Tag: relationships

The Fullness of Time

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“The years teach much which the days never know.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson

Miss O has been working on “time” problems in school. Like “It’s 12:40. Zach is supposed to meet his friend in 45 minutes. What time will it be when they meet?” She generally likes math but these problems are getting her goat at the moment.

So, we were settling into bed and she asked me, “Was time around when you were a kid?” Then she thought for a moment and continued, “Oh yeah, they’ve had it for a while.”

I couldn’t get out of the room fast enough to burst into laughter and write that one down. That she said this the night before my birthday wasn’t lost on me.

Hee, hee. Yes, they’ve had time long enough for me to count out 55 years. What else has the fullness of time given me?

Laughter

When we had a small party of family and friends to celebrate my birthday, as well as my mom’s and my friend Eric’s, the thing I enjoyed most was the laughter. Miss O and Mr. D put on a recital. There was great food and also presents, but the real gift was the just the lightness of being. Miss O asked why my eyes leak so frequently when I laugh. I don’t know exactly, but it has something to do with just being so happy to be here.

Perspective

Time has also given me the gift of perspective. It’s a bigger sea in which my hurts, my worries, and even my hopes feel less significant. They matter, but more as in a way that helps me set my sails instead of being the sea itself. I’m a far more patient person – but not because I’ve grown my patience but because the fullness of time helps me settle into the wait.

Heart

I have a favorite quote when it comes to the heart,

“God breaks the heart again and again and again until it stays open.”

-Hazrat Inayat Khan

When I first met that quote, it was like almost everything else that has become my teacher. I thought, “No, no, no.”

But time has shown it is less about heart break and more about giving up control. There are people, things, dreams, and abilities that hurt so much when they go. But the heart has no hands to hang on to them. Leaning into that is like opening windows in my heart so that the breeze can flow through.

So, has anyone figured out the answer to the time problem at the top of the post? Clearly, it’s “Who knows because Zach is always running late? But we’ll hug him when we see him.” 🙂 Or at least that’s the answer that the fullness of time has given me.  

Safety in Stories

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“The one thing that you have that nobody else has is you. Your voice, your mind, your story, your vision. So, write and draw and build and play and dance and live only as you can.” – Neil Gaiman

Three stories that have come up recently in my house…

#1

Four-year-old Mr. D loves telling the story about the parking ticket I recently got outside my mom’s apartment. Even though I have the pay-to-park app on my phone, I choose not to pay thinking we’d only be inside for 15 minutes. It’s a story I’d rather not think about given that I ended up paying $43 instead of the $2, but I have to admit, he’s told it so many times that it’s starting to get funny.

#2

The other day, Mr. D wanted to wear shoes with laces and put them on himself. He got them on and then tied about 10 overhand knots as we drove to school. I heard him in the back seat say, “Yeah, that looks good.”

#3

We bought a small red velvet cake at the grocery store recently. When eight-year-old Miss O had a slice of it, she pushed all the cream cheese frosting to the side. I asked if she didn’t care for it. When she said she didn’t, I swiped up a finger full. “Ugh,” she groaned and then added, “Sorry, didn’t mean to ‘yuck’ your ‘yum.’”

The Point

One of the things that I aim for in my house, is that we can express ourselves without judgment. That is, I want to be the place where the kids can tell their stories without worrying how they land.

The funny thing is that it’s had a bonus effect on me where I have to get to talk about the bonehead mistakes I make (like the parking ticket.) I’ve found it’s helped greatly to learn to not let my inner editor curate only the stories I want to talk about.

The Bonus

When I talk with my dear friend and podcast partner, Vicki, I get the boost of knowing she is a really safe person to tell stories to. Not that I always communicate well the first time, but she is such a good and encouraging listener, she brings out the vulnerable and brave me.

By contrast, in our most recent podcast, Episode 71, Catching an Edge with Wynne and Vicki, we talk about the unexpected responses we sometimes get to our stories.

I know I’m not alone in being surprised sometimes by how a story is received. We tell about an experience to a person or persons and then are shocked at how it lands. We thought it was funny and they thought it stupid. We thought it was deep and they only appreciate the surface. Whatever it is, it is out of our control for better or worse.

When our inner editor starts curating the content we share, we sometimes short-circuit our ability to be fully seen. So Vicki and I talk about the healing effect of telling our stories, no matter how they land.

