Beauty Blooms in Framed Spaces

It is only in framed space that beauty blooms. – Anne Lindbergh

 

The haiku settles for doing, as I read it anyway, one very simple but crucial thing – it tries to put a frame around the moment. It simply frames a moment. Of course, as soon as you put a frame around anything, you set it off, you make it visible, you make it real. - Frederick Buechner

 

A rose bush dances 

in the middle window 

of my office’s far wall. 

Beyond the bush, our back 

door stands wide open. 

My daughter is sitting 

on the back step. 

Blond and fresh, 

she is bent forward 

examining something 

in her hands. 

Her limbs are long, 

her hair is long, 

and the sun spotlights 

her in the door’s dark frame. 

She is engrossed 

in the movements 

of an insect making 

its way between her two hands - 

climbing a finger, then falling 

back to her palm. 

In a flash of motion, she looks up, 

thrusts her hand forward 

and the insect flies away - 

a black blur across the wide 

sunlit space. 

Then, she too flies, 

off the stoop and out 

of the frame and I 

am left here, writing 

the picture of beauty 

I saw through the middle

window of my office's far wall.

This poem is shared with dVerse poet's pub. 

How I Have Seen Men Treat My Daughter

(Sophia, happy as a clam, in her Daddy's pick up truck.)

A heavyset, gray-haired man, short and jovial, honed in on my cautious, serious daughter the moment she arrived.  She was eight or nine at the time.  He was a volunteer at Vacation Bible School that week, she was just entering a room full of kids she didn't know in a church we don't attend and her face reflected the concentrated reserve of an introvert confronted with a room full of strangers. 

“Smile!” he commanded before welcoming her or offering his name.  Reluctantly, awkwardly, she obeyed, he was in charge, after all.

Standing nearby, I felt a strong desire to whack that man in the face.  Maybe not exactly, but mostly.  The mama-bear in me recognized, immediately, the inappropriateness of his command and, in it, I heard the echoes of all the men who've commanded me to smile over the years. 

I too was a quiet, serious girl.  I cannot tell you the number of times men, mostly in passing, reminded me to smile. 

“Smile!” they demanded, as they passed me in the mall, in the lunch line where I worked, or walking down the street with my friends.  "You're too serious," they would sometimes add, "you'd be prettier if you smiled." 

Sometimes it felt like a harmless flirtation, a backward compliment of sorts.  At least I had a chance at being pretty, if only I would be less, well, less me.  I didn't realize then that these comments and complaints had nothing to do with me.  Nothing.  I didn't understand they reflected masculine insecurity, the desire for me to be easier, but not, of course, too easy. 

Over time, I got the message that it wasn’t ok to be me.  To be a woman, young or old, who rests serene in her own quiet seriousness is to shirk cultural expectations of the bubbly, giggly girl who lights up the world around her, flashing her pearly whites.  In tending to my own internal fires, I was letting down the male egos in the room, those expansive egos so often in need of continual support.

//

About a month later, I took my daughter to the pediatrician. She was suffering from a baffling array of symptoms and we had no idea what was going on.  Was it allergies, a cold, a stomach bug?   

She sat alone on the high examining table wrapped in a paper gown, while one of our favorite pediatricians, a gentle, thoughtful man, tried to puzzle things out.  My daughter was inordinately worried about the possibility of needing a strep test.  She fears and dreads the test, gagging every time and occasionally vomiting on whoever administers it. 

Finally, reaching for the large q-tip in its white paper packaging, the doctor announced that he wanted to test for strep.  My daughter's eyes grew wide in fear and, seeing her anxiety, the pediatrician offered a few simple tricks to help endure the swab.  Then, he asked whether she wanted to sit on the exam table or in my lap. 

She climbed down from the paper-clad bench, hopped into my lap, and I wrapped my arms around her.  Pulling up a chair, the doctor leaned in with the swab, but my daughter held out her small hand and stopped him mid-motion with a clear and simple request.  

“Can you wait until I’m ready?” she asked.   

“Yes,” he said and sat back, waiting for her command.

She paused, gathering courage, then blurted a quick, “OK.”  She gagged a little, but then it was done, and while we waited for the results, I sat there marveling at this girl of mine.

I was amazed at her centeredness, the way she drew from her own deep well to tell the doctor to pause, to make the space necessary to do difficult things on her own terms and in her own time.  

Reflecting on the situation now, I can see how the pediatrician helped protect and reinforce my daughter's sense of strength and autonomy in a vulnerable situation.  He took her concerns seriously and then helped to allay them by offering concrete strategies for dealing with the awkward swab.  

He was not offended by her fear; not belittling or dismissive.  With his ego completely off the table, he didn't feel the need to chide her into compliance or, worse, to barge ahead with the swab (as I've seen other pediatricians do).  He made space for her to connect with her own resources - sitting in her mama's lap, setting her own timing - and, in the end, my daughter was empowered by the experience. 

