Breathe, Christmas is on it's way

 

Norman Rockwell was an artist...

...not a historian.

This time of year is just hard. For a lot of reasons.

Some of us are struggling. But the truth is most of us--women especially,just get frazzled this time of year.We get so busy.

 Whether we are rich or poor, young or old, we get stressed out around the holidays. If you are having financial problems-like we do at our house, you worry, and stress out about how you will keep the electricity on, and still manage to provide a semblance of cheer. It's really hard to think you won't be able to buy a gift for your child. Really hard. 

If you are lucky enough to  have money, you still worry.
So much to do,so little time...
We all need to remember to breathe at this time of year--


The quote for the day is...
A man can do only what he can do. But if he does that each day he can sleep at night and do it again the next day. ~~Albert Schweitzer ~~ 


All we can do is all we can do. Maybe we are doing too much to begin with. Maybe we need to take a minute and look at the things that we consider urgent, are they? Are they necessary for our happiness, and wholeness, or are they just trappings that we think the world expects.

The world does not cease to exist if we bake 2 kinds of cookies instead of 6. the world does not cease to turn on its axis if we take an hour out of the day and spend it paying attention to our health and our spiritual needs. If we cease to run around frenetically, the sun still comes up in the morning. If we choose to not spend money we don't have this year, no one will hate us because their present is smaller (well, if they do they don't count anyway!) Besides, the little ones play with the boxes longer than the presents! The older ones will understand if we are being honest, authentic in our lives.

So yes, let's remember to slow down, to breathe. When we get all caught up in the frenzy we miss so much-moments of grace, opportunities for gratitude, evidence of our connections to others, signs of the presence of Spirit.

"But,but..." you say,I want  wonderful holidays like when I was growing up. Ah, yes the good ol' days.

 Personally I think people have this skewed vision of what life used to be-too many Norman Rockwell magazine covers. Norman Rockwell was an artist not an historian.

Honestly, people weren't all that much different 50, 60, 100 years ago. There were good people, there were not so good people. It wasn't a Norman Rockwell magazine cover or an episode of Leave it To Beaver. Just like now, so many things depend on your economic status. Poor women worked outside the home-often in the homes of women with more resources. Poor people spent their limited resources trying to keep a roof over their head and feed their families.

So, let go of the imaginary memories. You are probably equating a movie you saw with what actually occurred in people's everyday lives. 

 If you are feeling bombarded by the things going on around you, scattered, stressed, that is the reminder you need to chill, breathe, take some time to pay attention. Make today important, live the best you can today, and stop longing for a different time that never existed.

 It's hard for everyone this time of year.It's cold, and dark, and it just seems like troubles are amplified in that darkness. Probably the reason that nearly every faith tradition has some sort of celebration around this time that centers on light.

So, as you go about your days, try to remember to breathe,and relax, because the darkness never lasts forever, and even on a cold dark day something will be worth smiling about. 

Take time today to rest, even though you have things to do. Take some time to get at least a few moments with yourself, and remind yourself that a confident, loving smile is worth more than anything you can possibly accomplish today.


Peace and Blessings,

EB

Trying to Be more Thankful

(I wrote this a couple of Thanksgivings ago,and it speaks to me today) 

Sometimes it is difficult to feel thankful. I have days when I am just a big old bottomless pit of envy, bitterness, resentment,and downright crankyass misery. I try to not have those days often,they are exhausting.

But,even when I am the world's worst crank,I know better. I know that even though life is a struggle,and difficult beyond measure, I have things I am truly thankful for.

I have an amazing son. We've spent a couple of years now just trying to keep him alive.He has to tolerate medical interventions that his autistic brain really isn't even capable of processing .He hates to be touched and yet he has to put up with being touched.He does it with quiet strength and reserves we only suspected he was capable of.Things most of us take for granted can be difficult for him,but he perseveres and deals with the challenges. He is my hero-most days.

