Mindful Monday: If Anybody's Still Listening

Well. It's a been a while. I think there's a 75% chance that this post won't get published but I'm going to let go of that notion for now and keep typing and see what happens. It's been so long now that I can't imagine anyone could care much about what I might write here anyway.

You know I'd forgotten that I started Mindful Monday posts until I went over to Rebekah's blog and saw that she's still doing it? Who needs some mindfulness? Me. Clearly.

Yonas has been home over a year now. We've come a long way. We have a long way to go. Nothing about it has been easy. Some of it has been beautiful. Some of it has been far uglier than I could have ever imagined. Most of it has been that strange mix of pain and beauty and progress and fear and revelations and missteps that life is so full of. I have tried my best for all my kids and come up short more times than I care to count. I haven't been compassionate with myself when I've been struggling. And I've struggled a lot. More that I care to admit, which is another reason I haven't posted here much. No one likes to admit they are struggling.

How do we strike the balance of recognizing that this parenting gig is the most important job we'll ever have and setting the expectations of ourselves accordingly while letting ourselves be human?

It's the balance I've been lacking. The balance that allows me to recognize when my well is empty, when I need a break, when everything seems to be falling apart, and yet I keep pushing through because if not me, who? I know that doesn't serve us as a family in the end. I know it doesn't cultivate spaciousness and calmness. But I can't let go of the idea that these are people's souls we're taking about. Their futures. Their lives.

I said it out loud last night. I'm struggling. Again. AGAIN.

For me, today, this is a love letter to myself. It's okay if no one else reads it. The balance I seek is mine for the taking. It's not my life that needs to change, but my thinking about my life that needs to change. It's okay if I'm falling apart. It's okay if I feel overwhelmed.

In her book, When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times, Pema Chodron says this:

"If we're willing to give up hope that insecurity and pain can be exterminated, then we can have the courage to relax with the groundless of our situation. This is the first step on the path."

I feel groundless already. I might as well get comfortable with it instead of wishing it away, which is absolutely not working. It's a shaky first step. But here I am taking it.

50,059!

Let the laundry begin.

Wordless Wednesday

26,863

That's how many words I've written since November 1st for NaNoWrimo. I'm half-way through. Up until a couple of days ago, I'd maintained a self-congratulatory two day cushion, but it's gone now.

Here's something interesting about taking a lot of time from your regularly scheduled life to do something you love, something that moves you, even if it's very silly and shouldn't be taken very seriously: It makes you a lighter, happier person because EVEN THE SILLY THINGS MATTER.

Because if we can make room for the silly endeavors, the more serious ones naturally follow. They wear away a groove in our lives, to make room for what we tell ourselves we don't have room for. The big "No" we tell ourselves when we have a dream and want to follow it becomes quieter until we can hear what our souls are begging us to do.

It doesn't matter that I don't know what I will write about when I sit down to in front of my computer tonight after my children are in bed. What matters is that I'm sitting down at all.

No one can write a great novel in one month. But I can write a mediocre one that gives me something I can't quite name in return.

And that has to be worth more than all the unfolded laundry and a growing tower of dirty dishes in the sink.

It's Hard to Take a Decent Picture of Four Kids Under Eight

but I like this one.

Ummmm...What Did I Just Do???

Okay. So it's been awhile. I could offer up some reasonable excuses for my absence like: I began homeschooling my two oldest while trying to keep my two youngest happy. Or an autoimmune disease that has been kicking my butt for the past month. I could blame it on out of town guests, children with colds, Yonas kicking his tantrums into super-ultra high gear, hormones, or pure exhaustion.


I could claim any of those, or maybe all of those excuses, for why I haven't been blogging, but I think the truth may be that I'm not a blogger anymore. I have genuinely felt like I didn't have anything interesting to put out into the ether. I may revert back to how this blog began, a chronicle of my children's lives for people who love them that live far away. Maybe not. Maybe inspiration will strike and I will have lots of things to say someday. But for now, not so much.


BUT. Wait until the end of November to give up on me. Last November I participated in NaBloPoMo, National Blog Posting Month. This year I have stupidly, boldly, and insanely committed to NaNoWriMo. National Novel Writing Month. That's right. You commit your crazy ass to writing a novel in the month of November. 50,000 words. That's about 1500-2000 words per day. There is no chance of a prize for completion. Only misery until the finish line. If, that is, you actually finish. But if you do...bliss.


So I am here today, posting on my neglected blog to say out loud that I have committed myself to said misery so I will feel accountable, so my friends will say, "How's the writing going?" and I will have to give them an answer, so I can get on here and bitch about it, and so that any of you who plan on joining the insanity can conspire and commiserate with me.


I will post about my progress. And when December rolls around, after a month of neglecting housework and laundry and, let's be honest, personal hygiene; I might even post a picture or two of my children.

And maybe I'll be a blogger again.

Mindful Monday: 'Opia

This past week, the week we officially began homeschooling, coincided with Yonas getting sick for the first time since he's been home. Just you're average cold, nothing too awful. But man, oh man, it triggered something in my boy. He regressed to where we were at about the two-months-home mark. A screaming, tantruming, rabid mess. He started using Amharic words he hasn't used in four months. Milder, less alarming versions of his previous food issues emerged, he wanted to be carried everywhere, sucked his thumb more, hit me, slammed my finger in a drawer on purpose.

