our time together (at least as we’ve known it thus far) is behind us than ahead. My heart nearly breaks at this awareness.

This year, as has always been true, your strength amazes me, your courage undoes me, and my hope on your behalf remains as undaunted as it was on the day you were born – my every cell willing you into strength and sound and life. This, truly, is all I want for you any and every year, every day, every hour, every second: strength and sound and life.

May you, in even the slightest glimpses and sidelong glances, come to see yourself as I do and in such recognize the gift you are to this world…and certainly to me.

Happy Birthday, Abby. I love you.

Turning This Impossible Page

Sep 19, 2015 | Mothers and Daughters, Women's Wisdom

I bought a new journal a few weeks back. Planning ahead. Knowing my current one was nearly full. Wanting to make sure I didn’t run out of pages. But here I sit, the last sheet of lined paper filled with words, and yet unable, unwilling, to close the cover.

“It’s just a page,” I tell myself. “Turn it, then open up a new one.” Impossible.

How could I have known that I would finish my most recent journal on the very day that marks my first-born leaving home, the day before I take her to college, the day that perches precariously between all that has gone before and all that is yet to come?

The symbolism is not lost on me.

~~~~~~~

With every journal I complete, I feel a certain sense of satisfaction, of accomplishment, of “success,” somehow. It’s a physical sign of something completed. I close the cover and hold it in my lap for just a moment – palpably aware of all I’ve experienced and expressed in and on those pages. All I’ve grieved. All I’ve imagined. All I’ve hoped.

I can’t bring myself to close this one, these 18+ years, these everyday days. I can’t bring myself to open a new one to late night phone calls and weekend visits and home-for-the-holidays. I can’t bring myself to face the empty page, the now-empty half of her room, the empty space no longer filled by her everyday presence. How can I?

As my hand hovers on this last page, this tome that is Emma Joy, I am flooded with so much of the same. She has been physical sign, daily reminder, visceral presence in my life. A life that, with and because of her, is complete and rich and messy and whole. Every word, sentence, paragraph, and page so full, so true, so worthwhile. I held her in my lap for hours, the most-profound and miraculous manifestation of me-as-creator, the end to infertility’s grief. More than I ever imagined. More than I could have ever hoped.

How can this day be here? How can this journal be filled? Wasn’t it just yesterday that I opened to the first, fresh, brilliant page that was her? Wasn’t it just yesterday that she scribed herself across my heart?

~~~~~~~

As I (will, eventually, necessarily) close this journal, it is Emma Joy who opens the new one. As it should be! Blank pages upon which she has yet no idea, no notion, no preconceived idea of all the glorious prose and poetry and music and drama and grief and imagining and hope that await her powerful, poignant writing – on the lines and between them.

This is the gift of a new journal, of life itself: wide open space, freedom, and stepping into an unknown that awaits creative engagement, consistent presence, honest truth.

What more could I possibly wish or hope on her behalf?

Turn the page and write, Emma! College-ruled paper. New pens. Words and stories and experiences and expressions to create, compose, and live. Write yourself! No pseudonym. No holding back. No editing. No restraint. Because you can. Because you know how. Because you’re ready. Because you will change the rest of the world just as you have changed mine.

