"I can promise you that women working together - linked, informed and educated - can bring peace and prosperity to this forsaken planet." -Isabel Allende
Foster moms can be a passionate bunch.
Same for
health and wellness moms
adoptive moms,
moms of kids with autism,
homeschooling moms,
tiger moms,
moms of kids with special needs,
moms of twins,
moms of preschoolers,
moms of children who are seriously ill,
moms of addicts,
moms of children who have turned to violence,
moms of kids who committed suicide,
and mothers of kids who have been killed by drunk drivers.
So here's my point: all of those moms who have committed their hearts and minds to a specific cause, and give unendingly not only to their own sons and daughters but to all children who gather under that particular banner are beautiful.
All of those causes are beautiful.
All of those mothers' passionate work is motivated by love.
And I truly believe that, while God loves us no matter what we do or don't do, he is pleased with anyone who cares for children, no matter what the specifics of the particular situation.
But there are times, though I hate to say it, that some of those particular types of mothers lift up their own special cause as different
or better
or more important
or closer to God's heart
than the causes that other mothers lift up.
Rather than revel in the beauty of every form of passionate mothering, I hear voices saying, "Yes, this is the most important form of mothering. Every mother should consider doing this."
And sometimes I can make out, in the whispers between the words, "God loves this kind of mothering best."
Now, I understand the passion in those voices, both whispered and spoken aloud.
There is nothing that feels more right and good and truly empowering than to step into the call that God has planned for you. And there's nothing more affirming and life-giving than getting that sense of spiritual confirmation that you are exactly where you are supposed to be, doing exactly what God created you to do.
I'll be the first to acknowledge that passionate moms can easily get so wrapped up in their causes that it's hard for them to imagine being any other way. Back in the day, I was a homeschooling mom as intense as they come - I loved everything about homeschooling and knew without question that this was the ideal lifestyle not only for my own family but for all children and their families. I would drag out my soapbox to expound on the merits of this lifestyle to anyone who would listen, and encouraged every mother who showed even a flicker of interest in homeschooling to give it a try. I wanted every child in the world to learn this way, and I tirelessly reached out to other homeschooling families to give them a hand up. As further proof of my endless passion for homeschooling, let me point out that eight years after graduating my youngest daughter, I'm still supporting homeschooled kids by teaching algebra to homeschooled high school students.
Passion is a beautiful thing.
But, you know, allow me to point out the obvious.
God built us all to do different things.
So. While one mom is advocating for kids with attention deficit issues, another is serving as a doula for laboring moms, and a third is influencing legislation to help hungry kids get healthy breakfasts at school.
There's no hierarchy to these needs. One form of mothering is just as valid and essential to our children as the next. Every single passionate act of mothering counts.
And when we passionate moms can work together, fully appreciating the unique and varied gifts we each bring to the world, that is the very best we can do for the children that we all love so much.
"Some plants become weeds simply by virtue of their success rather than any other factor.
You merely want less of them. " -Monty Don
This bouquet won the Most Riotous award.
Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, I bought three purple Columbines and planted them in my garden.
There, I thought. What beautiful flowers. Someday they will fill in and make my yard look like a proper alpine meadow.
Ha.
That's ironic.
And this one wins Most Delicate. It's my favoirite.
Probably three or four years went by before I realized my predicament.
Columbine flowers happily reseed themselves. Which mean my original three quickly expanded to a dozen, and then fifty, and by the third year, into the hundreds.
And these new plants did not just settle in around their mother's skirts. No, no - they blew far and wide across my yard, popping up their purple heads up in every corner.
These flowers had not yet bloomed when I harvested them.
Which, you know, is not really the worst thing in the world. Lots of plants reseed themselves - foxglove roam even more freely around my gardens - but what makes the Columbine truly notorious is the fearsome power of its root system. Even the tenderest little sprout can dig in its heels and cling to the soil with incredible tenacity and strength.
Which means, in short, Columbines are the very devil to remove.
And for every tiny fragile baby that I don't get in one season, I have a dozen more to pry loose by the next year.
They are a bit smaller than the others, more delicate in shape and in color.
Over the decades, I have plucked and pinched and prodded those innocent-looking leaves till my fingers ache, only to find that my Columbine situation really does grow worse every year.
That vision of my yard turning into an alpine meadow was no joke, people. These suckers are trying to take over.
As much as I've come to gnash my teeth at the Columbine in my garden,
I simply adore them in vases around my house.
