2015 Holiday Letter

Fisher has his heart set on being Santa Claus when he grows up. I sometimes catch him sticking his head up the chimney to see how he's going to fit. 1st grade and he carries that magic. I tell him I believe he is already Santa, as he is giving and kind. He does well in school and his teachers love him. I sometimes worry that his tender heart will get tossed around by the rambunctious show-offs in his class and his kindness will get abused, but it helps that the girls all dote on him and that he has a good sense of humor. He loves to ride his bike and chop wood and build and treasure hunt. He is forever constructing and creating. The other day Phoenix came up to me and said Fisher told her he didn't care if he got any presents for Christmas, that he just wanted to be with his family and it made her eyes tear up. These kids are going to be fine.

When Phoenix isn't mimicking her big sister Ella's every move, she's singing, dancing, playing dolls, biking, making art, destroying the house, and making plans to take over the world. She has the kind of fire in her to do just that. Her teachers tell me she's the only preschooler in her class that understands sarcasm. She's tough. She's smart. She's watching your every move, which is appropriate as she wants to write stories when she grows up.

Ella has truly embraced her role as big sister after years of wanting a family to sit at the dinner table with, and to bond. For better or worse, she has it now! She too excels in school and has taken up speech and robotics this year. Most days she's traipsing about the woods with her headphones on singing at the sky. She still loves studying languages and I now know lots of random French, Swedish, and German words for various fruits. She went on a school trip to Europe this summer and now her heart is set on Ireland.

As for Matt and I, we are trying to pretend that planning a wedding is easy and hoping it'll all come together on its own as neither of us are good planners. It's set for July 16. I believe things are as easy or as complicated as you make them, so that's my plan--easy. Matt is still kicking it in sales for Learfguard and his hard work brought him the title of highest sales for the year again. When he isn't solving people's problems, he is on the riding lawn mower. Seriously, mowing until the sky spills its black ink. It's his new way of meditating. That and learning to play the banjo, or tinkering with the garden, or felling trees or creating a to-do list that'll take him years to accomplish. Big dreams to go with that big heart.

Me? Today I figured out how to use a ripsaw for the first time. Last week I sanded and stained all the interior doors. Before that I was probably painting or hauling or constructing something. I've discovered my own form of meditation. I started writing a children's book series, took on another scoring project for Pearson education, and was honored to be asked to help with editing and selecting works for my friend's new literary magazine, The Wax Paper, all the while running the household. I wouldn't trade it for anything. It is busy and hectic and messy (3 kids, 7 chickens and a dog will do that), but it is ours and we have each other--this family we have made. Our spirits are good.

My mother claimed recently how I have changed, how I seem more loving with her and my dad, not that I never showed love before. It's just different she says. I knew the answer to that straight off because I feel the change deep in my marrow--I have softened. This love that Matt and I share, these 3 intelligent and kind kids--it has given me a new measure for what my heart can do. It has redefined me. Frankly it has been at times a rocky year, but I have learned these things: your truth only matters to you and the people you hold dear. I learned how to forgive and let go. I've realized how lucky I am to have been raised by respectful and accepting parents. They have embraced Matt and Ella and our family wholeheartedly and continue to be a source of great support. I am lucky. And soft. And thankful. May all of you feel thankful and enjoy a peaceful holiday season. May you know your worth.

Let's Agree to Disagree

Matt and I went to Wooly's the night before Thanksgiving to see the Grateful Dead tribute band, the Schwag. Every time I have gone to see a concert there I am struck by the diverse age of the crowd. We span 5 decades, with hair styles that range from dread locks to slick backs to bald. Such different appearances, yet all of us gathered in the glow of stage lights and the guitar riffs of one of the most talented musicians I have seen. Up front and center on the floor was a group of super hippie hipsters in their 40's grooving and hollering "yeah, man" and trying to draw attention to themselves in a way to show how unique they were--not unlike goth kids who dress to be misunderstood so they can be treated with misunderstanding. Not unlike suburbanites and yuppies who accumulate lots of flash and think everyone wants what they have. Not unlike Republicans who think they know better, or Democrats who think their way is true. Not unlike religious extremists or gang members or PETA or the NRA. The list goes on, encompassing all sides.