Here’s a snippet of the podcast where I tell Vicki about a recent exchange of stories with a long-time friend (6 minutes with subtitles so you don’t have to have the sound on):

Vicki Atkinson and I are big believers in the power of story – to connect us, to create intergenerational healing, and to make meaning out of the events of our lives. Each episode of our podcast starts with someone telling a story in each episode.

Search (and subscribe!) for Sharing the Heart of the Matter on Apple, Amazon, Spotify or Pocket Casts OR Listen to it from your computer on Anchor Episode 71: Catching an Edge with Wynne and Vicki

Or subscribe to our YouTube channel to see a video clip of each story: @SharingtheHeartoftheMatter.

Episode 71 transcript of the podcast

Links for this Episode:

Episode 71: Catching an Edge with Wynne and Vicki on Anchor

Vicki’s personal blog: Victoria Ponders

Vicki’s recently released book: Surviving Sue

Wynne’s book about her beloved father: Finding My Father’s Faith

(featured photo is Mr. D’s well-tied shoes)

The Choices We Make: My Mom the Spy

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“Nothing has a stronger influence on their children than the unlived lives of their parents.” – Carl Jung

The post was originally published on 5/10/2023. Heads up – you may have already read this.

There’s a family joke that my mom is a CIA agent. Even now at 83-years- old, when we mention it, she just smiles and shrugs her shoulders, or says there is no point in denying it because we wouldn’t believe her.

As with most jokes, there is a kernel of truth in it. My very smart and capable mom graduated from college in the early 60’s with a degree in Far Eastern Studies and fluency in Russian. The CIA was actively recruiting from college campuses at the time and offered her a job. Her story is that she turned down the job because she met and married my father instead.

But over all the years since, she’s maintained her fluency in Russian, she went back to school when I was in college to get another degree in Russian language and literature, and she’s traveled there – when it was the Soviet Union in the 1970’s and later when it was Russia, many times. Would there be a more perfect cover for an agent than being a pastor’s wife?

It took me becoming a parent myself to understand how ridiculous this story, as fun as it is, really is. Not only because I finally understood that she didn’t have the time while raising three kids, of which I’m the youngest, but also because there is no way her heartstrings could have been in both places.

She made her choice. Instead of translating documents, she took on the work of translating the patter of baby talk into something intelligible. And then developing the sources into people who could talk the language properly.

She gave up a life of intrigue and instead instilled intriguing thoughts and ideas into her children’s lives.

Instead of secret meetings at night, she was called to hold our hair when we threw up and calm our fears when the bad dreams came.

She traded briefings about the state of affairs for parent-teacher conferences and traveling to sports events. And instead of establishing confidence in sources and colleagues, she choose to do the work of instilling confidence from the ground up in three young people.

Instead of fighting the bureaucracy at a government agency, she taught her kids that we had agency and were capable of fighting our own battles for what we believed in.

Instead of patiently nurturing a career that would challenge her brilliant mind and sense of adventure, she choose to nurture her patience with three young people who challenged her peace and equanimity.

Instead of running agents with their own backstories and motivations, she choose to help build a solid and stable backstory for us, fully present to launch our own motivations.

Instead of changing the world balance as a spy, she was the world for us.

My mom has never framed it as a sacrifice, but now that I see how much it takes to lose oneself to take care of others, I know that it was. I understand now that she had to make all these choices, from what might have been interesting and rewarding to her mind to hopefully what was interesting and rewarding to her heart.

She made her choices in life so that I could make the choices in mine.

Thank you, Mom.  

(featured photo is mind: Mom and me in 1974)

Related post: Looking In Through The Sliding Glass Door.

Three Things I Learned From My Dog About Getting Older

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“The little things are infinitely the most important.” – Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

When I was a brand new mom almost nine years ago, my 12 year old golden retriever, Biscuit, was my constant companion. He was such a comforting presence, especially with his ability to track where everyone was.

Lesson One

But one of the things that irritated me, especially in the early-on sleep deprived days, was when we all walked together. Biscuit had to go back and forth and back and forth over an area to pick a place to poop.

So it surprises me when I walk with Cooper who is now almost a one-year-old dog and he just poops. We’ll be walking along and then BAM, he stops and does his business.

My conclusion is that one privilege that comes with age is willingness to be choosy.

Lesson Two

It was the same with lying down. Biscuit would get a dog blanket and move it around with his front paws.  Then circling and circling, he’d settle in and lay down.

