I Belong to Timer

I am having a bit of a meltdown, a new office, a new year, more or less a new life. Still mourning my old ‘just being a mom’ life, too. I tend to over-think things, and get well, sort of lost in space, ungrounded. And then, something old, really old, makes me feel like everything is new again. . . and puts my feet back on the ground.

On the ground, walking to the bus stop, 15 years old, having a bad day. Sad, lonely, misunderstood, my best friend is too busy to listen, so I head to the Wax Museum record store on Lake Street, determined to buy another Laura Nyro album. My parents don’t like me taking the bus down Lake Street, they think this is a bad neighborhood, but they don’t forbid me, or anything like that.

When I wear my purple velvet jeans, with all the patches that I had sewn on myself, with the little bells on a piece of rawhide leather tied onto the belt loop, my dad, who’s out raking, calls me over to him, “Theresa, don’t you have any other pants to wear?” I’m already on my way out, babysitting money in my suede purse, “But dad, I like these pants, they’re my favorite ones.” He shakes his head, picks up the rake again and I know that even if he doesn’t understand me, he still loves me. I don’t know if anyone understands me, but when I listen to Laura Nyro sing, I feel like everything will be alright.

To take the bus to the Wax Museum, I have to transfer buses on Lake and Hennepin, the busy bustling intersection that seems to be the intersection of worlds, of my world in safe Linden Hills, with the downtown world, further to the North, with the sketchy world, down Lake Street to the East, with the urban hip world, down Lake Street to the West; which leads to Lake Calhoun, and the first tier suburb of St. Louis Park. I like traveling the city by bus, by myself, and I like the Wax Museum, too.

Inside the record store it smells like incense, patchouli, and the big door jangles from the bells on it when I walk inside. The hardwood floors, and all the wooden containers full of music fill me with awe. It’s a combination of solidness, groundedness, and air, possibilities, music of all sorts, used and new. I find a Laura Nyro album (LP for long play) that I don’t own yet, and I am happy, happy to pay full price and buy it new. I find a used Joni Mitchell LP too, so that is icing on the cake. I think the clerks here are cool, a little forbidding in their hipness, mostly guys, with long hair and beads. I could have a crush on them, but they’re a bit old.

On the bus, on the ride home, I make a quick vow to myself, I will never, ever own all the Laura Nyro music in the world, so that I will always have something to count on to make me smile. When I get home, I head to my room, the batik spread on my bed, soft and colorful, I put on the new music, my friend calls me back, and now has time to listen. It’s all ok again. I have a lot of Laura Nyro music, I still love her rocketing voice and crazy lyrics. Today I found a new version of her song, Timer, a live, rowdy version, that is available on itunes, for 99 cents; I once again become grounded, and feel like everything will be ok, and there’s still Laura Nyro music I don’t own.

Happy New Space

Today I move into my new office space for my therapy practice. I’m excited and a bit scared, as I dare admit it. It’s stepping into my dream and vision, which always seems like a wonderful hard step to take. It’s incredible that we have the power within us to create and live within our vision, shaping our lives. There was a time in my life when this process seemed much less tangible, something I believed possible, but was not sure how it worked. There were so many systems that I was familiar with that seemed to be part of how things worked, like school, the system that most of us are most familiar with, and it was this system, that then led us into the work system that we were to navigate to make our dreams come true.

But there was another system at work also, that I as a girl was not overtly warned about, the patriarchal system, that permeated all the other systems. This was the system that subtly said, “You are not as valuable as boys.” This system showed me that I had to cater to men, to play nice and be pretty and this too, would ensure my success. There was also a religious system that had it’s own rules and agenda, and this system too, more overtly, taught me that I was not as valuable as men. This was why, when I was married, I somehow had more value, because if I was not a man, at least I had a man.

Is it any wonder that single moms have it so hard? Also as part of this religious system, I believed that I could only get the things in life that I wanted if God wanted these for me also, so there was always a sort of “God willing” tacked on to it. Now, this seems a bit unfair to me, like thinking, why do I always have to have permission from someone to have what I want? And so if you were a woman, it usually was a male someone, from whom this permission would come. So, I will say it out loud, I’m done asking permission, and I’m ok with wanting what I want, and that being a good enough reason to have it.

