A Curriculum of Compassion

As you may or may not know, we are a family that has chosen to "do" school here at home (and in the car and on the road and in the grass and under trees...). As you also may or may not know, this endeavor has been the source of both great joy and personal angst. 

Throughout this journey (officially seven years but, in reality, twelve) I have struggled with maintaining autonomy in our learning practices, all the while not succumbing to the demon of comparison, approval from others, or a general yet, ginormous, fear of failure.

It is true--homeschooling is not for the faint-hearted. But neither is parenting so I'm not so different from any other person who has chosen to walk with young people.

Oh, how I need these hands to hold.

Additionally, I bring to this educational endeavor all of my mixed up, conflicted selves -- The good girl who likes to please those who are watching as well as the rebel who will do what she wants anyway. I want structured chaos. I want to disciple and detox. I want to set a course and then take the fork when it presents itself. I want to showcase and shelter. I want good behavior and wild abandon.

But most of all?

I pray that my scattered deposits into the lives of these gorgeous people will be my gift to the world. I hope that our journey in loving and learning will be a polestar for my children and that its light will always fall across their paths.

Generally, we are very relaxed and eclectic in the way that we do school. I've always shied away from curriculum in a box and, if pushed, have just let go and handed over the reins to my boys. My oldest son prefers that approach anyway. He has declared, on more than one occasion, that he would rather "just be in charge of [his] own learning", thank you very much. But then time will pass and I will look around me and I will wring my hands over the fact that we haven't mastered times tables or spelling and suddenly I become all business.

It is this hemming and hawing that feeds the angst. This has been the cycle.

And then last October I had a baby and in April my mom died and suddenly I find myself staring down an entire year that has spun wildly off its axis. Navigating the last eleven months has been like stumbling around in the dark and all I want is someone to turn on the light and point the way. But here we are, almost to September, and I need to hunker down and lay down some semblance of a map for us to follow.

Even if all I have are some crumbs.

And then #Ferguson happened and, once again, there is that wild spinning...

And I am forced to lay it all before the One that knows it all. Because, if I know anything at all, it is this:

I cannot, and will not, 

separate our slow steps forward 

from the truth that is #Ferguson.

This "learning" that we do?

If it is to be all that I desire it to be, if it is to leave marks that cannot be rubbed away from the hearts of my little men, if it is to offer anything to the globe upon which we dance--then it must open space for the suffering and lament of others. Because, in the end, all we have is each other, friends and so we must enter into the hard places. Together.

It came to me in the quiet of the morning, in that corner of space that gives birth to light and dew drops and revelation.

From now on, from this day forward, in this spot of a place that houses boys and weeds and love, we will study a curriculum of compassion. It will be the sound of our feet stepping into the suffering of others that will tune our hearts to what changes the world. It will be our willingness to hang everything of value onto the framework of brokenness that will cut open our shuttered hearts and make us open vessels for renewal.

This must be. I know this with a certainty that belies my usual conflicted self. This must be because this is the way to glory.

The truth of my heart doesn't want to walk that way. Not really. But the desire of my heart is to walk in this way and I want my boys to walk this path. I want to grab those hands of theirs, squeeze tight and confess that I have no idea what I am doing--what we are doing--but here we go anyway.

Because to continue on as if #Ferguson was just an anomaly and not indicative of a greater experience for an entire group of people is to purposely choose the garb of privilege. I'm ready to risk my position and call out the Emperor. I will no longer pretend that the clothes fit.

Instead, I want us to choose threads colored by sacrifice and suffering, humility and hospitality, love and loss and weave them into new wineskins.

I want my boys to learn that nothing in the Kingdom is earned. Not a single thing. Life together is about grace upon grace and mercy untold. The value of a person is not based on how forcefully they pull up their boot straps or under whose roof they are born. No, this Kingdom living? It is directed by how well we share our weaknesses, how willing we are to reveal that which we do not know, how empty we are willing to get. This is where we must begin. This is where love is born.

So this weaving we will do? It will begin small.

The weft and the warp threads will be set through the silent and often unseen actions. We will fill the bird feeders and water the zinnias. We will continue as a family to read aloud books like Wonder and A Long Walk to Water and then sit with the difficult questions that stir up from their truths.