So it was with a heavy heart this past week that I observed the annual bloom of my Columbine invasion. And just as I felt the usual fever hit me - the mad desire to run through my front yard with a blow torch and show every one of those invasive purple monsters who's boss - I suddenly had a different idea.
Rather than destroy them, why not love my unruly usurpers into submission?
With a new thrum of happiness in my heart, I grabbed my trusty Fiskars and cheerily trimmed off every stem of Columbine blooms in sight. I swept the entire armload into the house and filled vases with their charming stems and delicate bells.
Now these flowers can do me no harm. By trimming them off and bringing them inside, I have rendered their Columbine reseeding super power inert. None of them will produce seeds to fall to the subur soil, and none of them will ever contribute to the population explosion that has tormented me for all these years.
Both my garden and I are breathing a blissful sigh of relief. And now, much to my surprise, I find my Columbine to be rather sweet.
It's not just for dogs. Humans can sit there too. But dogs have a special invitation to curl up in this chair, and all three of my dogs have done so.
It's a fairly old and run down chair. But that's just the right kind of chair for dogs.
It is also, apparently, a cat chair. My three cats have all loved it too, and during the day, when my dog is usually busy following me around the other rooms of the house, the cats slip into my room to gaze out the window while perched on the arm of the chair or to curl up in the chair, a perfectly tidy circle of cozy fur in the big seat.
Gracie is okay with that, as long as the cats clear out at night. She likes to sleep in the dog chair at night. Though she is welcome to snooze on the foot of the bed, this pooch mostly chooses to crash out on either her floor rug or the dog chair. Usually some of both.
This morning, Luna put on quite a show, rubbing her head on the little table full of plants, my legs, even on Gracie's head resting on the arm of the dog chair.
Luckily, Gracie doesn't mind sharing a little head rubbing from a friendly cat.
That's a nice thing about a dog chair. It lends a peaceful, gentle, forgiving air to the room, and brings out the best in everyone.
And it is also a very good place to keep your eye on your prize possessions.
* * * * *
For another story about Gracie and her rawhide bones in my bedroom, read this:
Last weekend in my backyard, the humans were busy working while the pets worked on their naps.
I do not pretend to understand my pets' minds/
Oh sure, they do a bang-up job of letting me know what they'd like me to do for them.
Their communication to me around meals, doors, and requests for attention come through loud and clear, and they have trained me to anticipate and meet their needs very well.
But certainly there is a lot more going on inside of those adorable furry heads than I can grasp.
I think Sirius is thinking how nice it feels to rest those dainty white feet.
Take chaise lounges for example.
For these last six or seven months, my back-yard lounge chairs have been under wraps, hidden away from the winter rains, and inaccessible for anyone's use.
But when we humans brought the chairs out into the sunshine last weekend, it took only a hot minute for two of my clever cats to hop up and make themselves entirely at home.
I think Luna wants me to fan him and feed him grapes.
These fabulous felines apparently had no trouble recalling the express purpose of the chaise lounges. They lounged in proper style, stretching out across the smooth, sun-warmed wood and settling in for a pair of lovely, shade-dappled, afternoon naps.
All they needed were tiny novels and meow-sized margaritas for the perfect summer relaxation experience.
Clearly my cats understand with infinite subtlety and depth the true purpose of the chaise lounge.
"Guys! No need to rest like animals on bare wood - hold out for the cushions!
In an unusually magnanimous gesture, Gracie did not challenge the cats to the chairs. She calmly watched their lounging session from her comfortable patch of grass.
And though I don't claim to understand her thoughts any more than I do the cats', I'm pretty sure my clever dog's logic was to wait her turn until we put the cushions on.
I baked my sick friend some chocolate chip cookies
and I'm glad to report he felt well enough to eat them.
For the past couple days, I?Ve been visiting a friend who is sick.
No, it?S not Covid 19. Nor any other contagious ailment, so it?S safe enough to see him.
A number of his other friends have been visiting too so there are often three or four of us gathered in his room at the same time. Interestingly, they have all had the same malady that my friend suffers now, so they have good insights and advice to offer him.
I'm new to this but I'm learning.
My friend is mostly awake and conversant, though certainly not himself. Yesterday, he was swallowed up with pain and desperate in his suffering. We talked to him, encouraged him, brainstormed ways to help him feel more comfortable. My friend has been sick like this before and we all reminded him that if he got through it before, he can get through it again.
