I don’t care for the origins of Thanksgiving, but I do care about giving thanks.
My thanksgiving has little to do with any national history and everything to do with thanks.
Tomorrow as I eat a small, turkey-free meal with my husband and sons, I will be thankful.
I am thankful.
I am thankful for this reminder to be thankful, and to reflect upon the many sources of my gratitude. Life gets so hectic, I sometimes need to be reminded to pause and take it all in. Read more…
A couple weeks ago, my six-year-old said his favorite Harry Potter character was Snape:
Dad: Who’s your favorite Harry Potter character?
D: Because he was protecting Harry.
Yesterday he watched Snape’s apparent betrayal of Dumbledore. “But he protected Harry!” shouted Li’l D. “He protected Harry!”
“There are lots of different ways of protecting people, sweetheart,” I told him. “Keep watching.”
After I wrapped up work, I joined him on the couch for The Deathly Hallows, Part 2. Li’l D took it in with great and silent concern as his dad–home just in time to also partake–and I wiped tears from our eyes through the sequence of memories derived from Snape’s tears.
I suspect Li’l D will be mulling this over for a while. For my part, I am glad to remember reading the first book back in law school … and to think with great joy how much lovelier this story is now, shared with the little one I didn’t then know would ever come to be.
Did I say “little one“? I mean “little ones.” Littler J also enjoyed the final show, if in a less contemplative way!
I’ve written about my mom’s mental illness many times here. Most recently, I posted a series of related excerpts from my journal entries through the years. These culminated with”No longer afraid,” a post expressing the peace of mind I earned by revisiting then through eyes of now.
This morning I’m over on La Sabronosa’s blog, “My Spanglish Familia.” Her blog eases loneliness by its candid, warm address of her life, though its focus is on “Motherhood, Mental Illness, and Metamorphosis.”
When I began my WordPress journey, I only wanted to post when I felt confident I’d found an answer for whatever question I’d had. Now, I find the good’s in sharing where I’m at, no matter how far away answers seem: in embracing the beauty of change in progress. Of metamorphosis.
I’m honored to be part of La Sabronosa’s “Metamorphosis Mondays” Q&A feature this Monday. Please join me there to see light shone in corners I’d never shine it without an invitation.
If we were having coffee today, I’d ask if I could fumble through where I’m at before settling into contentedly listening to you. I’d much rather listen than talk these days. Truthfully, I’d really rather retreat to my closet and recharge there for about a month than just about anything else right now, and emerge only to spend time with my favorite little boys. That’s not an option, so …
You might have already picked up on that I’ve been feeling spread extra thin lately based on my reflections about others’ expectations and introversion earlier this week. There is constant stimulation and change around me, and the early week respite I’d hoped to help energize and keep me going appears to have vanished. So I must preserve what little energy I have, which I do–in part–by listening more than speaking.
Still, people often think you’re cold or inaccessible if you don’t speak at all, so I’d tell you I’ve been finding bits of energy in little things like my six-year-old son’s newfound love of Bad Kitty books. He laughs uproariously at least once every couple of chapters, and I’m in a similar boat. I’m excited that he can laugh so much while learning about things like the election process.
In things like my nineteen-month-old speaking up more words every day. Until the last couple of weeks, he’s been much more interested in signing than speaking with his mouth. He’s previously mostly used signs to express himself and his mouth to shriek when upset. The last week, he’s spoken new words like “apple,” “water,” and “gramma.” I’m enjoying listening him learn to express himself with a little more nuance than are afforded by ear-splitting shrieks of rage. Read more…
I am an introvert.
If you were to ask Lord Google to define “introvert,” he’d tell you that means I’m “a shy, reticent person.” If you know me in person, chances are you’re laughing now. Shy? Ha! Reticent? Um, how do we get you to stop telling us exactly how you feel?!
I’d kindly ask that you not defer to deluded Lord Google here, and instead point you to the best succinct definition I can find: Urban Dictionary’s, which describes an introvert as a person “who is energized by spending time alone. Often found in their homes, libraries, quiet parks that not many people know about, or other secluded places, introverts like to think and be alone.”
Now there’s a spot-on definition! (If you’re interested in reading something a little longer and much more illuminating, this article is amazing.)
During my college years, I was lucky to be absorbed into a group of my sister Rache‘s friends who thought it was perfectly natural I’d show up at their parties only to fall asleep in the corner. They’d tease me playfully and with great love about it, all the while clearly recognizing–without my ever needing to describe myself as an introvert, or explain why I didn’t want to actually interact–that my craving contact without conversation was part of who I was. I was at home in the expansiveness of their undemanding, loving acceptance. Read more…
You present me with
a dress you’ve spent
“Wear it now,” you
tell me. “It’ll look
so very lovely on you!
Just like I’ve dreamed it
would, for all those
decades I’ve known
you were out there,
waiting to fill this dress.”
I choose my words
gingerly. “It is a
I grant you that.
But how can you
have made it for me
hundreds of moons ago,
existed?” Read more…
Victo Dolore’s recent post on sad times in school lunchrooms reminded me of my own like experiences. I was always one of the odd ones out. I remembered my mom’s like tales, too, and a post I’d written remembering those.
I think my mom–aka Thunder Thighs, my favorite superhero–would have loved its ending.
A Victory Most Malodorous
September 10, 2015
Tonight, my older son asked me to tell him “the story about the cat and the dog.”
“Which story?” I asked him. “This isn’t ringing a bell. Could you give me a little more detail to remind me?”
“The one where the dog brings the cat milk.” Read more…