I have a community of friends--most of whom I have never met in person. Which I am old enough to find amazing. Who could have imagined 30-40-50 years ago that the majority of women I consider my dearest friends are people I have met in online communities? Kind of boggles the mind.Smart,caring, kind, incredibly generous friends for whom I am eternally thankful. 

AND I have me. Now, I ain't worth claiming some days. But,I'm what I have, for what it's worth.

I wrote this 10 years ago and it still rings true to me today...

The quote for today...

I am an indestructible fortress,
I am an unassailable rock,
I am a precious jewel.
--Ancient Irish Prayer

 I think that is where I get my strength. Now, I am not saying to you that I don't have days where I am nothing but a quivering mass of jello, but what I do have is an innate belief that I am indestructible. In fact, I am fond of saying, you can't kill me it's been tried.

OK, so I know that is a slight exaggeration but most humor is. What I am saying is that I am strong enough to withstand what the world has to throw at me. We all are, some of us may not know it yet, and one of the things I try to do is to help people see this truth about themselves. If we believe we have the strength to take what the world is handing out, then we journey forth into the world in a much different manner. Our very presence changes. Our posture is taller, our countenance brighter. We shine like the precious jewel we are. Now where do jewels come from, with the exception of pearls, most things that we consider precious jewels come from the earth, from dirt and rock, created by great pressure.Not the most glamorous of beginnings So it would seem to me that the more the world throws at us, the more we manage to crawl our way through as more than a survivor, as a victor, the more precious jewel we become. Even pearls start out in an unglamorous place. Now as much as I enjoy an appetizer of oysters on the half shell, it isn't a pleasant thing to look at.But look at how that oyster reacted to an irritant that it couldn't get rid of, it surrounded that irritating little grain of sand, piece of debris, with beauty.And a precious jewel was created from irritation and probably a lot of pain.


So, I am going to take my cranky ass in hand and try to be more than thankful.

Peace and Blessings,

EB


P.S. I dislike doing this but there is a paypal button over there,just in case. I told a friend once who was embarrassed about asking for help that if we don't make our needs known how does anyone ever know we have needs.The William and I are struggling,and just as embarrassed I am pointing out the button.We are continually blessed.

Happy Mothers Day--Stories of my little Mama

 Well, I really must tell some stories of my little mama, Mothers Day and all of that.

Talking about Mother is totally different than talking about Papa. I occasionally called her little Mama, especially if I was talking about her, but usually I called her Mother.Her grandchildren called her Mom-she didn't like to be called grandma. Mother was a lot more complex person than my father. Not as easy to get a handle on most days. She would look you in the eye and truthfully tell you her age, or her weight. But she would lie about her height. Mother was probably just a tad less than 5 foot tall. As she aged she shrunk down to about 4'10". But all of her adult life, she would tell people she was 5' 3". Now, everyone knew that wasn't true, but you did not contradict my little Mama. So, even though I was taller than her by the time I started kindergarten, Mother continued to claim that she was 5' 3". I asked her once, when I was a brash young teen, why she told people she was taller than she really was. She looked up at me as if I were an alien from outer space, calmly said "I am 5' 3" tall, I always have been." That was the last time I brought up the subject.

I was 6' tall before the time I was a teen, and 6' 2" before I stopped growing taller. People would look at us when we were together, of course, commenting on my size, and Mother would tell them "Shoot, she'd be 7' tall if she didn't have so much tucked under for feet." or "I grew her that tall on purpose. The man who built my kitchen cabinets was 7 foot tall, I wanted to find out what he might have left on the top shelf."

Mother was sometimes a difficult woman. She raised 6 children, and as we grew older there may never have been a time when she was speaking to all 6 of us at once. She had a bit of a mean streak sometimes, and she seemed happiest when she was surrounded by drama. Now this doesn't mean she wasn't the best parent she knew how to be. I think in those days most parents were doing the best they knew how. They were so wrong sometimes, but I honestly believe it was because of the times we grew up in, and not necessarily maliciousness on the part of our parents. My Mother may have been a strict disciplinarian at home, she may have exerted total control, but do not let a teacher or other adult pick on or treat one of her children unfairly. Little mama became a giant in those situations.