Positive vibes.
Breathe deep.
Drink lots of water.
Try to sleep.
During the worst of it, we considered getting him some emergency medical help, but in the end everyone agreed that he's better off staying put in his own bed. Miserable as he is, we know for a fact that our friend will not die - or be permanently harmed - by his illness.
In fact, this disease is not a disease at all.
This is the cure.
* * * * *
My friend is dope sick.
Heroin has ruled his life for the past decade and a half. Though he's made some major strides toward sobriety in the past couple years, he still struggles. And the past six weeks have been a nightmare of nonstop smoking.
So a few days ago, he decided to that the only way to put an end to this run was to detox.
Over the years, my friend has gone through many episodes of detox - the fancy kind at a pricey rehab center as well as the kind where you're in jail - and he knew exactly what he was up against. His friends, who are recovered addicts themselves and have all gone through this same hell, knew what they were getting into, and they know what they're doing.
Though my friend has told me many stories about his detox adventures, this is my first rodeo.
What I've gained from the experience so far is this:
Heroin is evil. Sure, when you're high, heroin takes away your pain and makes you feel, as my friend always says, perfect. But in the end, heroin all but destroys you. And that's if you're lucky to not overdose.
More than ever, I truly believe that anyone who uses heroin must be in so much physical, mental or spiritual pain that they are willing to take the black, soul-sucking, deep-pit-of-hell bad of heroin with the momentary flash of good.
People who use heroin deserves our compassion and support. Not our judgment and disapproval.
* * * * *
I saw my friend again today, and it looks like he's past the worst of it. He's still a ways from getting back on his feet, but he slept twelve hours last night and feels somewhat human again.
We are all greatly relieved.
I'd like to think that my chocolate chip cookies may have helped.
we now have the agony of more black people dying at the hands of the police. From what I can tell, the whole nation is horrified by the new waves of violence, and social media is feverish with calls to action.
And to be one hundred percent clear, I'm for that.
Idanquot;m for people paying attention to what's happening to our black brothers and sisters.
I'm for equal rights.
I'm for an end to systemic racism.
I'm for peace and brotherhood and compassion and love among all people.
But I am not for the
impatience
lack of education
guilt and shame
and negativity that I hear and see, coming from all directions.
These things make me tired. And sad.
Because there is so much we need to talk about and so little space for a real conversation.
Let me try to begin.
* * * * *
America's persoalan with racism is not new.
Things did not begin to go wrong
when George Floyd's neck went under that police officer's knee.
When Amy Cooper ominously threatened to call the cops on Christian Cooper
when Breonna Taylor was gunned down in her own apartment.
When Ahmaud Arbury was shot and killed by a father and son while out for a run.
No, I'm sorry but these racially-motivated outrages go back through the centuries, all the way to the very beginning of America. The first black slaves came to the colonies in 1619. That's a year before the Mayflower pulled in.
Those of us who were around for the Civil Rights Era of the 1950s and 60s can testify to the ongoing narrative of racial injustice and police brutality. In those days, black people were killed not just by police but at the hands of angry white citizens: consider the 1955 case of a 14 year old black boy named Emmett Till who was accused of wolf-whistling at a white woman in a Mississippi grocery store who was found dead, disfigured, and dumped in the bottom of the Tallahatchie River.In 1964, three civil rights workers in Mississippi sent to register black voters ended up dead and their bodies dumped in a partially completed dam. While looking for them, authorities turned up a number of anonymous bodies, victims of past lynchings and murders. Apparently, the KKK was involved.
We were also outraged by police attacking otherwise peaceful protest movements, like Martin Luther King Jr's 1965 Selma to Montgomery march. Police attacked the unarmed protesters with billy clubs and tear gas; one of the organizers, Amelia Boynton, was beaten unconscious and the event was tagged Bloody Sunday.
I'm not sharing these stories to give you nightmares but to make an important point.
Racism may be new on some people's radar, especially Gen Xers, Millennials, and Gen Zers who were not around for the highly charged Civil Rights Era, but it's important to keep a realistic perspective:
Racism has been a fact of American life since the beginning. The racist events of 2020 are horrific in their own right, but must be considered in the context of the past decades and centuries; the latest in a long, miserable line of dominoes to fall.
Though the current reality is unacceptable and we still have much work to do, it's important to respect the hard work and sacrifices that many black and white Americans have made in the past to advance the cause of racial equality. We are fortunate to stand on their shoulders.