And remember that it will require no more effort to do so than your willingness and maybe the occasional reminder from your
mom that this is what you have always done, that this is who you are – indelibly inscribing yourself onto every heart you
touch.

~~~~~~~~~~

“It’s just a page,” I tell myself. “Turn it, then open up a new one.”

Not impossible, just not yet. Not today. Maybe tomorrow. But for now, I’ll hold it in my lap just a little bit longer. Pen in hand. Heart on sleeve.

Coexistence: Goodness AND Struggle

Jun 13, 2015 | Mothers and Daughters, Women's Wisdom

Emma Joy graduates from high school today.

For the past few weeks, nearly everything she’s done or said has provoked a flood of memories: holding her for the very first time, unable to take my eyes off of her as she slept, weeping at her miraculous presence in my arms, at my breast, in my life. I remember her first laugh (and how I repeated my same actions over and over again, just to hear that sound one more time), her first steps, her first day of school, her first time on stage, her first solo, her first heartbreak. And by the time this week is over, I will remember her cap and gown, her honor chord, her walk across a platform, her handshake, my tears, her smiles, her photographs with friends, her presents, our celebratory dinner, and her diploma in hand.

As glorious as every one of these moments are, not one of them cancels out my memory of the agony from which she came.

Our proclivity is high to only focus on the good, to  fix our gaze on the beautiful, to disallow anything that darkens our mind or heart’s door. I feel that temptation and lure, believe me, but somewhere in the mix of my life I have learned something else, something more.

It is the embracing of the complexity of life that makes it that much more glorious to behold.

My experience of becoming a mother was preceded by nearly  five years of infertility. Nearly 60 cycles of hope, waiting, disappointment, despair, and summoning up hope yet again. It exhausted me. It shut me down. And it pulled me apart. I held firmly to my faith on the one hand – longing for a miracle, and on the other, I threatened to throw the baby out with the bathwater (only there was no baby) – wanting to walk away from a God that so blindly turned away from my heartache.  Every 28 days I transitioned. Every 28 days another emotional rollercoaster ensued. Every 28 days I bargained again, prayed more, promised everything. And every 28 days I raged.

Admittedly, I was filled with ecstasy beyond-compare when I found out that I was pregnant. But way beneath the surface (and not revealed until some time later) was an awareness of loss. That pink bar on a home test meant I would no longer be able to say, “I understand” to the women in whom I’d found such profound solidarity and respite. The doctor’s eventual confirmation meant that I could no longer question God’s faithfulness or care. Both of these realities disturbed me. The honesty I’d been able to express – with women who shared my pain and with a God who allowed my anger – was raw and strong and powerful.  I didn’t want to let go of those experiences or the woman I’d birthed into being through what was one of the hardest seasons of my life.

Emma’s presence in my life and every bit of joy she’s ushered into my world is made that much more glorious because I feel (again and again) the grief, the sadness, the lost-solidarity, the rage and the over-the-moon pride and happiness and glee and satisfaction of watching her this very day.

Nothing is taken away from the goodness because the struggle coexists. Nothing. This is the stuff of life – recognizing, naming, allowing, holding all of it – not just the parts we prefer.

Even Emma’s graduation is complicated. It’s joyous beyond-belief and it means that soon, very soon, she leaves me. Goodbyes are imminent. Separation and growth are inevitable. Risk and challenge and trial and error and failure and learning and heartbreak and celebration will be what both of us will step into in the weeks, months, and years ahead.

In truth, this very day, Emma’s graduation day, sits me right smack in the middle of all my emotions, all my memories, all my hopes, all my fears. To run from the harder ones in the hopes of only experiencing the good ones is not only naïve, it lessens the depth and poignancy of all that’s worth honoring; it lessens my honoring of her. Every bit of this day is worth cherishing. Every bit of it is what makes it so real, so true, so alive (which is sometimes painful and always perfectly fine).

This post hasn’t gone quite where I expected – wanting it to wildly-affirm Emma on her incredible accomplishment, milestone, occasion. And I hope I have honored her by recognizing that in all the complexity of my story and hers, she has made it to this day with complexities of her own (and more to come). These are what make this day and this young woman so incredibly glorious.

In mere hours I will behold her in awe, in gratitude, and in the profound awareness of all that makes her who she is, all that has happened to get us to this day, all the messy, brilliant, excruciating, blissful stuff – past, present, and future.

This does honor her: every bit of me showing up – rife with feeling, fully aware, and real-true-alive (which is sometimes painful and always perfectly fine).