One of my favorite stories is told from her perspective and mine. My 1st grade teacher was not the best teacher in the world. I was a complication for her, and she would write notes home to my mother. Mother told everyone that she thinks I was born knowing how to read and write, because she certainly didn't remember teaching me and according to her I was reading at age 2. I think she probably wasn't exaggerating too much, because I do not remember when I didn't know how. Well, my kindergarten teacher thought I was a bit of a problem, probably because I would get bored and rather than napping preferred to spend time reading. In first grade, we started learning to print our letters. The issues arose because I already could write, in cursive, and except for the printing lessons, would write that way. So a letter from my teacher would go home with me, and Mother would respond with a lengthy letter back. I suppose it would have been too easy to call each other.

The teacher wanted Mother to tell me that I wasn't allowed to write in cursive. It seems it caused a problem for the teacher because the other students saw me do it. Mother apparently wrote back that the teacher should not be showing my work to the other students and that I was to be allowed to carry on. Well, that letter must have amused my teacher, because I was on the playground during recess when my teacher and another teacher called me over and asked me in not kid friendly terms who my Mother thought she was. In the middle is not a comfortable place for a 6 year old to be. Mother ended up in the Principal's office, and according to her the principal, Mr. Johnson, started explaining that first grade children could not be allowed to write in cursive because, as told by Mother, "We use slim pencils when we teach children to write in cursive, Mrs. Jones, and at 6 years old the muscles in their little hands aren't strong enough to hold a slim pencil." The next thing my mother said was a question, "You don't have any idea which child is mine, do you Mr. Johnson?" He admitted as much and mother told him to call me to the office and that the conversation would not continue until I got there.

Now I knew my mother had planned to speak to the principal that day, and so when the call came to my teacher and she sent me to the principal with a smirk on her face I was a bit anxious by the time I was ushered through the swinging gate into the inner offices. I was escorted into the Principal's office by the school secretary, and my little mama came and stood shoulder to shoulder with me.I was a few inches taller than her. Then she said "Tell me again, Mr. Johnson,  about the muscles in her little hands." Mother grabbed my 'little hand' and said we were leaving. She asked me where my class was, we marched down the hall, she went in the classroom, the teacher sputtering that she was disrupting the class. Mother told her not to worry, it wouldn't happen again. Mother cleaned out my desk, and we went home. I was transferred to a different school a couple of days and some phone calls to the school board later. My Mother may have had issues with her children, but she was always our staunchest supporter when it came to others having issues with us.I still miss my mother, especially when my son does something amazing. I will think, I should call my little mama. I learned a lot about advocating for my very special child from my mother advocating for me.

I also learned to say I love you to the people I love. It was something I never heard growing up.It was a different time. My parents didn't say it to each other or to us children. I think it would have made quite a difference if I had known how much they loved each other when I was young. I know how much of a difference it would have made if I had known if they loved me.I was blessed that both of my parents died at home in my arms. It may not have felt like a blessing at the time, but as I look back it was. I was able to say good bye to them, knowing that I had forgiven them, and hoping that they had forgiven me. But, no matter, I know that they were loved, and surrounded by love as they crossed over. I wish my husband had not died alone in a car on a freeway. But I know he knew he was loved, and I knew he loved me. We had the opportunity to say that to each other a couple of hours before he was killed by a young woman with almost twice the legal limit  blood alcohol count.My husband and I told each other that we loved each other dozens of times a day. William would turn around, and roll his eyes when would 'make out' in the kitchen. But he knew his parents loved each other, and he knew he was loved, because we told him every day. I still do, I always will.