adventure

The forecast looked dreary for the weekend. The first rainy one in a couple of weeks.

I wasn't looking forward to it. I was a bit down on Friday--no real reason I could state. Just a bit blue. the short work week had felt long. The rainy weekend awaiting seemed to stretch before me...a rainy weekend with kids at home. I was worried we'd all feel a bit trapped. Bored. Antsy. Missing the sunshine we've grown accustomed to.

But then Saturday dawned. And the biggest one wanted to bake muffins.

And the littlest one wanted to walk in the rain.

And so we did.

We made muffins and watched them rise. We put on rain jackets and boots and grabbed an umbrella and headed outside.

Little A led the way. We found puddles for splashing and took a turn on the neighborhood rope swing.

We went on a bear hunt.

She laughed. I laughed. I was cold. I was wet. But I was having fun.

And then she saw it. A chasm of a puddle. Filled to the brim with the brownest, muckiest water we had seen yet. And she headed towards it.

No. I said.

Why? she asked.

I thought.

Why not?

And so I gave the yes and watched her run with excitement and splash with joy plastered on her face and rising from her giddy voice.

That seems like such a small, silly moment, but for a momma who loves cleanliness and order--it felt huge. It felt like adventure.

On our walk home, amidst the drizzle and the mud and the gray and the cold, I started thinking about adventure. How this morning, this moment, this moment of yes instead of no was adventure to me. How I was stepping out of my comfort of the dry warmth inside on a day like that day. How I was letting myself ENJOY the gray and the cool and the rain. How I was letting my child DANCE and splash her way through the morning rather than insisting we stay cooped up inside.

And as it tends to do, my mind continued its ambling towards thoughts of adventure in my 37th year. I don't consider myself adventurous. I never have. In the age of social media, my life looks incredibly mundane.

But on Saturday, I felt adventurous. My spirit did (even if no Facebook or Instagram post could have captured it). And this is what I know to be true: Adventure looks and feels differently for everyone. For some it's adrenaline-filled excursions, hot air balloon rides, or riding massive rapids. For others, it's saying yes to what seems impossible or just a tiny bit scary. 

And still for others, it's packing up a tiny Corolla and heading 600 miles from home knowing no one, but trusting that something really good lies ahead.

And all that good was jumping and splashing and singing right before me. And all that good was waiting for us when we got home, the smell of freshly baked muffins still lingering in the air.

And all that good is still unfolding, quite plainly some days, and quite extravagantly on others.

It's important to remember those shiny, extravagant days in the midst of the rather plain ordinary ones. There's extravagance in those days, too...even if it's harder to see.

On Saturday it rained.

and we laughed.

goodbye kindergarten, hello first grade!

And on this day, May 31st, 2018, our 6 year old (wasn't he just born yesterday??) stepped confidently onto the bus for his last pick up as a kindergartner.

At 2:46 pm today, he'll step off the bus as a first grader.

Where has the year gone?

He's gone from wanting to be a chef when he grows up to being an NBA star.

He's deepened his love for math and numbers.

He's jumped reading levels and discovered new authors and new characters.

He's made new friends and learned new dances and new phrases and new games.

He's continued to ask insightful questions and challenged our thinking and parenting in new ways.

It's amazing what a year holds--and how fast it can quickly go by. I know I'll never be able to slow time down, but I sure hope I can learn to slow down and be more present in these moments.

These moments where he walks around with a notepad in hand making lists--lists of basketball teams; and all the Why questions he can think of; and activities for his friends to do when they come to his house.

These moments when he wants to dribble and play catch and hit balls while waiting in the driveway for the bus to come.

These moments when he wants to snuggle right into my belly as we watch the Emoji movie for the 100th time.

These moments when he asks for one more slice of watermelon, and another, and another.

These moments when he runs into the house, kicks off his shoes, and heads straight to his room to sort more baseball cards.

These moments when a hose and a nozzle may as well be a water park in Atlantis.

These moments. These moments that are fleeting. By this time next year he'll be an entirely different boy (deep down every bit the same but with different interests, some deepened versions of the present, others brand new) with his heart and his mind occupied in different ways.

I don't know how to capture it all. I know I am already forgetting a bit of the boy we put on the bus last August.  I don't want to spend our lives behind a camera. I know no amount of written documentation will replace being in the moment with our boy.

I'll physically document what I can. Otherwise, my mind and my heart will have to do the documenting as I breathe deeply, take in the moments while we are living them, and remain as absolutely present as I can.

Because if this isn't living in the moment, I sure don't know what is!

this is three

Addy-Girl
Addy-Love
Addy-Cakes
Love bug
Sissy
Baby girl

Addison Lane

We call you many names because no one name seems to define you well enough. You are equal parts innocent,
spirited,
impish,
kind,
quiet,
loud,
funny,
caring,
imaginative,
wise,
impulsive,
questioning,
accepting,
loving,
soft,
edgy.

And today, little one, you're 3.

3!

You love Minnie Mouse and Daniel Tiger and carrying around purses full of treasures, of trinkets, much like Ariel (or your Granny :)). You sing songs. All. The. Time. Songs you know. Songs you've made up. Songs that float in and out of your head. I feel like you live your life in a sing-songy way. You seem to only find joy in the world around you. Pure joy.

