~In the family way~

This morning I have been thinking about my recent visit to Georgia where the luxury of doing nothing took the lead in guiding the day’s events. Lyn and I spent marvelous one on one time, uninterrupted by necessities… delicious... Lyn is the best. She really is an exceptional woman. She owns her own mind. I love it. She is open and generous and available and present. We spent exquisite hours of lavishly sharing our ideas and experience and insights and questions, luxuriously basking in each others minds. I feel expanded and alive with newness and fresh perspective as a result. Simply, as good as it gets. Thank you, Lyn.

I also had a rare chance to be invited into the mind-life of sixteen year old Kendall. She is beautiful young woman living the critical day to day, social life of the teenage world. What I found delightful was that as significant as this all was, she was yet exploring her inner world as she goes, and being willing to share it. I wonder how many teenagers do this sort of inner accounting, while they’re caught up in surviving with style and a semblance of dignity while levying for status and position. ~Few.

The teenage time-period, is a critical passage in life in which relationships with peers permeates all the choices we make. And the how well we do that often defines who we enter adulthood as. It is delightful to see such inquisitiveness and personal resolve at such a formative age. What a privilege to share. Thank you, Kendall.

The standard operating procedure in this family is one of ease and contentment; the kind that comes with harmony determined in advance.

Sometimes when you’re around a family, there is a subtle (or maybe not so subtle) sense of separate interests bumping up against each other, almost as if their union had been accidental, or at least incidental as each person was hitting the grind of making a daily life for themselves. (You know, kind of like companies you’ve worked for).

It made me think about what family is. So I consult the online authority and got these (plus too many more/same). Family is defined as:

 a social unit living together; "he moved his family to Virginia"; "It was a good Christian household"; "I waited until the whole house was asleep"; "the teacher asked how many people made up his home"

 primary social group; parents and children; "he wanted to have a good job before starting a family"

 people descended from a common ancestor; "his family has lived in Massachusetts since the Mayflower"

 class: a collection of things sharing a common attribute; "there are two classes of detergents"

 an association of people who share common beliefs or activities; "the message was addressed not just to employees but to every member of the company family"; "the church welcomed new members into its fellowship"

 (biology) a taxonomic group containing one or more genera; "sharks belong to the fish family"

 kin: a person having kinship with another or others; "he's kin"; "he's family"

 syndicate: a loose affiliation of gangsters in charge of organized criminal activities
wordnet.princeton.edu/perl/webwn

Here’s what I’m thinking about family. Family is really a decision, (preferably a deliberate decision), for membership with a set of ideas and values, and not necessarily people per se. That set of values and ideas then create their own moral code, which then attracts its members.

Sure when we’re growing up, it seems that our family is what we’re born into. And without running off into a track of metaphysical philosophy, let’s say for discussion purposes, that we are, just a defined, born to a set of genetic characteristics and tendencies that make up our ‘family’.

Does that define us? How much? What portion of ‘family’ do we assign excuses for our lack of deliberate decision making about who we are, what our values are, what we stand for. It’s said that an unexamined life is a life not worth living (or something like that).

How deliberately are we about looking deeply into what we were ‘born into’ and choosing into what we feel is worthy of defining and/or assisting us?

I am a twin. I don’t know for sure what that means. Growing up it meant a certain kind of attention, a reference point to a specific and maybe special group membership. I was always aware that this was some kind of elusive idea that seemed to almost float around aimlessly until someone needed it to handle, I don’t know, slotting positions, I guess. But it’s not like there was a secret society that met once a month after mid-night in some covert location. There wasn’t really a group, just a feeling. Here’s what I learned it means for me. Looking deep within the construct and identity label of twin-ness, I came to understand that there was a kind of inner intimacy I learned and accepted as a twin that is core to who I am. I call it my womb-mate technology. It is an easy, natural part of my experience with others to sort of mind-meld with them so to speak … I found that I can know others quickly and well. It’s like an innate inclusion technique. I love them within this inclusion-meld, quite naturally accepting a certain wholeness and holographic connectedness. I’m sure this isn’t unique to me or twin-ness; it’s just how I wired it up. I felt this characteristic of mine, brought to my career as a counselor, a sort of cliff-note knowing that allowed me to feel at home, in-family with clients. And I did, developing a new definition of family.

Actually, much of how I viewed family and what it meant to me, I carefully held up to the light of discernment. Much of it was revamped at this time. I sort of let the old, blood-related definition of family die in my mind; letting go of taking anything about family for granted and started with a level of innate respect for each person alive, having a unique contribution to my being as a whole. Family became an idea, and entity of union that one must chose for oneself by careful invitation.