Watching this group of aging hippies who never wanted to grow up I realized this--their energy was no different than the groups of people they would define as the enemies to their way of life. What all of these people (me and you included) have in common is the belief that they are right, and perhaps societies build these outward illusions that exclude others just to feed the idea that they are right. Matt used to have long hair and would be invited to attend shindigs by other people with long hair and dreads, The day he cut his hair they stopped calling. This exclusionary mentality only serves to feed the notion of us versus them, only serves to polarize humanity, thereby sabotaging their ability to ever truly connect and be understood.

And maybe we are all just a bunch of goth teenagers dressing in all back to fulfill the prophecy that we are misunderstood. Because it is easier to be a victim than to truly find solutions and compromise and let go of the ego so we can just get along. If you can't get beyond the notion that you are right and they are wrong than you will go nowhere. It only perpetuates the polarization and the outward display of this disconnect that sadly unfolds in headlines every day with mass shootings and terrorizing and debate. All at the expense of our HUMANITY. 

Someone reminded me this week of the phrase "agree to disagree." It stopped me in my tracks with its simplicity and timelessness. It made my heart feel unburdened, that I could finally move forward and not be stuck in a phase of trying to be right about something, which I have often been guilty of doing. We are all set in our ways--no one is immune. I realized I had been clutching to my ego and my sense of truth. But we all have a different sense of truth. If we don't surrender to that notion then we go nowhere. What matters more than being right is connecting. What matters most is peace. To say let's agree to disagree doesn't diminish your own truth, but it does get rid of the roadblock to real peace and understanding. Understanding that we are all a lot more similar than our words and ideologies suggest, which is at the core - human beings - all seeking a way, all searching for love and kinship. All of us seeking acceptance. Ghandi said "be the change you wish to see in the world" so maybe if we all love and accept ourselves the world will finally be a mirror for peace.

On the Path

I remember driving home to my old house--the first house I lived in when I moved to Des Moines a few years back. It was near the bike trail on a beautiful owl-filled oak-lined street. The houses were well kept, the neighbors were friendly, deer and fox would often be milling about. And yet despite the beauty something in my knew it was not where I was supposed to be, as every time I would feel blanketed by the sense: is this my life? Is this what I am going to be doing for the next 50 years--driving this road? At the time I didn't know what that meant. Here I am on this quaint street yet I felt a cloud of unease. I chalked it up to not wanting to feel stuck (I had traveled a lot and never lived anywhere for long), or not being ready to join the ranks of that kind of adulthood. Looking back now I realize that feeling was my guiding spirit telling me it wasn't the right path, that my life was due for a shake up. And so it did.

Sometimes that feeling of unease is the result of delving into the unknown--challenging yourself to follow your dreams without knowing the outcome. But it doesn't just come from facing fears, it comes from an intuitive spirit that knows the course we need to take. It means not that we are restless, but that we are due for a change, that this path isn't meant for us and we need to be open and fearlessly walk through those future doorways when they come. It is saying be ready. 2 years ago I met the love of my life. Just over a year ago we moved to this home on 2 acres on the edge of the city--a distance I never imagined I would choose as I never wanted to be near the suburbs. And now driving home on this windy, tree hemmed road with pockets of deer and raccoons and groundhogs, I finally know what it feels like to be home. No longer questioning--is this my life? The only thing I feel is awe and gratitude. This is where I am supposed to be.

About a Boy

My son Fisher (7 years of age) is my big dreamer. On Monday after school he headed straight to the garage and with hammer, nails, and wood scraps, began building a table. He asked me if he could use the big slab of plywood for the top as he wanted to make a big table and sell it for a thousand dollars (he's saving up to buy a car and a home for his future wife). This is the kid who had lemonade stands all summer to earn money--and no wonder--most people stopped to just give him all their change because, as they said, he was just so cute. I explained he needed to start small and work his way up to fine construction, reminded him of those lemonade stands and told him next year he can have a produce stand and sell our eggs and pumpkins and the like. Trying to tell a kid that things take time is like trying to pocket the stars.

On Tuesday he came home from school and set out a table and chairs under the apple tree. He picked a peck of apples and he and I enjoyed them right there, all the while I listened to him talk about how he wanted to invent something but couldn't decide just what since so much has been invented and can he sell his invention in stores.