* * * * *
I'm entirely supportive of our new national conversation on racism. I think it's penting to moving forward, and I love that folks from all corners of life are speaking up. But as listeners, we have a responsibility to test those words, to hold the speakers accountable to history and common sense, to think about rather than simply feel our response.
Case in point.
I love Trevor Noah. I didn't follow him during his stand-up days, but since he took over at The Daily Show, I often watch his videos. I enjoy his smooth manner and sly sense of humor, and respect his intellect and point of view.
Ditto for his recent piece, a passionate and eloquent commentary about our current situation. He says a lot of beautiful, thoughtful, interesting things and I love his heart. But when Noah mentioned that people in power pushed back against Martin Luther King Jr. Telling him that his was the "wrong way" to protest, I was shocked. I'd never heard that idea before.
So I looked into some facts.
Other than a few nut jobs at the FBI, a minority of die-hard racists, and black leaders like Malcom X who preferred violent protest, MLK was widely respected and much loved in his day as a nonviolent protester and a man of integrity. He won the Nobel Peace Prize, for heaven's sake, as well as the Presidential Medal of Freedom and Congressional Medal of Honor. A holiday to his honor was established in 1971, three years after his death, and enacted as a federal holiday in 1986. Hundreds of streets have been renamed in his gaji; here in my own state, the county that includes the city of Seattle was renamed for him; and his memorial on the National Mall in Washington DC was dedicated in 2011.
That's a lot of love for a black Southern preacher. I found no evidence that MLK was ever disparaged or told that his way was the "wrong waydanquot; to protest. Sorry, Noah, you got that one wrong.
And my point here is not to shame Noah but simply to say, we must all take responsibility for paying attention to the facts and not just the emotional volume of our commentary.
Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. I take responsibility for my own education and hope that you do too.
* * * * *
As a kid, I often spent a long time trying to fall asleep at night. Thanks to what I now know as Delayed Sleep Phase Syndrome, it was quite normal to me to toss and turn for an hour or so after my mom tucked me in, which left me lots of time to ponder the nature of the universe and other such mysteries. It was probably in third grade, when we first got to use actual social studies textbooks with photos of kids from all around the world, sitting in their Polynesian huts or Mongolian yurts or tiny Eastern European apartments, that I began to reflect on my good fortune.
One could debate the merits of my conclusions, but this is where my seven-year-old late-night thought train took me: I am a white American girl, living in the best state in the country. (Detroit was booming in those days.) My parents went to college and someday I will too. We have a nice house, nice clothes, a cool car ('67 Barracuda) and plenty of food. I am smart, strong and healthy. I have literally the best of everything in life and I couldn't be any luckier.
And with that thought came the flip side of the coin. Virtually every other child in the world had, in one way or another, less than me. I felt not guilt or shame because I knew I had done nothing to earn all those wonderful things. I was simply born into them. And the kids who had less than me had done nothing to deserve their fate either. That's just the world to which they were were born.
But I knew, from that moment forward, that my purpose in life was to share my advantages with those who had less. I had no idea what that would look like, but I just knew that in this uneven distribution of advantage, my life's work would be to try to even the score.
While I am not asking for a medal, I'd say that I've kept true to that purpose. With my life, I've tried to embrace differences, to give to those who have less, and to love whoever God puts in my path, blacks, whites, and every color in between.
So imagine my surprise to learn recently that as a white person, I am blind to my own white privilege. I'm told that white people like me are so inherently racist that we can't even see our own racism, and as an old, washed up, morally corrupted Boomer, that's especially true. You know how those Karens are.
Well, I don't think that's a fair conclusion. And I don't think it's true. But I have learned that the more I try to defend myself, to explain myself, the more people pinch their lips together and firmly shake their head, "no." Apparently, the more I say I'm not a racist, the more true it is that I am one.
It's frustrating to be judged by a stereotype, to be unheard, to have people discount my own experience without really understanding who I am.
* * * * *
So if you've been on Instagram lately, you've seen that it's crammed full of posts explaining to white people how to improve our allyship and become anti-racist.
Donate money to black causes
Follow black influencers
Frequent and promote black businesses
Vote for anti-racist candidates
Watch programs and read books about white privilege and racism
Watch programs and read books about black culture
Support black protest movements
Post appropriate memes.
Speak out against racism.
And so on.
I think all those actions are wonderful. And I think that when we do those things, we will help to mend together the broken places that still need repairing between blacks and whites.