I’ve found that in order to find a place for myself, I have to know the systems, and what they can do for me, but I also have to hold onto myself, know what I want and use the systems to get what I want. I can’t get stuck in the values of the systems, but move through them fluidly, able to see the past being played out in the present, and still hold onto my vision for the future. As I move through these systems, I hope to challenge the untruths, yet not become embittered by them. Systems can be a scaffold into your vision. They can also be a trap.

While I navigated these systems, I found I really wasn’t very fond of systems at all, and wanted to play around in life without hierarchy and so many rules. There are some places where you can do this, most obviously, the arts. Going to work with my ex, and working a couple of calls myself as a stagehand, proved the existence of a world where work can be play. There are other places in the world where this is possible, and I’ve been visioning this for a while now. A place where I can go to work and love what I do and the people I work with.

A place that will be filled with good energy, much like I’ve tried to do with my home. A place that evidences what is possible. A place where all people are valued, where dreams are cherished, and hard and hurtful truths can be explored with the backdrop of safety. A place to play and to heal and to grow. For now, this new space is where I am supposed to be.

Welcome to my space, and welcome now, as the new year begins, not to just new days, but to new space. Imagine it with me, a wide open canvas onto which you can paint your dreams. Pick your colors, pick the people you choose to love and spend time with. Choose how you see life, choose how you show your emotions, or how to keep yourself safe. Choose your own systems, base them on what feels right in your heart, and trust this. Don’t make either or choices, make choices that randomly mix things, conjure up your own sorcery, your own magic, this is your year, your life, your wide open space. If you regret anything, believe it can be redeemed.

Simple Life

take walks

breathe deep

down to your toes

up to the top of your head

your crown chakra

eat with others

more

eat alone

less

smile more

listen more

ask more questions

from the heart

keep going when

you’re afraid

dare

to love

over and over

and over

again

The True Meaning of Christmas

I had an interesting phone conversation with my ex yesterday. We’ve somehow started the tradition in the past few years of coming together for Christmas, and actually even talking before Christmas to plan for our family celebration, which usually includes my ex, his mother, our children and grandchildren, and at times extended family and/or friends. This is sort of a miracle in itself, in that my ex and I are not exactly best friends or anything, but we’re learning to communicate better around the topic of our children and grandchildren. Which brings me to the interesting point, for me at least, when my ex said, “We need to get back to the true meaning of Christmas.” For it was at this point, that I realized that there is no one set “true meaning of Christmas.” My ex continued by suggesting that next year we should not exchange gifts at all, but help others, as in donate to a secret santa organization, as it was time we “gave to others who were needy" reclaiming, in his schema, the true meaning of Christmas.

At this point, I was a bit flabbergasted on a couple of points, 1) my ex had no clue that as a family, in the past, without him, while still 'needy' ourselves, we had donated to these organizations at Christmas (and other times, too) and 2) the idea that you had to deny from yourself or your family in order to donate. So, as we talked, I shared with him, that our ‘family’ had no consensus on the ‘true meaning of Christmas’ and also that ‘our’ family had already integrated giving to others into our lives. I knew when we divorced that we seemed to be on polar opposite sides on many issues, and this conversation highlighted this chasm, once again. We never had very well aligned, or defined, family values, and our families of origin seemed to have very different values when it came to understanding how people, or families thrive. We never really even talked about it. Maybe this would be a start to my ex understanding who his family had been, and now was, since I raised our daughters, without him.

This conversation made me take stock and reminded me of what I believe and value. That we can give to ourselves and others. That if we give to others “til it hurts” it helps no one. If we give out of abundance and joy, it doesn’t feel like giving, it feels like sharing. I raised my daughters to value people and to value sharing, we don’t always embrace abundance in ways we could, I unfortunately passed down my own family legacy of fear of not having enough, which I believe my parents internalized through the first great depression. It also made me wonder if sharing isn’t a socialized gender value. I know many women who share time, cookies, child-care, who volunteer, who offer to do the meal planning and making at the holidays for all the gendered people in their families, and I’m not quite as sure as to how men share their time and talents? We do still live in an economy that doesn’t value caring, do you know how much money people who care for our children and our elderly earn? In comparison to people who care for our money? Caring is not something that should be the meaning of Christmas, caring should be the meaning of life.