Today I feel that each of my relationships is a deliberate invitation to be in-family with me just as I am; raw and true and skinned, sometimes scared and sometimes wise, but always in the inquiry of life we share together.

And you know what; I choose my blood-family after all. We each bring to the table a unique and powerful inner journey, which when shared, increases my sense of who I am. Which in turn, encourages me to continue to uncover potentials I left in childhood, but can use now with daring and trust.

~There's a mom somewhere in there~

All the ideas I came into motherhood with, have, one by one left the nest. Reality ushered in a different scope, one that required humility to participate. I remember when Randi (grown up in pic) was a baby; when a cold virus collapsed the roof on me as a mom… Oh, god, the crying of the helpless~ (Yeah, I’m talking about me here) It’s such a painful, hopeless feeling, forcing me to do what I was sure I would never do, (self proclaimed atheist at the time) to eek out that beckoning prayer (“God, have mercy and take over”) while dialing the phone for my own mother.

Yes, you guess it. She knew exactly what to do. (She must have got the manual with her babies).

Being a mother teaches me who I am undercover, forcing me to interpret and respond from a place of love to situations where only fear seems available to me. I am astonished by the miracle I witness…

I just spent a grown-up-girl week with my sister Lyn in her yummy Lyn world of wisdom and freedom, motherhood and family, meaningful conversation on walks and sit-ins and movies and teenagers. (more about this visit with pics later)

She sent this marvelous presentation which I have posted below for you to share with me. From a mother’s stand point, it’s absolutely complete… enjoy…

From Anna Quindlen, Newsweek Columnist and Author:

All my babies are gone now. I say this not in sorrow but in

disbelief. I take great satisfaction in what I have today: three

almost-adults, two taller than I am, one closing in fast. Three

people who read the same books I do and have learned not to be afraid

of disagreeing with me in their opinion of them, who sometimes tell

vulgar jokes that make me laugh until I choke and cry, who need razor

blades and shower gel and privacy, who want to keep their doors

closed more than I like. Who, miraculously, go to the bathroom, zip

up their jackets and move food from plate to mouth all by themselves.

Like the trick soap I bought for the bathroom with a rubber ducky at

its center, the baby is buried deep within each, barely discernible

except through the unreliable haze of the past.

Everything in all the books I once poured over is finished for me

now. Pene lope Leach., T. Berry Brazelton., Dr. Spock. The ones on

sibling rivalry and sleeping through the night and early-childhood

education, have all grown obsolete. Along with Goodnight Moon and

Where the Wild Things Are, they are battered, spotted, well used. But

I suspect that if you flipped the pages dust would rise like

memories. What those books taught me, finally, and what the women on

the playground taught me, and the well-meaning relations --what they

taught me, was that they couldn't really teach me very much at all.

Raising children is presented at first as a true-false test, then

becomes multiple choice, until finally, far along, you realize that

it is an endless essay. No one knows anything. One child responds

well to positive reinforcement, another can be managed only with a

stern voice and a timeout. One child is toilet trained at 3, his

sibling at 2.

When my first child was born, parents were told to put baby to bed on

his belly so that he would not choke on his own spit-up. By the time

my last arrived, babies were put down on their backs because of

research on sudden infant death syndrome. To a new parent this ever-

shifting certainty is terrifying, and then soothing. Eventually you

must learn to trust yourself. Eventually the research will follow. I

remember 15 years ago poring over one of Dr. Brazelton's wonderful

books on child development, in which he describes three different

sorts of infants: average, quiet, and active. I was looking for a sub-

quiet codicil for an 18-month old who did not walk. Was there

something wrong with his fat little legs? Was there something wrong

with his tiny little mind? Was he developmentally delayed, physically

challenged? Was I insane? Last year he went to China . Next year he

goes to college. He can talk just fine. He can walk, too.

Every part of raising children is humbling, too. Believe me, mistakes

were made. T hey have all been enshrined in the, "Remember-When- Mom-

Did Hall of Fame." The outbursts, the temper tantrums, the bad

language, mine, not theirs. The times the baby fell off the bed. The

times I arrived late for preschool pickup. The nightmare sleepover.

The horrible summer camp. The day when the youngest came barreling

out of the classroom with a 98 on her geography test, and I

responded, "What did you get wrong?". (She insisted I include that.)