On Wednesday he tied a box to the back of his bike and rode around the yard collecting who the heck knows what. He kept exclaiming how much he loved it here--this house, this land. And then he found a toad and named it Acorn and built it a home. He and I got sledge hammers and tore apart the old wooden planter box that sat at the top of the hill to revamp the landscape with stone we found and hauled from deep in the woods. Our hands in the dirt, rich with roots and bulbs and worms, I reminded him how growing things takes time and nurturing. Look at what we've done here--we remodeled most of the house, built a tree house and chicken coop and fence, landscaped, started a garden, planted trees and cleared out much of the old stuff the previous owners had let go--all in just over a year. And everything we do we learn, especially when it comes to gardening. We see what works and how to improve next year. It's a lot like life I told him--you've got to nurture it and give it time to grow, figure out what works and what doesn't, and learn the patience that comes from enjoying every stage of growth. It's about being present. What a gift it is to watch this boy grow. I can't wait to see what he goes out to do in this world, but for now he's all mine.

A Simple Message

Today I watched the sun rise alongside bird song. It is hard to capture the light inching across the ribs of clouds that line the sky. One minute it is just a blush in the east and before you know it the light reaches everywhere you look. It reminds me of autumn trees. Just a few weeks ago the leaves here had hardly turned. There's a red maple we pass on the drive to school and every day I point it out to the kids--telling them to notice its beauty every day because once it turns it doesn't last long before they leave the tree barren. Phoenix asked me why she should be looking at the trees and I told her because as her mom I feel it is my job to teach her how to see the beauty in the world every day, in even the simplest of things like a tree in a ditch beside a parking lot. To me that is one of the most important life skills I can teach them--being able to appreciate the simple beauty that surrounds them so they grow up contented and able to see the light side of things no matter the struggles they face. And because I want them to be able to be satisfied in this world that people often tend to over-complicate. I get a lot of advice-seeking messages from people who are struggling with hard times and always I point out their positive traits to remind them of their strength and their beauty. It's in you at all times so how could we not get through. Wherever you are, whoever you are--the sun is up and the trees that just a week ago were full are halfway barren. You will get through before you know it.

I'll Be Walking Awhile

I've been short on words here because my head has been in the clouds. I am racked with brain fog--that feeling that you can not clear your mind, that you're not wholly with it. It is frustrating to feel that constant ache, the constant sense that you're forgetting something because all your thoughts and intentions swirl about your mind. Yesterday I had a break in running the kids and I gave myself the gift of a long walk around Gray's lake to try to shake the fog loose. Within minutes of starting my walk I was met with several smiles and warm hello's from passing strangers. The sun on my skull, the seagulls, the view. There was a crew of people planting hundreds of flags on a hill. Everyone wanted to be there so naturally you feel this is where you ought to be. I used to get so many lines for poems while walking--the cadence of step after step forming words. So whenever I've been in a rut I go for a walk. Or 50. Yesterday this thought rose from the soles of my feet--I've started and quit so many interests over the years. I've gone through so many phases and fads, be it with food or exercise or playing instruments, making candles and beer, knitting, crafting, even the type of music or movies or books I am into, not to mention all the things I intended to start (break dancing). Soon I will be taking a hula hooping class. I've got to teach myself how to can our harvest, would like to pick up cross stitch. I don't do any of it with the aim of being the best, and I don't claim to be an expert in anything. I realized yesterday as I was laughing at all the things I've started that it doesn't matter if I fail or fall short or change my mind--it is the act of doing that matters to me. It is learning about what is possible. Doesn't it keep us young at heart to always believe in the art of endeavor? I can do it all, because even though I can't, the source of acceptance and belief lies within me. You can try and do and get through even the cloudiness of fog or your latest struggle and heartache or the thoughts that don't serve you because you have boundless peace/light/love/will beneath it all. Sometimes you just have to find ways to get back there, which is what I am doing now.