What do you care about? What do you value, what is your “true meaning” of Christmas? My daughters, I think would resoundingly answer, “cookies.” For me, I am so grateful for the times I was able to buy for my family and to give to others too. I can't imagine not wanting to give my own girls presents at Christmas, not out of thinking that things buy happiness, but out of the joy of giving and sharing with those I love. During the rest of the year, I continue to envision and work toward a caring economy, where each person has value, and the things they need, and we as a society work together not for individual wealth, but for a culture that believes we are all entitled to the good things in life.

3 Days Away

Christmas is 3 days away. My condo is now officially messier than it’s ever been, I think I can absolutely verify this by the cobwebs on my light fixtures, the dust bunny colonies moving in on me, encroaching you might say. The dirty clothes overflowing and the sink and counters stacked with dirty dishes. Half wrapped gifts and unopened boxes from Amazon sit on my dining room table. The only Christmas decor in my condo is a poinsettia I won at a holiday luncheon.

Err, why did it have to come so fast this year? How did I get so busy? I was the one who dragged her feet to grade school every year, dawdled to look at the snow flakes as they fell on her jacket, and would skip gym class to just sit in the locker room and eat sunflower seeds. Now I am running and never fast enough. So, what does this total blur of the season tell me? How is my life informing me?

There is always one more present that someone wants at the last minute, but guess what, I’m taking off the hat that says “Person who makes everyone’s dreams come true.” This said, I do feel bad that I never put up a tree, and mostly becomes it means a lot to my daughter who lives with me, but I also feel okay in knowing, that she will be disappointed and still be okay. There was a time in my life that I didn’t know that people could actually survive negative emotions. Seriously, so hell bent on pleasing people, I took it personally whenever someone wasn’t.

I do want to get back to having time for and liking the holiday season. I am becoming overwhelmed (in a good way) by the cards, gifts, and all the caring that people have for me. I’m letting it in, letting it soothe all the bitterness of all the years of being the single parent at Christmas. Of being Santa on a budget, of managing the hopes and dreams and disappointments that don’t just come this time of year, but all year long. There are heightened emotions this time of year as we time travel, remember back, and take stock of what’s in store for next year.

Next year, yes, that’s when we’ll have a clean home, a lovely tree, the bills will be paid off, and everyone’s Christmas dreams will come true. “Wake up.” Wake up in your life, love the dust, love the mess, accept the holiday river flowing through your life. No tree, but I am grateful, grateful and if not surrounded by lights and greenery, surrounded by the sparkle of love, of life, of friends. Merry, merry, merry life to you.

Zen and the Art of Baking Pumpkin Bread

For Halloween, I bought a perfectly cute little organic pumpkin, that sat on my pretty granite counter. I knew better than to leave it outside, where the squirrels could it eat. I knew, eventually, that I would eat this pumpkin, but for a while it was just a beautiful thing to see sitting on my counter.

A few weeks ago, it was time to cook the pumpkin, or it would end up rotten. So, I cooked my pumpkin, pureed it and froze it. Over a week ago I took it out of the freezer and put in the fridge to thaw. Wow, time flies, and once again, if I don’t cook it, it will rot.

Megan, my dear youngest, has taught me the art of following a recipe, exactly, and I will be the first to admit, that things do turn out rather consistently, better, when you measure. Unfortunately, my bread baking this morning was inexact. But it was pleasant in the making.

I plugged in my laptop by my only kitchen window. I could see the beautiful new dusting of snow on everything in the alley. I listened to jazz from Ella to Chet. I lit some candles. I measured the white sugar, hmm, not enough, ok, substitute more brown sugar. I measured the baking soda, oh crap, more than I intended fell into the batter. Oh well, spoon that part out. What do I do with this extra 1/4 cup of nummy pumpkin, throw it in rather than throw it out. It’s taking a bit longer to bake, but it smells awesome.

The recipe calls for glaze for the bread, and it’s amazing with the glaze, but I’m now out of white sugar, and the orange that I bought to zest for the glaze has such a funky soft rind that there is just no zesting of it to be done. I’m letting the bread cool, so I have no opinion on the goodness of this yet. It will have to be good enough without the glaze. Sometimes you have all the ingredients, sometimes you don’t. Sometimes you can follow the recipe, sometimes, you just have to improvise.

I am making time to bake. I have to, even when I don’t have time. It grounds me, it connects me to this cycle of growing, and cooking and eating and doing it all over again. It is not an exact science, although the right amounts of the right stuff make it better. It is nearly Christmas, a week away. We put up the trees, take them down, we give gifts, we remember, we celebrate. We hold each other near, or as near as we dare, this time of year.