Cooper, on the other hand, just collapses anywhere.

This leads me to the conclusion that another sign of aging is the increase of the number of things we have to do before sleep. And again as we rise.

Lesson Three

On the morning of the day that he died, Biscuit walked up the stairs to the second floor. It was something he didn’t do as often after arthritis had set in. Then he lay down on the threshold to Miss O’s room as I was getting her out of the crib and ready for the day. Miss O was about 18 months old.

Biscuit lay with his head on his paws and watched every move we made. It was like he was touching each moment with intention.

Then we went for a walk. He collapsed going up the hill. Five hours later, after we discovered he had tumors bleeding in his stomach, I had to say “goodbye” to my beloved dog. Something I think he knew all along.

Which leads me to the third lesson I learned from my beautiful dog. If we’re lucky, we gain the ability to appreciate how all the little things in life add up to one good life.

Photos of the Week: June 8

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“Love is like an hourglass, with the heart filling up as the brain empties. ” – Jules Renard

We spent a weekend on Whidbey Island for a friend’s birthday party and we were in our element.

The beach we stayed at had hundreds of mussels. Want to guess what Cooper did after licking his lips? Yep, the only one surprised when he threw up later was Cooper.

Non-beach things we did on Whidbey Island included a really cool outdoor sculpture park.

Celebrating our new bikes.

And where did we go with our new bike skills? To get pies of different shapes and sizes!

Buddies and signs.

Writing From the Heart

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“There is a wisdom of the head, and…a wisdom of the heart.” – Charles Dickens

This post was originally published on 3/1/2023. Heads up – you may have already read this.

The other day I read a beautiful post that was a tribute to a dearly departed pet. It was so touching and zinged me right where there’s a sore spot from missing my beloved dog, Biscuit, that died six years ago. I had to walk away for about 30 minutes before I could write a comment.

I find this so often be true – the topics that are the closest to my heart are hard to write about when the tears are still flowing. When I had to say good-bye to Biscuit, the next day the only words I could manage was to put a sign next to the cat who was also grieving the loss of his buddy:

Cat missing his newly departed dog

So this set me off wondering why it is so hard. Loss of perspective? Lack of clarity so I can’t yet make meaning? Inability to see the keyboard when the tears are flowing?

Thinking it could be a left-brain/right-brain kind of thing, I looked up the neuroscience of writing and found this New York Times article: This is Your Brain on Writing. Turns out that left-brain/right-brain isn’t much of a delineation that they make these days. Instead the article describes the results an fMRI study of the brain while writing including the detail that in expert writers, there is a part of the brain, the caudate nucelus, that lights up. The same part of the brain doesn’t light up for novice writers, a result that made sense to the scientists because the caudate nucleus is the part of the brain associated with expertise. Which was interesting but didn’t get me any closer to an answer.

Then I looked to our sacred texts and the spiritual world for wisdom on those moments when I can’t write. I was reacquainted with one of my dad’s favorite quotes from 17th century mathematician and philosopher Blaise Pascal: “The heart has its reasons, that reason does not know.” My dad often cited this quote in an argument about belief in God – that our heart knows even if there isn’t any proof for the head. Maybe those topics that zing me are too close to my heart so they haven’t made it to the head yet?

Next on my list of possible explanations was poly-vagal theory about the three states of our nervous system. When I wrote about it for a post, The Unified Theory of Breathing I summarized the three states as: ventral which is calm and regulated, sympathetic the fight or flight response, and dorsal which is when the nervous system has been so stimulated that it shuts down. Perhaps when I can’t write, I’m flooded, in a dorsal state and can’t write? While this alludes to an answer, I don’t feel like I’m dysregulated and can’t write, just that I can’t find the words.

Finally, I turned to the world of yoga and meditation and found an explanation that makes sense to me. Stillness. When my waters are muddied, I have a harder time seeing into my depths. In times of life when the waves are choppy, I am all churned up inside. It’s only when I reconnect with my inner stillness that I can see well enough to cross the space between me and you.

What I found to be as fascinating as the question itself were the lenses I looked through to find my answer. Brain science, theology, physiology, and meditation – my four go-tos and I usually find the answer sitting in meditation. Must be why I do it every day. A confirmation bias loop because it works for me.