What We Have Done on This Speck of the Planet

Just over a year ago Matt and I closed on our home that sits on two acres on the appropriately named street, Lovington. We gutted the house. We redid much of the indoors ourselves, and though we have a ways to go, we are proud of what we have accomplished. But it is the outdoors that we were itching to work on, as it is the land that drew us here. The large plot, the woods, the creek, the slopes, the potential to finally fulfill our shared dream of being urban farmers. This place has become our oasis. We thrive here. We grow. We dirty our hands and save chickens from raccoons and fox. We plant and prune and weed here. We teach the children how to garden and build things and use their hands. I have always dreamt of living somewhere that rooted me, a place where I could plant fruit trees and be secure in knowing that I would be there come harvest. Before this, everything felt temporary--I was always looking for the next thing, the next move. Now I realize I had been looking for Matt, and I found him. And we had spent our lives working to get to this point together. And it feels really good being able to feel like we are going to be here a long while. We are moored by this:

 We bought the coop, but built the open run area. All told we have 7 chickens now and it appears they are all hens. The kids gather 4 eggs a day. 

 We built this fence a couple weeks ago. I am drawn to working with my hands--something about the meditative flow and seeing results.

 Raspberry bushes we planted late last summer.

 We started a 15 by 25 foot garden, fenced it to keep out the deer, and tilled up this little hill for our pumpkins, squash, gourds, and cucumbers. All things viney.

 Squash blossoms creeping up by the driveway.

 Our fruit trees. We planted 4 apple trees, 1 pear, and 2 cherry.

 Some landscape work. Herbs and flowers and lettuce. The kids and I built that little tri-fence post--cemented it and all. We have no idea what we are doing but we figure it out as we go.

 View of the garden from the house.

 The first pumpkin.

 Tomatoes, asparagus, sweet potatoes, peppers, onions, corn, broccoli and cauliflower. It's a start.

Sunflowers. The kids and their lemonade stand. Phoenix sat their holding that chicken for over an hour. The kids are expert chicken handlers now!

Being Vulnerable

I am truly thankful for this path that I am on--all my travels and the friends that stick no matter what, birthing two spirited children, and finding Matt, the love of my life, and his daughter Ella. Becoming this family of 5 with a dog and chickens and this home that we have revitalized and our land where squash and pumpkins and berries and tomatoes grow thick. And the pride in my parents for embracing another granddaughter and son-in-law. I've been through a lot of challenging times and I grew strong. I was tough--I could handle anything. But then these children softened me. And Matt softened me. And I've realized that my old stoicism no longer works. Because real, deep love is vulnerable. Not in the "I'm always going to be hurt" sense, but in the "I'm going to do this no matter what" sense and that takes a leap of faith. I've realized that the greatest strength is being okay with vulnerability.

I don't know many divorced-with-kids people and even Ella's mom is not really in the picture, so this path is an unchartered one. I made the decision years ago to be a stay at home mom because I didn't want to miss out on seeing my kids grow. And since the divorce I do miss out--3 nights a week. I've learned how hurtful it is to tell a divorced parent: "oh I don't have the luxury of (fill in the blanks) because I always have my kids." I didn't choose this. It is not a luxury to go without them 3 times a week. I've learned that to get through the heartbreak of hearing my kids say "I've done this" or already "tried this" and I wasn't there for it, that I need to be thankful for their opportunities and be a stable ground. I've realized that I've got to stay out of the way and not try to implant myself by going over the top to impress them and just provide consistent love and comfort. To just be me--vulnerable to the fact that I am enough just being me and refusing to compete with their affections.

The best thing my mother has ever said on raising me is "Casey, we had no idea what we were doing and just did the best we could." I've realized to admit that kind of vulnerability is a profound call to love. I've realized that it is essential to give your best, be kind and loving, and things will work themselves out eventually (after periods where they don't). Love prevails. I have Matt and 3 kids and parents and a handful of "any weather" friends to thank for that.

A Family Vacation

We just got back from our family vacation in Colorado where we rented a cabin way up in the mountains on a sharp, windy path that was only accessible by 4 wheel drive in the summer. It was out there - no electricity or running water, just a small hut with 2 bunk beds, a wood stove, and a few essentials surrounded by a stream and woods and peaks, wildflowers and bear scat. The kids took to it quite well, declaring they wished they could live there, and spent their time running through the woods like nymphs and climbing rocks and exploring, which meant I was on high alert as the potential for injury abounded - the wood stove, the sharp rocks, the rushing stream, thick woods for getting lost, and no medical services within an hour. Sleep was not a luxury either - but those stars, that air, the sound of water spilling over rocks and logs - it was enough to keep me moored. And the fact that I had to walk the young ones to the outhouse every time they needed didn't seem a burden as Phoenix always doted on the views from the doorway, always pointing out the beauty. We had many an interesting conversation while I waited there.