Next year is for more new adventures. Light more candles, bake more bread. Decide to love one or two more people next year, or love the ones you already love, better. And cherish your one dear self. Take a bite of warm pumpkin bread, inexact, but delicious. Find the recipe at Orange-Spice Pumpkin Bread, Williams Sonoma (online).

heart you

to get to the heart of the matter

where is the beginning of the road to

your self

where does the path become so tangled

that you sit and cry

in the midst of it all

until you look up

and see the dew on the leaves

the sun through the trees

and just believe

that who you are is there

somewhere

Theresa's Top Ten

After having been immersed in American Christian culture for most of my life, and then taking the time to really try to find out what many others had to say about their faith, not to mention (ok, I’m mentioning it) reading all the way through different versions of the Bible every year for about fifteen years, I’m now ready to list the top ten things I’ve learned from the Biblical Christmas story.

Top Ten Takeaways From the Christmas Story

1. Always make room reservations.
2. There’s always room to sleep in a barn (if you don’t follow above).
3. A manger is a good place for a baby. (Nice height, easy to reach, sturdy, keeps baby on his/her back.)
4. It’s important to pay your taxes.
5. Listen to Angels.
6. Pack a lunch and follow your star.
7. Stay with your woman, even if she’s pregnant by someone you’ve never met.
8. Travel in threes (the three wise men), research confirms that buying experiences (like travel) is more satisfying than buying things.
9. Don’t listen to kings (Herod). (Also see, The Emperor’s New Clothes, by H.C. Andersen.)
10. Honor young pregnant women (no matter what they told you regarding how they conceived, you never know whose mother they might be).

Advent Vespers

I finally attended an Augsburg Advent Vespers service last night. I say finally, because, I’ve been wanting to attend this event for about fifteen years. Ever since I graduated from Augsburg College and began receiving invitations to the service as an Augsburg alumni. Is timing everything? Maybe, so maybe there’s some cosmic reason that it took me fifteen years to go.

When I went back to college to finish my undergrad degree, my world was slowly falling apart. I’d been in some ways, happily married, and in other ways, more personal ways, more unhappy than happy. In hindsight, I can say that I didn’t know that I had a right to be personally happy and have my own goals and dreams. When I was single, I was going to school at the University of Minnesota, first at Morris, Minnesota, and then, after one semester and one too many blizzards, I moved back home with my parents in Minneapolis and transferred to the Minneapolis campus. I worked full-time nights, and paid my own way through college.

After Kathleen and Erin were born, I took night classes, not giving up on that four year degree. I also loved going to school, loved learning and meeting new people. But once we moved to Owatonna, and I soon became pregnant again, I gave up (at least for a while) on the idea of finishing. I guess I believed I’d traded in my own life for a home and family. Then, one day, a miracle occurred, or at least I believed it was a miracle at the time, and really, I guess it was. I received a postcard in the mail advertising Augsburg’s Weekend College. Imagine, I could finish my degree on the weekends, every other weekend, in fact. This postcard came at just the right time in my life. A miracle, no?

It seemed like a miracle, in many ways, not in the least in that it was something I wanted really badly, but didn’t think I deserved. I was brought up, thinking that private colleges were for rich people, and just generally, not for people like me. Steve, my husband, had attended Augsburg for a while, and I was somewhat jealous and baffled by his opportunity to attend a private college and just walk away from it (he’d had a scholarship even, and dropped out). I had to somehow believe that I could go to a private college, and that I could find the money to go, if they accepted me.

By this time, I had not worked outside the home for quite some time, and to say my self-confidence was waning would have been an understatement. Usually, too, when I wanted something, Steve would find a way to make me feel small for even asking. So, when I finally approached him about it, and he said, “yes” and helped me fill out the financial aid forms, it was like a dream come true. I was really going to finish college, and once again, I had dreams for myself. My imagination was reawakening to possibilities. It’s hard for me now, to imagine a place as an adult where I had to ask someone else’s permission to do something good for myself. My role as a wife and mother had usurped my sense of self so easily.

I met with an advisor at Augsburg, and we reviewed my transcripts from the U and it soon became apparent that the quickest way for me to finish college was to get the English degree I had started towards at the U, especially since I had completed more upper level English credits than anything else. Wordsworth, anyone? At the time, it didn’t dawn on me that I might have to find a job with this degree, all I knew was that I loved reading and writing. I did take communication courses, which I also liked, and so decided on a Communication minor.