Step bravely and beautifully into all the life that awaits you Emma. Let yourself be real-true-alive (which is sometimes painful and always perfectly fine). And remember that you are loved and loved and loved for all the complexity that makes you, you: glorious, magnificent, my very heart.

Channeling Etta James

May 15, 2015 | Mothers and Daughters, Spirituality, Women's Voice & Power

It’s just before 7:00 on Friday night. I sit in the high school auditorium, about the fifth row from the front, and smack in the center. I am not all that thrilled to be here – the annual student talent show. Based on my attendance for three years prior, the word “talent” feels a bit of a stretch. But I will, as I have before, wince my way  through the next couple of hours.

And . . . I’ll give them credit – these brave souls. Teenagers who have seized a moment in the spotlight to sing pop hits that sounded far better in the shower than on stage.

I could do without the whole experience. (Well, except for Emma.)

The lights dim and I lean back in my chair, settling in for what’s ahead. Two girls, the emcees with printed scripts in hand, begin the painstaking process of introducing one act after another. “That was great, wasn’t it? How about another round of applause for __________!”

No. Not so great, but nice of you to say so. Keep it moving, will you? Let’s get to the real talent!

Finally. She walks on stage. Smiling and poised. How is it that she is so comfortable in her own skin, so at home? I watch as she tries to adjust the mic and jokes about it being way too short for her. She is nonplussed. How is that possible? Unable to raise it, she finally pulls it out of the stand and holds it loosely in her hand – as though it’s an everyday occurrence. Oh, her confidence! Where did that come from? She steps back, lets herself breathe, then looks up at the sound booth with a nod that says, “I’m ready” and the music starts.

She sways slightly as her eyes lock on her audience. Then one, slow, deep breath and then:

“At . . . last . . . ”

The first two notes are more than enough to know that this girl deserves to be here. Perfect pitch. Perfect vibrato. Perfect presence. The cheers erupt before even her
first measures are complete.

“. . . my love has come along.”

Indeed.

Emma Joy channels Etta James.

I want to stand up and cheer, but need to hold my phone still – the video recorder capturing every moment. I feel the tears brim behind my eyes, but know she’s only getting started and that I dare not. And I am inundated with flash-backs: an infant, a toddler, an adolescent, and now this strangely-unfamiliar young woman – my daughter. Electrifying. Captivating. Stunning. Perfection. Then, all-too quickly, I hear the last lines:

“You smiled, you smiled. Oh, and then the spell was cast. And here we are in heaven, for you are mine . . . ”

And her final notes – held even longer and stronger than the first:

“At . . . last.”

As she places the mic gently back into the stand, she grins slyly, steps back, and takes in the well-deserved applause. I turn off the camera and wipe away my tears.

 

************

Moments of personal power and strength are the closest we ever get to God. For in these moments we are most fully ourselves. And though my theology has too-often convinced me of just the opposite (acknowledge your lack, your sin, your need) the truth is this: when we are most fully ourselves we are reflecting the very image of God. Genesis 1. It is good.

I have spent a lifetime trying to be good enough, to make the mark, to meet expectations and, in the process, have missed God because I’ve not been myself.

How much more of God might we know, incorporate, and feel if we were just ourselves – unapologetic, glorious, wild, dangerous, bold, and (pitch)perfect. If we were in families, relationships, jobs, circumstances, situations that consistently allowed and encouraged our on-stage selves. If we sang out unrestrained truth with conviction, no 2nd guessing, and not a hint of doubt. If crowds went wild. And if tears flowed in response to the rapture and beauty of it all.

Those 2+ minutes of Emma Joy singing Etta James was God made-manifest. I’m certain of it.

No trying. No striving. No question of her ability, her right, her value, her worth, her deservingness. And no holding back. She was power. She was strength. So very good. She was (and is) the Divine enfleshed and dwelling among us. Impossible to miss.

And if in and through her, this 18-year-old girl-turning-woman; so too you . . . and me.

Emma sang and God said, “At . . . last . . . ”

I’m horribly biased, but she IS amazing. You can watch and listen here.

The Stunning Story that is Yours

Mar 23, 2015 | Hope & Encouragement, Mothers and Daughters, Sacred Stories, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

I see the tears behind your eyes. I know about the lump in your throat. I hear the thoughts that swirl in your mind. Every single one of them. Longing for things to change, wishing for different circumstances, wanting to live a more significant story.

In-between the reality in which you dwell and the one you desire, I know about the ache that will not be soothed, despite your best attempts – whether through good soul work or dulling dissociation.