But my prayer is that we will keep walking forward, into the foggy valleys. I want us to hone our vision so that our eyes become keen to the needs of our community. I hope to move closer to an "us" mentality rather than one that hisses "them." May it come to be that we seek to grow smaller so that others can grow taller. We will study History by listening to all of the voices--Bauer, Zinn, Douglass, Steinem, AND Schweickart--no matter how uncomfortable they make us feel.

But most importantly--I need your help. I need your voice. Every last beautiful one of you. Because this course of study is a river and it is fed by many sources. You and your life? Please speak into ours. Let us ripple into each other.

"It is from the numberless diverse acts of courage and belief that human history is shaped. Each time a man stands up for an ideal or acts to improve the lot of others or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centers of energy and daring, those ripples build a current that can sweep down the mightiest walls of oppression and resistance." 

-- Robert F. Kennedy

For such is the way of peace.


Photo credit: Andrew Hyde

This Mortal Coil

The words pierce through the late morning light that hangs
drowsy and dust filled and glistening
and just like that
there is no way to breathe

Instinctively I fly to touch him
memorize his lips and jowls and fingertips
trace the shadow of his profile
hear the cadence within his chest
be sure of him

Whenever Death runs past
a vale of tears cuts a gorge
right through the center of
all that was known or promised
and we become wild and frantic
for life

I eventually settle and draw in
what is left of the day
seizing moment after glorious moment
like a greedy beggar
my heart keen on wanting it all

As the sunlight stretches long across the room
I feel the pull of weathered thread
that winds then meanders then weaves itself
through the fingers of all my loves
The one that holds us fast to earth
and to each other
has weak spots

I know this
yet I want to pull all the tighter
draw in the goodness so I will have it
always
entwine the bright colored thread fast
around the faded one
to keep it from shuffling off
this mortal coil

Running hard after love

I've wanted to escape to this space for weeks now. To get lost in that suspended place of word and thought that swirls like so much wood smoke, evoking both memory and revery with each bend and jump. Here is where I come to figure out what really is ... to remind myself of the ground that holds me up and the sky that pulls at my chin. It is here that I remember how to breathe.

But I have been living the last two weeks at my parents' house and despite the fact that I have all but completely withdrawn from my regular life, the days have been fuller, stuffier, heavier than most. My mom is in the thick of chemotherapy treatments attempting, with all that science and positive energy can offer, to fight a disease that alters the makeup of her blood. Rather than work for her, her cells have declared anarchy. And she is tired.

We are all tired.

And although we may be chipped and cracked a bit, dizzy drunk from all that is working around and in and through us, we are not defeated. Nor have we lost hope. Never before have I been more in tune with the song of the Gospel that sings over me, every day. That although we walk a tenuous line between faith and fear and every step seeks to hand us over to death, life is rising in us, as well.

I witnessed this truth laced through every.single.day I spent at my parents' house.

I didn't always see it while I was a child in their house. I was too busy living wildly off of the fruits of their diligence and gracious caretaking then. It has only been since returning as an adult, in a strange juxtaposition of caregiver and care receiver, that my eyes have been opened. It is only now, when the days seemed numbered, that I see the ring of light that circles the dark.

+++++++

My parents do everything with care. My mom keeps a very tidy house and my dad keeps the whole machine running smoothly. Such has been their dance throughout 59 years of marriage and they still do it beautifully. The glorious thing about it all, however, is that it never was, nor ever is, at the expense of hospitality or graceful living. Neither of them has ever answered the door to surprise guests only to exclaim, "Forgive the messy house!" Instead, doors were thrown open, arms were outstretched and visitors were ushered in with squeals of delight.

My parents are curators of a welcome life.

You can imagine the difficulty, then, when illness enters the room and, despite a willing heart, the body can't always comply. The tenuous line is drawn and its diaphanous form etches itself across the floor, like a crack in plaster.

But, over and over, I watched my parents, my mother, especially, tilt towards life.