This, I want to tell her, is how it works.  This, I want to remind myself, is how it should be.  This is how two people interact with grace and respect, how a healthy man doesn't ask you to weaken yourself to fortify his own ego, but rather lends his strength to create a safe space for you to be who you are - loud or quiet, smiling or not.        

Spontaneity - The Discipline of Un-Discipline (#SmallWonder Link-Up)

“I’m working on being more spontaneous,” she said with a straight face and all the seriousness of someone for whom spontaneity is struggle.  She was one of my first mentors and the comment was made in passing, but it's stuck with me for sixteen years. 

It’s a pleasingly ironic intention, to try hard at not trying, to make it a goal to deviate from set goals.  I smiled at the idea from the moment I heard it.  These days I'm thinking again of spontaneity as a spiritual discipline and recognizing the trust involved in embracing the gift of each moment.    

//

By the time all of the kids are in bed, around 8:45 pm on these long light-filled summer days, I’m done, so very done.  When at last I lay down my mothering hat after fourteen hours on duty, I have two options left – read a book or watch TV.  Occasionally, a third option presents itself – go to bed.   

If, however, I sneak away by 6:45 or 7:00 when John herds the twins upstairs, I sometimes have enough life left in me to write.  This is what I was thinking the other night when I sat on the couch at 6:45 with the laptop open.  But then Solomon called for me.  I sat the laptop, still open, on the couch, intending to return, and followed his voice into the kitchen.

While I tended to his need Sophia wandered in, shoulders slumped.  “I’m bored,” she lamented.

“Why don’t you do something with your art supplies?” I suggested knowing how rarely maternal suggestions are heeded.  But lo and behold, five minutes later she waltzed into the kitchen with her easel and paints, waving a paint board in the air. 

“Who wants to paint?” she called.

I knew her invitation was directed at me.  We had fun painting together the other week and now she wanted to do it again.  But I didn’t want to paint, I wanted to write.  In that moment, though, with the laptop waiting open on the couch, I heard behind her invitation to paint an invitation to togetherness.   I didn’t want to paint, but I appreciated her desire to be with me and, with a little searching, I found my own desire to be with her. 

She set her easel on the kitchen island and I tried to refrain from chiding her over wasted paint as she squeezed what I viewed as needlessly large dollops onto her white plastic palette.  I didn’t want to paint, but I did have some new stamps and ink pads I wanted to try out.  I went out to the Little House to fetch my supplies and sat down diagonal from my daughter at the kitchen counter. 

I put too little ink on the stamp and the medallion image was incomplete.  I put too much on and it globbed together on the page. Slowly, hit and miss, I covered the page with cobalt blue doilies of ink.  Next I opened a new set of alphabet stamps and broke them apart one-by-one. 

“Let me guess,” Sophia said, watching, “you’ve had those for a long time but haven't ever used them.” 

Oh that girl knows her mother well - the hoarding and saving, the waiting for just the right time to enjoy something new - that girl with her great gobs of excess paint.  “No,” I said, pleased with myself, “they’re new, but I just got them.” 

I tried covering the letter stamps with paint with varying results, then I went back to the ink pads and started building words letter by letter.  Unsure where to begin, Sophia started with a bold red line stretched diagonally across the middle of her canvas.  Slowly it grew to a rainbow that filled the whole page.  

“It’s funny,” said Sophia observing her own work, “you don’t know what you’re going to paint, but you just start with a color and build on from there.”

“Yeah,” I said, “it’s like there was something waiting to be painted but you didn’t know it before you started.”

On my paper I had stamped the word “love” with varying degrees of legibility, then I added “very sweet” enjoying the way the words built one letter at a time.  On the lower right hand side of the page, in Harbor blue ink, I stamped the word “writer.” 

Looking at my page as I finished, I realized I was writing after all - words were seeping onto the page despite the absence of my laptop and its keys. 

//

Maybe this is the secret to spontaneity - the trust that what is needed will come regardless, the belief that all the great gifts of our lives are truly gifts, not gotten but given.  I'll continue to work at setting good boundaries and safe spaces around my writing life – goodness knows I need them.  But like my old mentor, I'll also work at being spontaneous.  The discipline of un-discipline reminds me that even when I’m not looking grace will find its way and what has been given will not be taken away.   

*   *   *   *

Only 10 spaces left!  I'm super excited to be joining with Andi Cumbo-Floyd and Shawn Smucker to organize a weekend writer's retreat this summer at God's Whisper Farm in the beautiful mountains of Virginia.  Visit Andi's website for more info!

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.  

What if we chose to deliberately look for small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?  

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.   

