EHS 30 Years Later

It's been 30 years since I was a student wandering the halls at Enterprise High School. In some ways it seems impossible that 30 years have passed. When I left EHS with my freshly printed diploma in hand, I had every intention of leaving and never looking back. Never peeking over my shoulder at this school. Never calling this community home again. Never again being defined by this rural, small-town life that I couldn't wait to escape. 

And escape I did. I left this little town and landed at San Francisco State, a campus with 30,000 students. For four years I lived the dream of big city life. 

And when I graduated from SFSU, something funny happened. Somehow in the midst of all that urban living I learned about the value of small town life. The city began to feel claustrophobic to me. The noise, busyness, lack of open spaces and need to plan your life around rush-hour traffic patterns had lost its luster. And my life began to meander back toward the place I had come from...the very place I had happily dismissed a few years before. 

I didn't land back in Redding immediately. It took me another 8 years after college graduation to make my way home. And when I did arrive, everything felt a little different. The vast majority of my friends had moved to other places. This small town was growing and changing in ways I wouldn't have imagined a decade earlier. And I came to appreciate the incredible collection of natural beauty that I didn't really notice during my surly teenage years. 

In the years since I've moved back home, I've also had the good fortune to return to some old and neglected friendships that got lost in the shuffle after high school graduation. (Easy to do in the pre-Facebook era.) Through class reunions and some google detective work, I've reconnected with a collection of high school girls that has grown into a tight-knit circle of deep and connected friends. We get together for our own private reunions every year. We nag at each other so we don't forget to do our mammograms. We laugh until we can't breathe and tears stream down our faces. We check in on each other when life gets hard and celebrate when life calls for a party. 

High school was not exactly a bed of roses for all of us. We had our share of carefree, youthful fun, but also we had our fair share of heartbreak, disappointment, teen drama and some life experiences that we wouldn't wish on our enemies. I wasn't the only one who graduated from high school determined to never look back. 

And yet, I'm so glad that we did. 

Looking back, with the wisdom that only comes from the passage of time, has allowed me to bring forward the best part of my high school experience....the friendships. 

Over the years since we have all reconnected and rekindled our friendships, I've been trying to pinpoint the "thing" that makes this circle of friends so precious. As we gather each year and soak in each other's company for 2-3 days, I wonder about the secret sauce that seems to exist among the six of us. 

Part of it is our history. When you know someone for 30+ years there is a level of understanding that tends to make things easier. You don't have to explain where you're coming from because they witnessed first hand where you've been. But that's not the whole story. Maybe the more important piece is not just knowing the history, but appreciating and respecting the way that history has shaped us individually and collectively. Perhaps it's the ability to see in each other the more confident adults we have become, and also being sensitive to the small pieces of those vulnerable young teenagers that still live inside all of us. 

Back in 1991, when we gathered with our classmates for our senior panoramic picture, one of us wore a shirt emblazoned with the words "So Be It" in huge, black letters. I didn't really get it at the time. She was (is) a little edgy and rebellious, and I just figured maybe that was the point of the shirt....we weren't supposed to understand it.

This past weekend when we gathered for our annual girls reunion, we looked back on that panoramic photo and I wondered once again about that shirt. I didn't get a chance to ask her what exactly that shirt meant to her in 1991. But for me, in 2021, the meaning suddenly became clear. An expression of acceptance. Resignation. Clarity. We don't need to have the answers or a rationale for why "it" works. If it works, we go with it. 

So be it.

Enterprise High School
Class of 1991

30 years later 💛

Plunging Into the Teen Years

My firstborn is turning 13 this week. Seems hard to believe. Wasn't it just yesterday we were struggling through the sleepless nights? 

As a parent, 13 seems like the top of the incline on the parenting rollercoaster. For years, we change diapers, wipe noses, agonize about the timing of their first steps, how fast they are reading or if they are memorizing math facts on schedule with their peers. And then the teen years hit and the days that seemed to stretch on to infinity suddenly seem finite. The mad dash to the finish line is in sight. 

Not that we ever "finish" as parents. Because we don't. That role is ours for life. 

But at age 13, there are just a handful of years before it's legally acceptable for your kids to leave the house. Even fewer until they are able to drive and your ability to control their every movement is severely crippled. 

At 13, the personality that has been percolating for years starts to take clearer shape. Their thoughts, ideas and opinions are no longer a regurgitation of your own. Of course, if you've got kids like mine....they've always been free thinkers. This daughter of mine was demanding specific diaper colors before she even had words and refused to wear pants for the first 7 years of her life. But at this stage of the game, they gain more confidence in their own place in the world. They learn how to verbalize who they are, even when that reality is different than your vision of who they are or what they might become. 