+++++++

I always thought that if I was ever faced with a severe illness that I would, of course, take up arms and run into battle. I would not go down with the ship. I would rise above, stand defiant, go out kicking and screaming.

After witnessing the horrors of chemotherapy, however, I'm not so sure. The idea of fighting death with destruction doesn't settle well in my deepest places. But neither does quietly walking away from a life that I love. I don't know how to keep company with those who sing songs for Jesus' speedy return in order to save us from this swirling orb of humanity.

I want to live.

I want to wake up every day and gaze upon those that I love. I want to plant zinnias every summer and smell wood smoke trailing from stone chimneys. I want to eat gooey butter cake and lift weights at the Y and take road trips to the Rocky Mountains and cook bacon on Saturdays. I want to laugh at silly jokes and hear, once again, the stories that make our family its own brand of crazy. I want to hold fast to the hands clinging hard to mine.

I don't want any of this to ever stop.

I'm learning that the way to embrace a death sentence while simultaneously allowing life to rise in me is to run hard after love. In all circumstances, by every means necessary, even when I screw things up or do the exact right thing--I need love to be what is standing between me and everyone else.

When love is what I choose to weave in among the fibers and snags of my every day life, when love gilds the edges of tired joy or stretches across the chasms of unspoken fears then that cloudy glass is rubbed a little cleaner. Love lived on purpose breathes life and one can catch glimpses of glory come down.

I saw it most keenly the night I lay in bed alongside my mom. She was three days into chemo and every one of her body systems was in revolt. In that darkened room I quietly held hands with my mom and hung lavishly in that place of holding and being held. Our bodies formed a circle and I longed harder than ever that it remain unbroken. And then she whispered her thanksgiving, for me and my boys and my just being there. Her words, her naming the gifts, breathed life into my weary soul. It was love that floated between our souls in that moment and it became clearer than ever.

This speaking love into each others' lives? It is life.

Weave

Oh, 2013!
You have been remarkable. Truly.

It was on this day, last year, that I chose a word for you. I was perched on the edge of a whole new chunk of days and for the first time, I chose a word with which to walk out that gift of time.

WITH

I wrote a sort of proclamation for myself, a manifesto declaring my intentions for moving forward into the new year.

with
prep.

-in the company of
-next to, alongside
-in the charge or keeping of
-in support of
-among
-in spite of
-in the same direction as
-so as to be touching or joined to

TheFreeDictionary.com

It was the last line of intention that would end up cradling my entire year:

This year, when given the opportunity, I will choose touch over tension, embracing rather than rejecting, joining in place of separation. I am not an emotional island, nor are the ones I love. I will choose to move towards them, even when it is hard.
I will choose to be with those that are in front of me.Every.Day.

And so now, here I am, shaking my head at the methods of a loving God who, in His desire to be close to me, reached across the gossamer veil and planted Love outright, deep within me. My One Word was more than just letters on a page. My One Word was born in me.

This past year has been a collection of giving over and giving in, of walking into and in front of. 

It has held fear, only to be bathed in faith. 

It has stretched, first, thin and then swelled gloriously ripe. 

It has challenged my hopes, changed my trajectory, and championed my spirit.

That little preposition of a word continued to show up. 

Every.

Single.

Day.

And so, here I am again, on the cusp of a whole new chunk of days and, once again, I am choosing One Word.

weave

verb

-to make (cloth) by interlacing the threads of the weft and the warp on a loom.

-to interlace (threads, for example) into cloth.

-to construct by interlacing or interweaving strips or strands of material

-to interweave or combine (elements) into a complex whole

-to contrive (something complex or elaborate) in this way

-to introduce (another element) into a complex whole; work in

-to spin

The Free Dictionary

This word came to me in the hushed gray of morning this past week. My little Samuel, the very answer to a question I didn't even know that I had asked, the single greatest surprise of my life, was stirring. I peeked, sleepily, at the boy miracle within arm's reach and it hit me: 

I have a crazy beautiful life. 

So much poignant beauty has wound its way into each moment. The gray and the blue woven in tight with the yellow and the orange, in and out, over and under.

Each day is cut from holy cloth, bolts of glory by the yard.