After our days of hiking and exploring and alpine slides and windy roads we stopped at a diner to fill up for our long trek home. In the booth next to us a grandmother and her mentally disabled grandchild awaited her nephew to join them for lunch. You could tell even a cheap diner was a luxury. They were rough around the edges, and I heard her ask the waitress if she could pay with a few different cards as she didn't know how much she had left on each. The grandson couldn't speak, but still she talked to him and explained even the simplest things like dairy creamer and still she asked him questions and engaged him patiently. The nephew arrived, seemingly angry at the world, never softening his features. I heard her tell him he just needed to relax and be calm about things, that it was always better when you weren't angry. All the while she was clutching her cards, pulling at her ratty clothing, and trying to lift up the spirits of these boys. Doing the best she could with what she had. I decided then of a knew family tradition - as long as we are blessed to be able to take a vacation, we would always buy a meal for someone who could use a little help, who deserved a bit of joy. As Matt went to pay up our bill and theirs anonymously, I heard the grandma ask the child if he was happy. He tilted his head up slightly and she smiled and said "good, you should always try to be happy." A glimmer of light even in this greasy spoon roadside diner. I wanted her to know that this world appreciated her efforts. Yeah it was a small gesture, but it was something to mark our own thankfulness for vacation and, as is expected when traveling, to leave the area better than you found it. And remembering her clutching those cards and scouring the menu, trying to show those boys that it paid to be positive and level-headed, I imagine when she discovered their meal was covered she felt a bit of joy and a needed break, and those boys grew in respect and admiration for her. Glimpses of light - what more can we ask for when we have the chance to have glimpses at all?

Paying Attention

It is always so mystifying how different phases and obstacles we face in life play out and become more present to us, guiding what we are internally facing. Like meeting someone new and then running into them with more frequency and you realize you'd probably seen them before but it takes knowing them to really see them. Or when you say a phrase and the next instant someone on the radio says the exact same phrase. If we notice, if we pay attention to the world, we see there is a lot it is teaching about our own dealings. There have been some frustrating dealings with people of late and it is difficult to shake the frustrating thoughts they stake out among the millions of thoughts that run through my mind in a day. Especially when the best thing to do is not say anything, to not call them out because that only leads to contention when people always think they are right. Even when you don't want to go there because the best course of action is suck it up and move on, inevitably you do. I've always struggled with meditation because I can't stop thinking, but I have learned that when thoughts arise, simply recognize them as a thought and send it away. So I've been practicing this in my daily life--whenever an unpleasant thought arises I remind myself that it is not serving me and I send it away.

And also, these two things happened to set me straight... 1. Fisher had a friend sleep over and the kid said to him "you still have training wheels on your bike? I don't have training wheels." Without a beat Fisher answered "good for you." As in I'll let you believe that you think you're better for it and I won't let it bring me down. Good luck thinking you are right and righteous. I was so proud of him in that moment, and I realized how useful it is to adopt to those frustrating encounters we all face. Instead of frustration we can simply think--good luck with the choices you have made on your path. And move on with our own path. And 2. Matt and I were at the 80/35 music festival over the weekend, and among many performers, watched Christopher the Conquered (a very talented, heartfelt Des Moines musician), where he pontificated that "thoughts are not beliefs." Yet again drilling in my mind that thoughts are a separate thing that don't always serve us and our beliefs. In fact they are so powerful that the greatest hindrance to contentment is our own mind--the thoughts we choose to keep. So it was, in these random, unexpected places the answer I was seeking to let go of trap-like thoughts was found. And too, it helps that my youngest daughter, obsessed with the movie Frozen, constantly sings "let it go." Sometimes it is as if the world is in cahoots with our internal struggles. If we observe, if we see its beauty. If we believe in the power of the phrase "so that's why that happened." Answers abound when the time is right.

Life Isn't Always Fair...