I think that's why you find it impossible to fall asleep at night or sleep past 6 am on any given day. The days are just too good in your mind. Why miss a single minute?

I must confess that those nights you fight sleep, you want one more rock, one more drink, one more trip to the potty, oh, darling I grow frustrated. But I know in my heart that this is just you, love. No matter what those sleep "experts" say--you just exude joy and want to soak up every bit of it. I know that this is you. And I want to soak it up, too.

Because you are 3 today and as I sit and write this note to you, I am aware that the days of you needing me the way you do, wanting to curl up into my belly as I rock you to sleep, wanting me to "hold hold" you as we walk up the stairs, or needing me to painstakingly cut up your grapes for snack time, all of that is slowly, slowly (yet quickly, quickly) coming to an end. In another year, that list will look different. It will be shorter or perhaps transformed into an entirely new list, with this day, these days, these particular wants and needs buried in our memories.

You're 3 today, baby girl!

You're funny. You're feisty. You're fierce.

I want to hold on to every part of what makes you this incredible you. I hope you hold on to the best parts about you, too. Don't let the world tell you you are ever too much. Just persist. Let your voice be heard. You love to roar like a dinosaur with your friend Pearl. I hope you hold on to that roar, that confidence, that playfulness, that fierceness with all that you are.

Here's to another trip around the sun. To more moments and memories to come. I sure can't wait to see where this next year takes you.

Happy 3rd birthday, Addison Lane. You delight us in so many ways!

March 5, 2018 (you slept in your big girl bed for the first night last night!)

Ages: 0-2 (golly, that went fast!)

now what?

Now what?

So here we are, standing in this tragic gap. The gap, as Parker Palmer states, "between the hard realities around us and what we know is possible." 

So now what?

We act.

We speak.

We write.

As a friend and colleague so beautifully wrote in her own reflective piece as a teacher recently talking with her students about this "tragic gap"--we don't wait for the bridge across that gap to be built. We build it.

These kids. They are building that bridge. No. They aren't actors. They are bridge builders.

Let's be bridge builders. Let's act in the face of injustice and cruelty. 

Have you had #enough?  

Want to make a statement about ending mass shootings and easy access to assault rifles? Participate in the National School Walkout from wherever you are on March 14th or the March for our Lives on March 24th.

Where else is your heart crying out for change and transformation in our world today?  Where can you be a bridge builder for that change?

Make your voice heard. You can march, yes, but make sure you let your elected officials know how you feel. Even if you're nervous or think you may not say the right thing. Even if those action steps feel like baby steps.

Find a cause. Reflect on that cause. And then take action.

March.
Write.
Speak.
Tweet.
Donate.
Act.
Reflect.
Repeat.

the tragic gap

In Healing the Heart of Democracy, Parker Palmer writes of standing in the “tragic gap” between the world as it is and the world we know could be. A space that doesn’t feel just or fair. A space that can feel cavernous and hopeless. A space that can spur us to action or paralyze us with fear.

It’s a term I was asked to reflect on multiple times this past week during a week of conferences and workshops around the work and purpose of higher education institutions in community and civic engagement. It’s my professional field that brings me into these spaces. It’s my personal sense of agency (as a mother, a wife, a daughter, a teacher, a justice-seeker) that compels me to engage and listen and wrestle with the tragic gap that exists between a world of “wicked problems” and unjust systems and a world of peace and abundant quality of life for all.

I was first asked to think about how I’m standing in this tragic gap as a higher education community engagement professional. 

What I didn’t know at the time was that I was being asked to consider this while children were being gunned down and murdered in their school.

While 17 people died.

The tragic gap felt more tragic and urgent this week. 

When I began to read the news, my work in the “ivory tower” of academia felt inauthentic and futile. 

My work (our work), the work of this entire field was (not for the first time) called into question for me.

What is higher education really about these days? What is our role in reducing and eliminating this tragic gap? Are we doing enough to live into our public purpose? Or are we simply adding to the problem? When does research and scholarship leave us complacent?  When does our market-driven motivations and students as customers approach (necessary to “keep the lights on” as they say), run antithetical to being about educating the next generation of leaders and changemakers? 

As I wrestled with these questions in the company of others wrestling right along side me, I recognized that the tragic gap isn’t just about mass school shootings (no doubt what was heaviest on our minds).  It’s about why we have social justice movements like #blacklivesmatter, #metoo, and #bringbackourgirls in the first place. It’s about a world in which way too many people live at the margins.  A world where people feel unsafe or “less than” simply by being their authentic selves. 

The gap is tragically wide.

And it’s even wider for the marginalized.

If you’ve made it this far through this post, I invite you to consider the following:

• Where are you standing in “the tragic gap”?

• What are you doing to bring the worlds on either side of that gap together?

There is far more to write and far more to say.  There are actions to take. I will write more on those in another post.  For now, I will pause and leave you with this photo and verse. I had the pleasure of visiting and learning from colleagues at a college campus with a 100+ year old working farm this past week.  On a walk during my time there, just one day after Parkland, I saw this picture and captured it, with the following verse resonating in my head: 

“...and they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war anymore.” Isaiah 2:4

As we live in this tragic gap, let’s be about the work of beating our swords (our guns, our anger, our fear, our power) into garden tools, tools for pruning and planting, growing and watering, creating and nurturing life giving beauty for all.