The time I ordered food at the McDonald's drive-through speaker and

then drove away without picking it up from the window. (They all

insisted I include that.) I did not allow them to watch the Simpsons

for the first two seasons. What was I thinking?

But the biggest mistake I made is the one that most of us make while

doing this. I did not live in the moment enough. This is particularly

clear now that the moment is gone, captured only in photographs.

There is one picture of the three of them , sitting in the grass on a

quilt in the shadow of the swing set on a summer day, ages 6, 4 and

1. And I wish I could remember what we ate, and what we talked about,

and how they sounded, and how they looked when they slept that night.

I wish I had not been in such a hurry to get on to the next thing:

dinner, bath, book, bed. I wish I had treasured the doing a little

more and the getting it done a little less.

Even today I'm not sure what worked and what didn't, what was me and

what was simply life. When they were very small, I suppose I thought

someday they would become who they were because of what I'd done. Now

I suspect they simply grew into their true selves because they

demanded in a thousand ways that I back off and let them be. The

books said to be relaxed and I was often tense, matter-of-fact and I

was sometimes over the top. And look how it all turned out. I wound

up with the three people I like best in the world, who have done more

than anyone to excavate my essential humanity. That's what the books

never told me. I was bound and determined to learn from the experts.

It just took me a while to figure out who the experts were.

2007 sister's all for one ~one for all

Now for the sis- retreat recap:

First off, can I just mention what a tremendous group of women we are? Such extreme depth and willingness for honesty and communication, it constantly inspires me to revisit what I think I know about myself and life, re-evaluate and reload…fuller, richer, more aware. The sense of humor, unique to this entity called sisters, is full-bellied and relentless, leaving me with aching sides and lightened mind… And, as we proved yet once again, we are fearless, courageous, and fun, adventurous expressive gals. Lyn sponsored an ATV tour and each of us took the saddle in style. Check-out the pics below:

ah, yes sweet peace

This morning I am thinking about my sisters and the magnificent honor it has been to be involve with such tremendous women. Each has taught me about myself in so many ways. We have an annual sister's retreat. This year's is just around the corner and each year I am astounded to see my womanhood identities through the perspectives of these marvelous women and have a 'frontrow' seat to each one's growth as student and teacher of living life fully in a myriad of ways ~always alive with beauty and generosity. I am blessed and grateful... I can tell I've got another blog share about sisterhood welling up for sharing and I'll show up when it does... This am I'm thinking particularly about my sister Keri. It is her birthday today. She has been such a rich source of love and forgiveness and blessing. Below is a poem I pulled of of my archives which came to me as a perspective that she and I have so often shared. We share a common reverence for our Creator and totally connect from seemingly different spiritual genre's yet recognize as the same ultimately in truth. I share that poem now...

The Faces at Braga

In monastery darkness
by the light of one flashlight
the old shrine room waits in silence

While above the door
we see the terrible figure,
fierce eyes demanding, "Will you step through?"

And the old monk leads us,
bent back nudging blackness
prayer beads in the hand that beckons.

We light the butter lamps
and bow, eyes blinking in the
pungent smoke, look up without a word,

see faces in meditation,
a hundred faces carved above,
eye lines wrinkled in the hand held light.

Such love in solid wood!
Taken from the hillsides and carved in silence
they have the vibrant stillness of those who made them.

Engulfed by the past
they have been neglected, but through
smoke and darkness they are like the flowers

we have seen growing
through the dust of eroded slopes,
then slowly opening faces turned toward the mountain.

Carved in devotion
their eyes have softened through age
and their mouths curve through delight of the carvers hand.

If only our own faces
would allow the invisible carver's hand
to bring the deep grain of love to the surface.

If only we knew
as the carver knew, how the flaws
in the wood led his searching chisel to the very core,

we would smile, too
and not need faces immobilized
by fear and the weight of things undone.

When we fight with our failing
we ignore the entrance to the shrine itself
and wrestle with the guardian, fierce figure on the side of good.

And as we fight
our eyes are hooded with grief
and our mouths are dry with pain.

If only we could give ourselves
to the blows of the carvers hands,
the lines in our faces would be the trace lines of rivers

feeding the sea
where voices meet, praising the features
of the mountain and the cloud and the sky.

Our faces would fall away
until we, growing younger toward death
every day, would gather all our flaws in celebration

to merge with them perfectly,
impossibly, wedded to our essence,
full of silence from the carver's hands.

~ David Whyte ~