The Cupcake Mistake (#SmallWonder Link-Up)

After the early morning flurry of getting the older two out the door and onto the bus, I reached into the refrigerator and gingerly slid out the cool, glass baking dish covered with a layer of plastic wrap and tinfoil.  It was Sophia’s birthday and I was dropping off cupcakes for her class. 

The night before, I baked two rounds of cupcakes involving multiple trips to the store.  In the end I had a hot kitchen, twenty-four mini cupcakes (for school) and six large (for home) all topped with blue icing and white sparkling sprinkles.  I planned to drive them to school hoping to save her the possible embarrassment of dropping them on the bus or on her way down the hall of the new school where she was only just beginning to settle-in.   

The twins were two years old.  Picture that, if you will, two two-year-old boys swirling at my feet.  We had just moved into a new, old farm house and were living in a sea of chaos.  It was a miracle I made it to the van with the twins and cupcakes unscathed.  After buckling everyone in, I drove cautiously on a mission to deliver birthday happiness and cheer.  I wanted my daughter to feel special, no matter how much effort it took. 

Parking in the bus circle, I left the twins buckled in the van and approached the locked door, cupcakes in hand.  After being buzzed in, I chatted with the secretary and watched as she tagged the glass dish with a post-it note and called down to my daughter’s classroom.  Mission complete. I sighed with relief and drove home.    

In the afternoon I waited happily for the bus.  My daughter got off and crossed the street wearing a paper Happy Birthday crown.  

“Did you get the cupcakes,” I asked, all smiles. 

“Why did you only send six?” she asked squinting up at me quizzically. 

“What?” I said.

“Why did you only send six cupcakes?” she repeated.

“What do you mean?” I said.

“There were only six,” she said.

Standing in the driveway, it dawned on me.  I grabbed the wrong dish.  There were two glass dishes in the refrigerator, both covered with tinfoil, one held the twenty-four mini cupcakes and the other held the six large.  I grabbed the smaller of the two dishes and in the flurry of morning and my considerable effort to get her first birthday at a new school right, I messed up. 

“Are you serious?” I asked.  “What did you do? When did you realize?”

She had gone to the office to pick up the dish and, walking back to the classroom, realized my mistake.  Entering the room, she told the teacher, “There’s only six cupcakes.”  Her teacher took things in stride and divided the six among 22 students, cutting each cake into quarters. 

“Are you serious?” I asked again.  “I’m sorry, Sophia. Why didn’t they call me?”

I was mortified – my daughter, the new girl at school, embarrassed by her wacky Mom. 

But she was happy. 

“There was an extra piece because of the way she divided them,” she said, “so I got two pieces, more than anyone else.”

My daughter was fine, but it took me awhile to get over my mistake.  We joked about it immediately - how ridiculous to send in six cupcakes for a class of twenty-two students.  I sent an email to the teacher apologizing and making it clear I wasn’t the kind of mom who thought six cupcakes would cover the situation.

Those cupcakes, baked and eaten some two years ago, come up again from time to time.  In our family, they’re the epitome of an accidental, public gaffe.  In such situations, there’s nothing you can do but grin and bear it and hope maybe someone, somewhere, ends up happy despite your error.   

I thought of the cupcakes again this morning as I drove a van full of kids to a friend’s house.  Sophia sat in the front seat beside me and I held her hand, rubbed her back and worried I’d fail her in any number of public or private ways.  I so want to get it right where my kids are concerned, sometimes I try so hard a mistake is inevitable. 

But, the cupcake mistake helps me remember mistakes can be gifts.  Every time the kids and I relive my foolishness, we create a common language for the kind of things that happen in life no matter how hard you try and we practice the kind of humor and humility necessary to keep going.  In other words, we make space for our humanity together.  Oh, and also, we laugh a lot.

*   *   *   *

Only 15 spaces left!  I'm super excited to be joining with Andi Cumbo-Floyd and Shawn Smucker to organize a weekend writer's retreat this summer at God's Whisper Farm in the beautiful mountains of Virginia.  Visit Andi's website for more info!

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.  

What if we chose to deliberately look for small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?  

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.   

The Worst Mommy (#SmallWonder Link-up)

(That's my girl.  She turned 10 this Friday!)

I’m up to my eyeballs in laundry when my almost ten-year-old pops into the room.  She’s been outside jumping, running, and playing with her brothers while I whirl between cooking dinner and the endless sorting and folding of clothes. 

“I’m going to try to start calling you ‘Mom,’” she says, “instead of ‘Mommy.’”

My heart lurches as though she’s announced a plan to move to Australia in the morning, to join the circus, to fly far, far, away from me. 

“Oh,” I say, casual as we mothers must be when feelings are on the line, “why?”

I don’t remember her reasoning exactly, but in essence, it’s time to put ‘Mommy’ aside.  Then she hops onto the toilet, continuing our conversation with the door wide open. 

“Remember when I told you to stop calling me ‘Mommy’?” I ask. 