Here’s my take-away from the journey: It’s hard to write when I’m too wet and stirred up in my heart. And it’s also hard when I’m too dry and too much in my head. I have to aim for somewhere in the middle where I’m soft, warm, and clear.

What about you?

In Our Element

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“As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being.” – Carl Jung

We rented an AirBnB over the weekend that touted bunk beds in the laundry room. Clearly the charm of this place lay in its location on a beach on Whidbey Island. And that it accepted dogs.

Mr. D has been calmed by water since day one. The babies that don’t like their first bath? Nope, not Mr. D. What did we do for at least an hour on his first day of daycare? Play in water.

I watched him this weekend pouring water with a clam shell for thirty minutes from one hole to another and then back. An incredibly long time for a four-year-old to stay with one focus. If it weren’t for the tide coming in, it looked like he would have done it for hours.

I wonder if we all have an element we are born with that calls to us. For Miss O, it seems to be singing. First mine and my mom’s, and now her own.

If given the option between beaches and mountains, I’d say “mountains.” One step onto a hiking trail and my stress level drops by five notches. Every step gives me further improvement in my mental health, resilience, and sense of humor.

But I’ve spent more time on these rugged beaches of the Pacific NW than mountains since I’ve had kids. And I’ve found the beaches remind me to breathe out all the stale air I hold in. Whether it’s because Mr. D has water and Miss O can sing by the campfire, or because I can walk along the sea and the surf, I’m not sure. Whatever it is, it works magic.

Who cares if the bunk beds are in the laundry room if the location puts us in our element?

(featured photo is mine – Mr. D by the sea)

Hurry Scurry Worry

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“Enough is abundance to the wise.” – Euripides

Of the things I think about, time and love have to be the top two topics. Sometimes they are separate thoughts, but often time they are combined in the same thought. Struggling with how to love and appreciate the moment, and the dear ones I’m with, when I’m often in a hurry.

It doesn’t help that June comes with six birthdays of family, including Cooper the dog, and dear friends, including mine in mid-June. That’s always a reminder of time with a “capital T.”

On a recent Sunday morning, I was deep in the vortex of hurry worry. This year, my mom signed Miss O up for a youth choir in a neighborhood church.  Miss O has a lovely voice and it was a fantastic activity for her. My mom managed all the transportation, and even took Mr. D along for some of the practices. All good.

But on the Sundays the choir performed, it was a struggle to both watch Miss O sing and keep Mr. D entertained throughout the service. So, on the particular Sunday morning in question, I came up with the idea that Mr. D and I would walk to the church to expend a little of the morning energy while Miss O went ahead with my mom.

Mr. D and I left with enough time to walk the eight blocks, but not extra. As we were walking, I was feeling the time pressure to get there. Enough so that it prompted me to remember the meditation practice I’ve been working on to not hurry. I said a prayer.

When I told my mom about this later, she asked, “What did you pray for? That Mr. D wouldn’t find anything interesting along the way?”

“No,” I answered. “I prayed that we’d have enough time. Then I enjoyed the walk without looking at the time and it all worked out.”

It’s funny. We can either pray/hope/wish/focus on everything to go right. Or pray/hope/wish/focus on being okay with how things work out. The latter has worked better for me.

For another way to stretch capital T time please listen to our Sharing the Heart of the Matter podcast: Episode 69: All You Have to Do Is Ask with Wynne and Vicki

Vicki Atkinson and I are big believers in the power of story – to connect us, to create intergenerational healing, and to make meaning out of the events of our lives. Each episode of our podcast will start with someone telling a story in each episode.

To listen to the podcast, Search (and subscribe!) for Sharing the Heart of the Matter on Apple, Amazon, Spotify or Pocket Casts. Or subscribe to our YouTube channel to see a video clip of each story: @SharingtheHeartoftheMatter.

Five Ways to Be a Happier Parent

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“Children are great imitators, so give them something great to imitate.” – unknown

A friend who is pregnant asked if I had any tips. There are so many parenting philosophies and opinions out there. I can’t imagine I have anything to add. Besides, each kid and each parent is so unique.

But I do know what has made me a happier parent.