...we teach our kids this lesson but it can be a hard one to swallow as an adult when the issues are adult-sized. It's a lesson I've had to confront of late. It has been a rough few weeks here on this speck of the planet with loads of kid activities and running around and trying to find time for part time work and trying to stay on top of everything and trying to ease everyone's days. There have been days I didn't sit or have a decent meal and at the end of the night I hardly remembered having a real deep breath all day. No matter. I know how life ebbs and flows and I kept my head up and remained positive all the while hoping for a break. Could always be worse. And then someone unleashed their rage on me, the likes of which I have never seen, and screamed vile, hurtful words. This person is unhappy in their own life and turned on me--when all I have ever done is try to help--and it became clear they resented me for that. I remained calm during their rage and refused to return the drama and hurtful words. All I said was you can't take back your words when it became clear that reasoning wouldn't work. All I wanted to do was hug the anger out of them but in that moment I didn't feel physically safe. It was unreal. I was in shock. It was not fair! It was like being transported back to high school. Matt tried to remind me that I shouldn't let someone else's problems get the best of me, that I knew the truth, it was their jealousy talking, and they are the one who has to live with that anger. I knew he was right but still I couldn't stop thinking about it. And while those unfair thoughts swirled in my mind this week it seemed the whole world was cutting me down and not letting up...

Cars cut me off, work was difficult, things seemed to happen at the most inopportune times, the kids quarreled and complained. I was starting to feel like I could do nothing right and the world was incessantly working to cut me down. And then two things happened. 1. Fisher was throwing a fit about something he was constructing out of boxes--jabbing it with scissors and yelling defeated words. I asked him to take a break and told him how giving things space when you're frustrated can make it easier when you get back to it. He said it turned out better when he was mad at it (the kid is a perfectionist when it comes to his art). But then you're giving it negative energy I explained, and showed him this video that struck a chord with me years ago:

And 2, yesterday I made the kids a special lunch but was met with Fisher claiming he didn't like the bowl it was in and Phoenix downright refusing to eat. It was a small thing, but after my week of feeling like I could do nothing right and tired of others' drama unleashed on me, I had had enough. I questioned the point of always striving to be kind when it isn't even returned, I wondered why mean people unfairly got their way, and I sat on my steps and cried and pleaded for a break, for something good to come my way. In that moment the kids came and sat on either side and threw their arms around me and expressed their love. Just like that my plea was answered. I thanked them and explained that even parents can feel hurt and frustrated, that I'm always striving to be kind and good to everyone and was down that it didn't seem to be working. And then Fisher looked at me and said he loved everyone in the world except for bad guys and even the bad guys he loved a little bit (he measured out an inch with his fingers) because everyone deserves kindness. I taught him that. He listened. I was reminded how the world can not break you--only you can do that by having negative thoughts and forgetting that sometimes life isn't fair so suck it up and count your blessings. And that video became a vivid display of what I had done to myself lately--feeling defeated and wanting a break created a world that was defeating me. I was finally able to let go of my frustrations because they do not serve me well. But still, a little help here universe...please?! It's okay to ask for that too.