“Yes!” she exclaims, “Why did you do that?!”

It was when we still lived on Franklin Street and she was five, maybe six at most.  I was overwhelmed with All. The. Kids. we had so suddenly, so unexpected.  In a fit of frustration one day I told her to stop calling me Mommy and call me Mom instead.  She burst into tears at the thought and I immediately recognized I was a Truly Awful Mother.  Beginning to relent, I asked, “Why is it so important to you?” Leaning in for a hug, with tears in her eyes, she told me, “It just feels more comfortable.”  

Even a Truly Awful Mother couldn’t argue with that.    

Standing outside the bathroom I’m relieved she remembers the incident, relieved for a chance to explain myself.  “Oh Sophia,” I exclaim, “I don’t know.  I think I was just tired of everyone needing me so much all the time.  I just wanted someone to need less of me."  "You have the Worst Mommy,” I add, grateful for a chance to take the blame.

She laughs and I do too.

  

*   *   *   *

I'm super excited to be joining with Andi Cumbo-Floyd and Shawn Smucker to organize a weekend writer's retreat this summer at God's Whisper Farm in the beautiful mountains of Virginia.  Visit Andi's website for more info!

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.  

What if we chose to deliberately look for small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?  

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.   

The School of Love

She has something to tell me and we head upstairs after dinner, leaving the boys in our wake.  Flopping onto my soft, floral bedspread, surrounded by windows and light, she flops too, glowing with bright beauty.

“I like ****,” she says, the words escaping like a happy bubble, a delicious secret. 

I thought we were heading upstairs to talk about chores, to escape for a few brief minutes the din of boys.  With those words, though, the scene changes - I'm transported from the daily to a china shop of delicate wonder, precious, and I’m cautious lest I be a bull.  She is like a beautiful flower unfurling in front of me in one swift movement. 

We lay on the bed facing the ceiling and I ask gentle questions about the boy in question, the one she “likes.”  I’m careful to keep things light – to show interest, but not too much – to honor and reflect her interest and joy.  This is the first of what I hope will be many conversations and I navigate it cautiously, like a young surgeon performing a delicate maneuver.    

She has handed me a gift – her heart in outstretched hands and I’m awed by her trust and my own sacred responsibility to handle with care. 

Sitting together on the porch swing a few nights later my oldest boy, who’s been more snuggly of late, leans into my side.

“This isn’t anywhere near as romantic as I am at school,” he boasts.  Surprised, I ask him to tell me more.  This boy, this lover, has always had his eye on someone and this year is no different. 

“We pinky-swore to be Valentines,” he tells me, of the girl he likes who’s “little and blond.”  A few nights later he's at a loss to remember her name, but still swears he's in love.

They're young, I know and so we are practicing, as we have always been, the sacred art of holding each other’s hearts – the intimate steps of revelation and receiving, the holding together of dreams, hope and longing.  I am practicing, practicing opening room for their growing, changing love; practicing the art of a gentle, steering word, shared smiles and silence. 

Of all the gifts that children bestow this one - this long, slow lesson in learning to love well - is the one that strikes me most.  

For My Tall, Slender and Serious Daughter (Trust Yourself)

This week I'm honored to be guest posting over at Kelli Woodford's place, Chronicles of Grace.  Every week I help her and a handful of other writers host the Unforced Rhythms linkup.  Click over there at the end of this post to continue reading and visit other posts in the linkup.  

He’s a heavyset, gray-haired man, short and jovial who honed in on my daughter, tall, slender and serious.

“Smile!” he commanded and she obeyed.

Standing nearby I was overcome with a strong desire to whack that man, not really, but just mostly in that mama-bear, leave-my-kid-alone-kind-of-way. 

I too was a tall, slender and serious girl.  I cannot tell you the number of times men, mostly in passing, reminded me to smile. 

“Smile!” they’d say, passing me in the mall, in the college lunch line where I worked, on the street.

Sometimes it felt like a harmless flirtation, but underneath all of those commands to change the way my face looked, I got the message that it wasn’t ok to be me.  To be a woman, young or old, who rests serene in her own quiet seriousness is to shirk cultural expectations of the bubbly, giggly girl who lights up the world around her with her pearly whites. 

//

I took my daughter to the Dr. this week after she’d suffered through a baffling array of symptoms.  Was it allergies, a cold, a stomach bug, Strep?  We had no idea. 

She sat alone on the high examining table wrapped in a paper gown while the Dr. tried to puzzle things out.  Every time we visit the Dr. she worries about needing a strep test.  She hates the test, gags every time and occasionally vomits on whoever happens to be administering it. 

Finally the dreaded moment came and her eyes grew wide, as if to say, “Really, Mom? This again?”

To continue reading, follow me over to Kelli Woodford's place where you can read more posts in the Unforced Rhythms link-up and leave a comment. See you over there!