Well, a funny thing happened on my journey back to school, I started growing. I started making friends on these weekends in the cities who were not like my church-lady friends in Owatonna. We’d look forward to our lunch together on Saturday, in between morning and afternoon classes. These women were much more frank about their relationships and their lives, their language not peppered with “The Lord this, and the Lord that.” As I grew closer to the friends I was making, and closer to the person who I was, I realized that Steve and I were really not close at all. I began to wonder, really wonder, what had happened to me?

To be able to attend school, my parents agreed to watch my children for me every other weekend, and I stayed with them overnight, also. Classes were scheduled for Friday nights, Saturday morning and afternoon, and Sunday morning. Most times, Steve would drive us all up, and then pick me and the girls up on Sunday, driving us home by Sunday evening, when I’d barely have time to get them ready for the school week. This was really hard on the girls. Kathleen was a young teen, and Erin and Megan in grade school. They all missed out on birthday parties and hanging with their friends on the weekends, and they began to resent staying with my mom and dad. On one Friday, before we left for Minneapolis, I knew Erin and Megan’s hamster Teddy was dying, and I just lied and told them he would be fine, knowing he’d be dead when we returned. He was.

I completed one year of weekend college. During the past year, my marriage was falling fast apart. A young woman had called me up and told me my husband loved her, not me. She was a dancer at a strip club. Steve continued to tour with Prince and was often gone for months at a time. The girls felt adrift, and I know now that I was not really able to be present for them. No one had ever really been present for me in my life, so I had no clue what that was. The church-ladies were telling me that God would save my marriage, and I really, really wanted to believe that, but I also wanted the nightmare to end. I wanted to wake up. More than one instructor at Augsburg encouraged me to write, and to keep writing. My philosophy instructor counseled me when I confided in him that my marriage was a mess. The Augsburg community was embracing and empowering.

I filed for divorce. Steve was on his second dancer girlfriend, this one not as friendly as the first, and I couldn’t stand being stuck in the chaos anymore. He’d profess his love for me and the girls and then rarely come home. The house was in foreclosure and our bills in collection, even though Steve made good money. This was not the white picket fence I’d opted for, this was like a chain link fence around a cemetery. Obviously, God was not up to saving this particular marriage, and I didn’t even care why or why not anymore. I had no clue how I would support myself and my three girls, but I did know that if God wouldn’t save my marriage, I had to save myself and my daughters. I asked Steve to move out, he moved back to Minneapolis.

My parents were there for me as much as they could be. My car was not very reliable, and my mom and dad graciously allowed me to use my mom’s car to be able to finish school. One more year of school, I thought, and everything would be okay. Only thing, during my last year in school, we found out that Kathleen was pregnant. I nearly dropped out, but my friends at Augsburg convinced me not to.

In between writing papers and studying, I was parenting a very sad and scared pregnant teenager. Megan was diagnosed with depression, and Erin was left alone way too much. Graduation was in June, and Kathleen’s baby was due in June. I really wanted to march, so much of my life had not been about me, I wanted this small ritual. I wondered, would life always be this complex? The baby waited until after I marched, and all three of my children and my parents attended my graduation.

I had no clue what the next part of my life would look like. Divorced, soon to be grandmother, and wondering, how to parent a teen mom? How to single parent? As so many parents do, I can only say, I did my best at the time. The challenges seemed insurmountable, most of the time. I was often weary- nearly lost in the chaos of life. But even if I felt that way; I wasn’t lost, and finishing my degree at Augsburg gave me hope. In the nick of time, with the coming collapse of the economy, having a degree gave me the opportunity to provide a home for my family. I was able to find a job I loved, at the Gainey Conference Center of the University of St. Thomas. This job gave me the opportunity for graduate school.

So, last night at this advent vesper service so much of this came flooding back to me, in the candlelight and Christmas light of the beautiful downtown church, in the hush of the evening, in the angelic sounds of the choirs, in the magic of the orchestra. The air was swirling with history, religious and personal. In this space I was able to contemplate, to remember, to be grateful. We are all alright now, fifteen years later. Perhaps miracles are our ability to continue to start over, again. To have hope. Advent, waiting in twilight for morning to come, again.