And I want to remember this, for always. Because this is no small thing. In fact, this is a very grand thing. The greatest thing, even. 

So, I am choosing WEAVE as my One Word for 2014.

I want to interlace myself with each member of my sweet little family, in and out, over and under, creating beautiful patterns of light and dark, soft and scruffy, bold and demure. I want to recognize each individual for the uniqueness they bring to our clan, all the while, remembering that they are also part of a complex whole creation that is continually emerging, growing, changing.

I want to apply this to my other relationships, as well. I want to receive those that have been planted in my life and first see, really see, all the color and texture and gifts that they bring to the table. Then, after acknowledging that who I am is such a conglomeration of these people, we can go about the business of braiding ourselves together, in and out, over and under.

And then there is the writing, whose very act is a gathering, a stringing together of thought and hope and belief. 

To write is to weave, all the while, hoping and praying that in all of this straw gathering there will be flickers of gold.

So, I am extending a warm and open "Welcome" to this new year. I know that to do so is risky. There is no guarantee that 2014 will be kind to me. If this past year has taught me anything it is that the flip side of light is dark, the opposite of health is sickness, and the antithesis of security is uncertainty. But I am not going to let fear set the tone for what is to come. Instead, I am going to join hands with the Giver of gifts and, together, we are going to take warp and weft and weave beauty.

“For last year's words belong to last year's language 

And next year's words await another voice.” 

--TS Eliot

Photo credit: Flickr

Mother

I'm wearing a path through my heart's middle these days ... vacillating between worlds in a dance that has no set steps. There is only a song that warbles on top of the chill air, pulling me one way, then another.

There is now and its two boys and all that this demands of me.

Attention.
Presence.
Comfort.
Joy.
Laughter.
Food.
Warmth.
And love ... more love than I think I might have to give. Love that dives below the surface tension of now and pulls me into the deep places heavy with night and shadows. Love that believes before it doubts. Love that circles seventy times seven. Love unbroken.

And then there is a crossing over ...
and I am there, at my own mother's bedside
stroking her brow
kissing her cheek
framing her face in my hands
as if our hearts flipped in the night's chill and now I am mothering the mother.

On either side of me stand my two boys, warm from the car ride and woozy with sleep and before me
is my mother, hands clasped together for warmth, purple knitted shawl slipping from her shoulders.

And I hang for a millisecond, suspended between the role of mother and that of daughter,
until the tightrope snaps
and I free fall
head
over
heart
over
feet.

It is not until I land plumb in the middle of love that I discover it is simply the keeping of hearts to which I am called.

So the next day looks like a turning and a circling, over and over.

My stout sons are hungry, so hungry, and I parcel out first and second breakfasts and then whine that they are having too much screen time even as I turn my back and pretend the opposite. It's only for today, I whisper into the ether, not sure if I am confessing or hoping.

And then comes the swelling worry, wrapped in fever and fatigue, taking up residence in my mother's slight and wispy body. She is not prepared for this new battle. She has already been fighting a mutant army and it has been marching through her blood, pillaging her energy and vigor and she is tired.
So tired.

So I push for answers and advocate for truth and a hazy cognizance swirls around deep inside as I begin to see how she has championed the same for me, time and time again. That from the moment I was flesh and blood in her arms I became her cause and she has never stopped fighting for me. For my joy ... for my dreams ... for my life.

And when I wonder at what point I became equipped for such a time as this, when I realize that I must be all of that for her, it is then that I realize that a Mother is a life force. As long as babies are born and mothers are made, whether by blood or decree, a creative force is unleashed in the world and things are never the same.

I will never be the same.

My desire to nurture and sustain those entrusted to my care need no longer discern mother from child. All of it is a dance, a grand swinging, a twirling of tendrilous hearts.

To mother, to be mothered, all is birthed from Love embedded deep and long and wide.

And at the end of the day, I pull back the crazy quilt spread across the bed and crawl in next to my mom, my boys at my heels, all of us falling
head
over
heart
over
feet
into
love.