The Weight of our Words

The rain held off some yesterday. The sunlight came in filtered enough so you could look far up into the sky, unblinking. I took the kids to their favorite lunch spot and then we checked the progress on the new Nollen Plaza park downtown, stopping to tap some noise from one of the art pianos the city of Des Moines has given a home and garnering applause from random passerby's. Though the park is still fenced off, I read the lines etched in the concrete benches that snake throughout the space, including "Peace is always beautiful" by Walt Whitman. From there, we agreed to head up to the capital area to walk the sculptures and statues and monuments and roll down the best hill in town. We passed a group of middle-aged men in work attire playing hacky-sack in front of the Judicial building. Don't mind us, they said, we're just on break and enjoying some exercise. I vote for more suits playing hacky-sack outside buildings over lunch. The kids had brought along notepads and would occasionally pause to draw whatever held their view. After rolling on the hill, we walked to the memorial grounds and the kids were sprawled out, carried by their own interests, while I read every word etched in stone therein. I was struck most by the phrase "To be rather than to seem." As I held the weight of those words, I noticed Fisher writing in his notebook in front of the Vietnam memorial which was peppered with bouquets of flowers. He had written: I Love You, Fisher. He tore out that page and placed it under one of the bouquets to give it another kind of weight. Fisher, I asked, do you know what this is? I explained it was to honor the soldiers who were killed in the Vietnam war. These names etched in stone were their names. He hadn't known what it meant, hadn't known why flowers were placed at its base, yet he felt moved to say "I love you." I couldn't help my tears for his big heart that gives without question or prompting. Later, after we toured the capital interior and threw wishing coins in the fountain and were heading back to the car, he said he hoped his paper wouldn't blow away or get ruined with rain now settling upon us. It won't be there forever and it doesn't matter if it does blow away I told him, because what matters is you felt those words--you sent them here and now the energy of those words will always be there. And what is more, that is why it is so important to be kind, to show love, to watch our words--because you matter, we all matter, and everything we do touches the world. As I write this, I am reminded of the recent riots in Baltimore, of the blacklivesmatter hashtag campaign, of the fact that there is still so much prejudice and fear in this country. When I saw the video clips of the riots, all I could think was how I wish I could give every single person involved there a hug. To bring that kind of peace through dignity and love for humankind. I don't have all the answers and I can't undo what has been done, but one thing I can do is recognize how everyone matters. I can choose words that only lift. I can be kind. It is that kind of collective love that will diminish prejudice, because our words do have weight. If people really believed--truly held the thought--that "all men are created equal" then would those riots ever happen?

When You're Needing a Break

On many occasion I stand at the kitchen sink fixing my eyes on the view from that window--the apple tree and shrubs, the sloping hill, the slick glass pane--as if my looking will save me from the agitation blooming from a day spent doing endless mom things. For every sock or crumb or wrapper or art project or doll I pick up, at least 10 more items will be tossed randomly throughout the house in that span of time. The nonstop questions and fits and whims of kids--their needing your constant attention--your hoping you're doing everything right and some day your words will sink in. Having to tell them 20 times to brush their teeth or clean their room or get their shoes on only to hear "I know mom" in exasperated tones even though they still don't budge. They freak out when their shoes laces are too tight or their shirt is scrunchy or the crust is on the bread or there's a bee that exists. They lose things and expect you to know where to find them. Days of this without much adult interaction--who wouldn't feel drained and want a blessed break? But when I am standing at the kitchen sink giving my breath a silent viewing I remind myself how much I'd miss them if they weren't here. I know how much I think and talk about them when they aren't at my side. I remind myself to embrace what is right now. I tell the kids all the time to want what they have. In those sink-filled moments I'm reminding myself the same lesson of thankfulness and satisfaction. For me, that act is enough to tamp the frustrations down and adjust my mood so I can get back to being soft and lighthearted. I know what I'd miss, I know what I'd miss. It is that sentiment that gave root to one of my recent poems, which goes like this:

Spring Storm Coming On

All day you wanted even

a cup of quiet, an inch

in your trail of bread crumb

thoughts outside of all the things

you must do, to remind you

of you. And now the rest

of the house is asleep

and the west is rain and eastward

breeze.

Spring crickets have unearthed –

betwixt as present always is

with wanting and having.

Every time I catch a break I miss

what lead me here. I want

the house to stir and share this sky.

It’s all flashbulbs, a Morse code

of lightening. Could be it asks –

how can you not love it here?

Oh lucky stars.

Casey Lord

Surrounded

It so happened that I had a chance to spoil all the kids yesterday with a little outing. I took Phoenix to the science center, where we declared it to be national raise your arms day and walked around periodically throwing our hands skyward. Fisher and I went for a treat after I picked him up from school, and to make him feel extra special I proposed the treat stop while he was walking with friends from class. For dinner I took Ella to her favorite restaurant. On the drive there she asked me--how are you--in a tone that meant she didn't mean just on the surface. I told her I was good, really. And you know why I said, because I know that life ebbs and flows and I'm at peace with that. Some days you feel like you do nothing but errands and running kids and dealing with finances and chores, and there is all this other work you want to do that you can't find time for, like writing. But I know at some point the scales will tip and there will be time for the other. Even if on an emotional level I am weighed down or frustrated, because I choose to believe that life is rich and good--really a thing of beauty--that is always at the core of everything that goes on. So yes, I am good. And how can I ever complain when I get to share my days with Matt and the kids? For a while now I've had the start, or rather the meat of a poem holding space in my mind but haven't yet worked out the rest. It goes like this--the idea that anything exists at all--straw and styrofoam, stars, every single atom in the universe, me and you--is utterly amazing. So yes, how could I not be good when the very idea that we exist is so grandly unfathomable. One only has to look at the night sky and imagine infinity to know that. While driving to lunch with a friend last weekend a huge crow flew low across the road in front of me and up to perch right on the center peak of a home's roof, right above the door. Perfect placement that I witnessed in a split second whilst running late, as if the crow knew I was watching. We are surrounded by beauty.