  1. Finding a way to ground the central nervous system. I remember walking into a room where my kids had spent a happy day hanging out with my brother and his wife. Miss O was about five-years-old and Mr. D was about one-years-old. As soon as they saw me, they started crying and clamoring for my attention.
    It wasn’t that they were unhappy. It’s just that they had spent the longest time away from me so far. I was the lightning rod for the relief they felt after all the bravery and novelty they had experienced.
    Having a way to calm myself – meditation, breathing exercises, time spent in nature – has lessened the overwhelm I feel when my kids need that extra boost.
  2. Understanding that life is a science experiment. One morning when Miss O was about three-years-old, I was trying to get us ready to leave the house to meet my friend, Katie. I found Miss O at the art table where she’d made a huge mess cutting into a squishy into her scissors. I was incredulous, “Why would you do that?”
    When I saw Katie, whose kids are grown, she laughed and said, “Life is a science experiment.” Understanding that has made such a difference to my parenting attitude. We all try things to see what happens next. Sometimes the kids will do this and it messes with my sense of order. But it isn’t personal, just a part of learning.
  3. Following their lead. On a recent Saturday morning, Mr. D and I were out front as he drove a remote control car down the sidewalk. When we were in front of our favorite neighbors’ house, Mr. D said, “Let’s ask them to play.” I demurred, thinking we might bother them, but Mr. D said, “Follow my lead.” I did and my neighbors, a couple in their 70’s were delighted to see us and have a turn to drive the remote control car.
    Dr. Alison Gopnik, a research psychologist at UC Berkley says kids’ neural pathways look like the streets of Old Paris, many, windy paths where you don’t go very fast. They are wired to look for what can teach them the most. On the other hand, our adult brains have neural paths that look like boulevards. Not very many but you can go faster. We are wired for getting things done.
    When we follow kids’ leads, they get us out of our ruts and help us be creative.
  4. Being creative to connect. The early years of parenting can be so isolating. Spending time with other parents who are also overwhelmed, and conversations that are constantly interrupted by attention to little ones often isn’t satisfying. Working, blogging, pursuing one interest that puts you in the path of adults you can connect with has made such a difference.
  5. Accepting that a great and happy parent is perfectly imperfect. I remember walking my dog past a house where a kid was crying when I was pregnant with my first child and thinking, “I’ll never let my kids cry it out.” Hah!
    Giving up the idea that I would be a perfect parent – always calm, with a clean and orderly house, and full of ideas that would keep my kids entertained and screen free – is the best thing I’ve done for myself and them.
    Instead I have come to see that a perfect parent knows if they lose it and yell, they can also show kids how to own it and apologize. And laugh at themselves, and be okay with being flexible with any no screen, all organic, and any other high-minded ideals to do their best for that moment.  

Anything you would add to the list?

(featured photo from Pexels)

I pulled this list from other parenting story posts I’ve told:

Lost and Found People

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“The good road and the road of difficulties, you have made me cross; and where they cross, the place is holy.” – Black Elk, Oglala Lakota Medicine Man

The other day I was sitting at the kitchen table with Miss O. One of the 20-somethings in our lives had just shared with us that she was pregnant and Miss O was so excited.

She asked, “Mommy, how did you tell Nana [my mom] that you were pregnant with me?”

I replied, “Well, it wasn’t that much of a surprise with IVF because she knew I went in to have an embryo implanted. Then 10 days later they did a blood test to determine whether I was pregnant. So I think I called her or I texted her.”

Then she surprisingly asked, “And she was happy?”

Trying to figure out the phrasing, I raised an eyebrow and replied. “She was thrilled.”

And then Miss O revealed why she’d asked like that, “Even though Bumpa [my dad] had just died?”

Oohhh, she was putting together the news with the story that she already knew which is that my dad died just as I was getting pregnant with her.

And then, my not quite 9-year-old daughter, replied, “We are the lost and found people.”

Whoa.

I’ve often thought of those months when I was writing a book about my dad, his remarkable life, our connection, and the reward for being open with him when Miss O was in utero. It felt like a dance between birth and death. I was saying good-bye to having him present in life as I waited for Miss O to come. Such a sacred dance.

But Miss O’s comment about lost and found people made me think that maybe we all are. It seems like many new chapters are ushered in after we’ve given something up: a job, a partner, a story we believe about ourself.

And then, when we’ve given it up, we can proceed. Seems like the trick is not to get mired in the lost, so that we keep working towards the found.

We are the lost and found people. I couldn’t be more grateful to my beautiful daughter for pointing that out.

(featured photo is my dad and me when I was 2-years-old)

My book about my journey to find what fueled my dad’s indelible spark and twinkle can be found on Amazon: Finding My Father’s Faith.