I watch as you persist in the belief that there is something missing; something you’ve yet to attain or manage or get past/through before you can truly step into your place in this world, before you can step into the stunning story that is yours.

All of this breaks my heart on your behalf.

Because I know better. Because I can see the end from the beginning. Because I have perspective you do not. Because I can see exactly who you are, all that you offer and invite.

Right now, not someday. This very moment in time.

Who am I, you ask? I have been in existence since before the beginning of time. I was there when the earth was formed. I breathed your matrilineage into being, whispering the Wisdom that was hers, that has forever been hers. My heart beats within every story of every woman who has ever lived. And I endure no matter the oppression, the silencing, the abuse, the fear. Nothing and no one can keep me down. Not even you.

I am the you that rises above all that restricts, restrains, limits, or binds. I am the crystal clear voice that may, as yet, not speak out loud, but that is no less real, wise, and right. I am your potential. I am your future. And more than all else, I am your present – right here, right now, exactly this day, this life, this you. Always. Endlessly. Infinitely.

Lean into the truth of this. Let the tears flow in relief. Let the lump in your throat dissolve as your voice sings out. Let the thoughts that swirl rest. You are not alone. You are not alone. You are not alone. And you need not wait for things to change. Your right-now story is enough, perfect, amazing. You are.

You can trust me: there is nothing you need figure out or rise above. All that you require, desire, and deserve is already yours. Reach within. Rise up. Then step into the limelight, enter the fray, and embrace the truth of who you are: my daughter, my lineage, my kin.

*****

I am completely-and-without-reservation convinced of every word I’ve written above.

They could be are spoken by every one of the ancient, sacred women whose stories I love; by the Sacred Feminine herself. Easier said than done to accept, but no less yours, mine, ours to claim. Legacy by which to be transformed; the stunning story through which we will transform the world.

May it be so.

The Full Moon and other thoughts

Mar 6, 2015 | Mothers and Daughters, Spirituality

Whoever you are: some evening take a step out of your house, which you know so well. Enormous space is near. 

~ Rainier Marie Rilke

Yesterday marked another full moon. I’m paying attention to such things these days. I’m honoring Her cycle; my own. As it waxes, letting go. As it wanes, inviting in. This is liturgy. This is ritual. This is the Sacred.

But it’s not the Sacred I grew up with.

Back then I sat still in church. I listened carefully. I (tried to) dutifully obey. And though my required demeanor was calm-serene-peaceful, within was often a different story. Frustration. Longing. Grief. Desire. These emotions were parked at the door. The Perfect Persona applied, like a mask.

I’ll be honest: it’s not fair to drop this reality only at the feet of the church. It was true in so many other aspects of my life, as well; namely my marriage and my job(s). Oh, how well I learned and practiced the rules, the expectations, the unspoken-but-practically-shouted way of being that was required. Be good. Don’t rock the boat. Stay within the lines. Practice makes perfect. Seen not heard. Sometimes not even seen.

I’m grown up now. I no longer sit in church. And I’ve learned that obedience isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Now, when my demeanor is calm, serene, and at peace, that’s actually how I feel! No emotions unexpressed. No masks. Just me. (And a
lunar calendar on my wall.)

This does not mean that I no longer believe, that I have abandoned all faith, that my heart no longer soars at a strain from a hymn or the stories that save me. In fact, just weeks ago, I did sit in church and watch my eldest daughter get baptized for a second time. 18 years ago, I held her as a newborn, silent tears rolling down my cheeks in gratitude for her miraculous presence in my life. This time she walked up three steps then stepped down into a huge hot-tub and allowed the pastor to dunk her completely under the water. Silent tears rolled down my cheeks in gratitude again – this time for her heart, her faith, her desire to express it in an acknowledged, bold, and unmasked way.

Last week I sat at a fundraising banquet for the youth ministry that enraptures my youngest daughter. She texted me throughout saying, “Aren’t you having the best time?!?” I knew she was; that this is a safe and sacred space for her. More tears as I watched her sing and smile and step into the life of faith she desires.

And yesterday I honored the full moon, the Sacred, my turbulent-yet- tenacious faith, and an ever-increasing love for/by the Divine (who, by the way, is totally into lunar cycles).

This is the Sacred. Nothing prescribed. Nothing locked down by dogma or doctrine. Possible. Open. Full (like the moon). Big enough, magnificent enough, glorious enough, and grace-full enough that any and every way in which our hearts are moved can be honored, resonant, and true.

May it be so.