Dreams

It is early and my mind is still warm and swirly from those vivid morning dreams I have just before waking. The kind of dreams that are a patchwork of thoughts that have been nestled in the secret brain folds for days...weeks. This morning, there were jail cells and old students turned fitness gurus and really good cafeteria food and stolen kisses. 

And then suddenly, there was my alarm beeping and, very uncharacteristically, there was me fumbling for the snooze button so I could go back, just for a moment, and try to make sense of it all. 

But that never works. 

The fog between conscious and unconscious was too thick and divisive and the hands I wanted to hold and the faces I wanted to gaze upon once more were hidden behind a veil.

So, I'm left to the task of conjuring up meaning out of my predawn reverie. And it is futile.

I remember the dreams that I had when I was pregnant with my first born. Outrageous and fantastical were they. As I plodded through my pregnancy in my hazy nighttime brain, I slowly revisited all of my old boyfriends. It was as if I was on a mission to right all wrongs and close all doors and move forward with new resolve, prepped and ready for motherhood. It was weird and comforting and empowering all at once.

I haven't dreamed like that before or since.

Instead, I wake with disparate ideas that are impossible to interpret.

Perhaps it is not much different for me on this side of sleep...this interpreting of dreams. 

I've never been much of a real world dreamer. Although I am imaginative and poetical in the realm of the sun, I'm not one for casting visions on the future. I don't paint big pictures. I kind of just...am.

That is why I am going to 

Jumping Tandem: The Retreat  in April, otherwise known as "your big, amazing, ridiculous dream."

Ridiculous is right. As in, I don't have one. A dream, that is. 

Clicking the button to reserve my spot at the retreat was one of the stupidest bravest things that I have ever done. How audacious of me. Who am I to think that I can waltz into that beautiful retreat center that promises me amazing speakers, gorgeous accommodations, delicious food and CHOCOLATE and have a legitimate reason for being there? 

Big. Amazing. Ridiculous.

But I'm going anyway.

I'm going to be with amazing, ridiculous women in the hopes that all their goodness and grace and grit will rub off on me. 

I want a dream for the here and now that doesn't leave me grasping at mirages or old haunts.

I want a dream that will move mountains.

I want a dream that might just change the world.

So I'm wiping the sand from my eyes and rinsing out the bad taste in my mouth and I'm turning my face to the scarlet orange sun hanging low in the sky.

Join me?

“Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.”

-Edgar Allan Poe 

Photo credit: ~Brenda-Star~

My one word

One word.

Because that’s easy to remember all 365 days of the year.

Not as easy is the choice to live it out. To let it shape your year. To allow it to shape you. But if you’ll let it, your One Word will become the filter through which you see and live your life. It will steer your decisions and guide your steps

from One Word 365

++++++++++

with
prep.

-in the company of
-next to, alongside
-in the charge or keeping of
-in support of
-among
-in spite of
-in the same direction as
-so as to be touching or joined to

TheFreeDictionary.com

This year, I will set up camp in the company of three amazing boys. They will talk and I will listen and we will do life together in ways real and hard and beautiful.

This year, I will keep my eyes open and I will choose to come alongside others, to anchor with them, to stay nearby.

This year, I will stay true to that which has been put in my charge. I will be thoughtful in my commitments, faithful in my duties, true to my word.

This year, I will look for people and causes that need support and willfully act. If standing with someone means making a statement, so be it. Life is too short and people are too important to worry about what love looks like.

This year, I will no longer try to fade into the scenery. I will not turn my head when confronted with difficulty. Instead, this year, I want to be counted among the broken-hearted, the downcast, the ones that others dismiss. I will not try and pretend that I am not one of them.

This year, I will press on, in spite of my mistakes. I will not let my failings define or constrict me. I will not let them become excuses.

This year, I will, once again, join hands with my beloved and join his gaze. For what Antoine de Saint-Exupery said is true: "...love does not consist in gazing at each other, but in looking outward in the same direction." I will choose to look forward with him, not around or behind or over.

This year, when given the opportunity, I will choose touch over tension, embracing rather than rejecting, joining in place of separation. I am not an emotional island, nor are the ones I love. I will choose to move towards them, even when it is hard.

I will choose to be with those that are in front of me.
Every.
Day.