But I also think that it's important to be kind. To be gracious. To recognize the guilt and shame we heap upon each other with these lists of responsibilities.
To do any one of those things is a true act of love.
To judge yourself for not doing enough of them is too much.
And I hope the white Americans who want so badly to help their black brothers and sisters will be kind to themselves and to each other, and realize that every single step we take together - no matter how small - leads us that much closer to the promised land.
* * * * *
I am still tired.
But I know I'm not the only one.
The weight of these issues,
of our cares for the black babies tucked into their cribs fast asleep, who haven't learned yet about the world they've been born into,
of our fears for the next black man or woman who stands on the wrong side of a police officer's gun (or knee),
of our agony for the mother whose black teenage son is out on the sidewalks after dark, not realizing the danger he's in,
they hang heavy around our necks.
Certainly they hang heaviest around the necks of our black brothers and sisters, but they cause pain and heartache to white people too.
I will never know exactly how it feels to be black.
And no black person will ever know exactly how it feels to be white.
But I don't think that's our goal.
Our goal is not to come to perfect understanding.
Our goal is to build a place where we can live
in peace and justice,
in kindness and respect,
in true brotherhood.
Our goal is to overcome the evil that has torn us apart.
Deep in my heart, I do believe, we shall overcome some day.
My bedroom basks in sunshine while the bathroom sits in shadows. You'd never know from this photo that the walls are the exact same color.
It's been six or seven years since I changed.
Long a proponent of bold color and lots of action in my decor, my aesthetic abruptly switched to a starkly minimal streak. Suddenly I craved neutrals all day, simple black and white accents, and lots of big empty space on my walls.
To be honest, this timeline matches up with the decline of my mother's health. Her battle with Lewy Body Dementia took a toll on my state of mind as well as hers, and when she became seriously ill, I found that a calm, visually quiet home brought peace to my troubled soul.
So I began to live, quite contentedly, with pale, neutral, empty spaces.
If you look closely, you can see the last remaining 1980s pink and blue morning glories in the tile around my bathtub. My brain refuses to acknowledge them, but there they are in all their glory.
This was especially true in my bedroom and bathroom. I needed Zen-level calm in the place where I wound down at night for restful sleep, and geared myself up in the morning to face another day. So I stripped both rooms down to bare essentials and light beige walls, and just let everything be for years on end.
A year and a half ago, I dreamed of four paintings on the then-completely blank wall of my bedroom. Inspired by my vision, I went out on a limb and brought this kecil gallery to life. Though this felt like a huge step forward, these pieces were just what I needed to begin stepping out from my empty-wall phase, and hang exactly in the same spot to this day.
Many times over the past year, those paintings have caught my eye, and I am grateful that I made what felt like the very bold step to add them.
I'll admit that the grey background against the beige wall is hardly a cutting edge decor statement. But the low contrast combination is exactly what feels pleasing to my brain, and that is good enough for me.
Last week, they inspired me further.
Okay, I tell myself, enough with the big empty wall above the bathtub. It's time to admit that that space looks neglected and sad. I begin to mentally sort through my art stash to see if anything on hand could suit my purposes.
My family room in 2012. Pretty much everything has changed since then.
I'm glad the flower lives on.
With a jolt of surprise and a rush of certainty, I remember the big flower painting that used to hang in my family room. Somewhere around three in the morning - which is probably like ten p.M. To normal people - I dash out to the garage, pull it from storage, and hustle it upstairs to see if the proportions would work.
Yes. Perfection.
The bold colors of the original art still feel overwhelming to me but not to worry. Since I created the painting in the first place, I can easily rework it in different colors.
And that's what I do. A Saturday afternoon on the patio surrounded by a half dozen tubes of acrylic paint turns the bright red flower to pale pink, and dials the background back from blue to gray.
Now this is the scene that greets me when I walk into my bathroom, and it feels not chaotic or overwhelming but cheerful.
I hang the reinvented painting in place before dinner, and that night - again around three in the morning - as I bring in a trio of plants for their monthly watering session, I take in the scene and realize they are the perfect finishing touch.
I realize that my bathroom - and my bedroom too, for that matter - is still subdued and a far cry from the old days of orange polka dots and rainbow rugs.
But times have changed me, for better or for worse, and this still-neutral room now set off by a big bold flower expresses exactly who I am today.
The flower adds the touch of lightness that I am finally ready to embrace.