He also started talking about Ethiopia, " 'Opia" a lot more.

On Friday it rained for the first time all August, it was a gray, cloudy day. While Yonas had lunch and the girls were off playing, we had this conversation:

"Baby cry 'Opia"
"A baby cried in Ethiopia?"
"Yeah, baby Ula cry 'Opia."
"Baby Ula cried in Ethiopia?"
"Yeah. Baby Ula sad. Baby Ula hurt."
"The baby cried. The baby got hurt. Did Yonas cry in Ethiopia?"
"Yeah."

After lunch I sat down with him and we looked at the pictures of when he lived in Ethiopia. We looked at his friends, the women who cared for him. He didn't seem particularly sad or affected, just happy to see pictures of himself.

I was so overwhelmed in the moment, thinking about how much of his life I won't ever know. He has a couple of scars I don't know the source of, visible reminders of the life he lived before he came to us. But it's all the internal scars, all the pain and grief, all the physical and emotional hunger that I can't ever know that I try to honor but sometimes lose in the face of daily living. His presence seems so natural now, such a given, so right, that it can be hard to keep his losses in the forefront of my mind.

Perhaps being sick shook loose some cellular memories he needed to exorcise. Or maybe he was feeling secure enough to let loose more of the pain. Whatever was happening I found myself struggling not to regress with him back to the pain and fear of when we first got home. It's tricky business, this attachment stuff. We let go, surrender just enough to trust each other so that we can fall in love a little more, then hang on for the unpredictable ride that love unleashes.

I try, I do, to stay open to his heart, to the hearts of all my children. Sometimes I get it so wrong it keeps me awake at night. But occasionally there are moments when I let go of my "shoulds" and give myself space to see what they are really after. What they really need. Sometimes I can actually give it to them. And sometimes all I can do is sit with the awareness of where we both are and it has to be enough because in the moment I can't get any closer.

My practice for mindfulness in parenting, in my life, is to get closer to being with my children and myself wherever we are at any given moment. Whether they are slamming my finger in a drawer or pulling me close and whispering, "Luf you, Mama" in my ear.

Mindful Monday: Leaping

It's official. We are going to homeschool. Yesterday many of my favorite people gathered to swim and play and celebrate the beginning of a new school year at our old school. But we didn't. Tonight many of my favorite people will gather to go to the orientation of the school that has been our community, our home, for three years. Making the decision to homeschool was not easy, not without doubt, definitely not without sadness. It frankly caught me off guard. When I think of the faces I will be missing, it's easy to wonder what the hell we were thinking. But I know it's meant to be our path.

In the sweeter moments I see a beauty in it all. The beauty in helping my children learn what fascinates them, of helping them follow their hearts, listen to what their souls are whispering. In darker moments I think "I'm going to be lonely. And burnt out. They're going to drive me crazy." And I have been a parent long enough to know all those things are true. I've also been a human long enough to know all those things are fleeting. Just like my time with them.

In a week, when we begin in earnest, we will start with trees. Trees are big and beautiful and give us breath. When you hug the big ones, you can feel their souls. We will let the trees open us to the beauty around us, the bigness of life, and the serenity of being still. And then, when we are ready to move on, we will see where the ride takes us. The trees with their reaching branches, they will point the way.

Six Months Home

Yonas has been home six months today. When I look back at how far we've all come as individuals, as a family, I am amazed. And proud. I will not write a long post today, nor will we celebrate in an external way. But I will celebrate quietly and internally. Today I celebrate:

Ava, and her ability to help and love and tolerate Yonas. Her siblings adore and idolize her with good reason. She is a demi-god.

Eden, who is often better at re-directing his behavior and extinguishing potential fires than I.

Safa, whose ability to forgive and grant him love and affection when he's been awful to her puts me to shame.

Erik, for his support and strength, his humor and battlefield camaraderie. He has been an anchor for me when I felt adrift.

I celebrate myself for digging deep, being honest, asking for help and coming out the other side to find myself six months later celebrating and loving my son. I celebrate myself for knowing I still have a lot of work to do.

I celebrate Yonas for the boy he was when we met him, the boy he is now, and the boy he is becoming. Yonas feels a home-ness here now. The amount of trust and release and surrender it took on his part to get where we are now is not lost on me. It is humbling and beautiful and heartbreaking. A deep bow of respect to you my son.

May the next six months bring more healing, laughter, and peace and bring us round to celebrating a year together as a family of six.

When Providence Joins Us

I was going to title this post: "Fodder to Get Us Off Our Asses", but it wasn't very romantic and I like the romantic notion of Providence. Maybe you're already off your ass and don't need this quote. And you can call it Providence or God or Karma or Inspiration or your Muse or Being Aligned with the Universe. Call it what you want, but when we make a commitment, something akin to magic happens. Showing up is the hard part. Sit down to write, pick up that paint brush, put on those running shoes and the flood gates of soul support open up. There is mystery here and I don't take it for granted. (Liz, I double dog dare you to read the book.)


The following is a quote from W.H. Murray, The Scottish Himalayan Expedition:


"Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation) there is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would not otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising one's favour all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance which no man would have dreamed would come his way. I have learned a deep respect for one of Goethe's couplets: 'Whatever you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, magic, and power in it. Begin it now.'"