Show Yourself Some Love

It could be any day, any mom I run into, but this most recent trigger was a few weeks ago when I saw a mom of 3 a the play area. We used to see each other every week at the library story time and then she gave birth to her 3rd and my kids' school schedule no longer allowed us to attend that story time and life is constantly reshuffling. And so it is. We were marveling on how our kids have grown, how busy we are, how much has changed since the days we met at story time. Like me, she is a stay at home mom, and like me, she does some part time work. She remarked how guilty she felt that her youngest does not receive her full attention because of her work and her running the older two to their school and activities. It is always a matter of time spent, and even though you need your own time, and to do things to nourish yourself so that you are better prepared to provide nourishment to others, there is always the sense that you could do more. This is the hallmark of parenthood--when you question whether or not you're doing enough, or doing it right, or giving enough of your time and attention. To be a parent is to be wrought with worry and guilt. Yet don't these emotions come from a place of love? Of good intention? Yes, we should always strive to do better and be better, and yes, everyone has room for improvement. But we shouldn't be so hard on ourselves, especially when the reason we have guilt is because we love and care for them so much and only want the best for them. And that's what I told this mom at the play area--it means your daughter is loved. Isn't that the best we can give, isn't love always the answer? I don't imagine that parental guilt and worry will go away, but maybe if we go a little easier on ourselves and acknowledge the good we do we won't get stuck in the fog of those emotions. To remember what we are doing right is a catalyst to keep doing right.

Making Space

Over Christmas I met up with my friend Tana who was back in town from New York City to visit family. There are words people will say that you take into your heart and hold onto, lines that stick to your ribs. One such line that stayed with me during our time was in regards to the intensity of Tana's adopted city--how the energy is so all-encompassing that sometimes when she gets home to her apartment she can "feel the city in [her] joints" and it is hard to decompress. Here in Des Moines I live on a small acreage of hills and trees. And yet even on this tract of wild where deer cross and critters crawl and poison ivy grows thick as tree limbs, you can hear the steady thrum of cars on the interstate. Sometimes I wish for a long stretch of quiet, to hear nothing but wind. But I've realized lately that to truly be at peace is to let go of the sense that space can ever be boxed in and kept, that it can ever truly be controlled, that it is ever ours alone. So we must have a heart that is fluid and without edge. Because nothing in this world in untouched--wherever you go you are faced with the comings and goings and markings of weather and animals and people and bugs. Swarms of mosquitos on your get-away camping trip, the long lines at the DMV, winter storms that squelch your road trip, the cacophony of voices--even now the kids are awake and have said "hey mom" a hundred times. Nothing is untouched--it lives, it all lives. To be free is to be and let be.

Stuck On a Hill

Our house has the perfect sledding hill smack dab in front. Yesterday Phoenix and I spent a good space of time going up and down until I tired of the up and down and went to sit on a sunlit expanse of land cross legged and with palms open to absorb the winter light and clear my mind like the bare branches of trees and the all-blue sky. It was perfectly still and quiet except for the swooshing of the sled and the little feet trudging through snow. And then after one down hill ride she lay sprawled atop the sled and hollered "Mom, I'm stuck." I answered "no you're not, you just haven't tried to get up." And so it was, she rolled to the side and got right up and continued on climbing and sledding, up and down while I kept on breathing, in and out. It struck me then how that's what it means to be stuck--in our thoughts, in a rut, in our habits--it is all a matter of not moving and not even trying to move. We get stuck because it is easy, when really all we have to do is choose to get up--inch by inch or in long leaping measures, it doesn't matter. It only matters that we give ourselves that nudge, that we try.