The truth of the parenting experience hits home in a more acute way during the teen years. It's all a process of letting go. 

When kids are little, most of the letting go is joyous and welcome. The budding independence of young children is a relief for exhausted parents. Learning to hold a spoon and feed yourself? Great! No more diapers? Thank you, sweet baby Jesus!! Figured out how to tie your shoes? Fantastic! 

During the teen years, we let go of other, more complicated things. They no longer rely on us to meet every need or solve every problem. The realization settles in that these precious humans that we created are actually not ours to hold onto forever, but ours to launch out into the world. 

I mean, that's the ultimate goal, isn't it? A successful launch? 

In our house we still talk about living together forever. The plan is to build a second story onto the house where Thomas can live with his kids and Clara and I can live downstairs (because she has no plans for children of her own, but looks forward to being an auntie for all the kids she assumes Thomas will have). I'm not exactly sure how Thomas' wife will feel about this arrangement. I'm fairly certain the whole plan will lose its appeal in a few years (or maybe sooner....). 

As we move into the teen years I'm thankful she still hugs me voluntarily and calls me mommy. I love her kind and generous heart. I admire her ability to push forward when challenges arise, and to push back when she encounters injustice in the world.  She's quiet and reserved in social settings and completely ridiculous at home with her family or close friends. She is thoughtful and smart with a splash of sassy.

Bringing her into this world was the hardest and most rewarding thing I've ever done. (Her birth story is a post for another day...) I hear a lot of parents say that they yearn for the old days when their kids were small. It always kind of baffles me, to be honest. Those days were HARD, my friends. Sure, the kids were cute. But I have no desire to go back to diapers, midnight feedings or toddler tantrums. There was a time and place for doing everything for her, and those days are over. This is the time to hold on and scream as the parenting roller coaster goes barreling downhill into the teenage years. I'm not quite sure if it will be thrilling or terrifying...could really go either way. 

Regardless of how the teen years go, there's no turning back. The joy of this season is less about marveling at her chubby cheeks or first steps, and more about watching this beautiful young person grow into her own skin and claim her place in the world. It's about growing into a fresh season of parenting that is no less beautiful, but challenging and rewarding in new and different ways. It's as much her evolution as it is mine. Looking forward to the ride. 💙

The 5 Stages of Painting With Your Children

If you are a parent, at some point you will come to the place in life where your kids want to change the color of their room. For us, this moment has been brewing for about a year. When we moved into this house, the entire interior was painted mint green. And I mean everything. Bedrooms, hallways, bathrooms, CEILINGS, all of it. The kids didn't seem to mind the color as much as I did, so I got busy eradicating the green room by room. For months, weekends and evenings were consumed with brushes, drop cloths, rollers, color choices and long hours wishing I had hired a professional to do the whole house, not just the vaulted ceilings and the living room. 

The kids have patiently waited their turn in line as the hallway, bathrooms, laundry room, kitchen and master bedroom all slowly shed their green hue. But finally discussions began about when we would paint their rooms.  

And....can they help?

Oy. 

I would like to tell you I'm one of those cool moms who is able to easily hand their kid a paint roller and let them go crazy "helping" paint their room. I would love to say I don't care about the paint dripping in the wrong places or the less than perfect cutting-in along the ceiling. 

But I'm not that mom. I'm not a perfect painter myself, but I'm confident that I'm more skilled than a 10 or 12-year old. I have some basic standards. So when it became clear that my daughter was done being patient about getting her room painted, and she fully expected to participate in the process, I had to do some emotional preparation. I've got Montessori roots so I know all about how important it is to allow children to help in real and tangible ways. And I'm a bit of a control freak. 

I wasn't sure how it would all work out, but we did manage to get most of the paint on the walls even with two junior "helpers".

And now I'm pleased to share with you the five emotional stages of painting with your children. 

Stage 1. Excitement
Picking a new color, slapping painters tape all over everything, removing all the outlet covers and wall decor is the fun part, Everyone is happy and feeling excited about this new adventure. "It's only a little paint." You think to yourself...tricking your brain into forgetting the reality of every other painting project you've done over the past 30 years. 

Stage 2. Confidence
As you finish up the prep and begin applying paint to the walls, you're feeling certain that you are the best, most patient mom on the planet and you will take full advantage of this beautiful opportunity to teach your children a new skill. You offer basic instruction to help them be successful. You gently correct their technique with respect and kindness. You respond quickly and calmly with a wet rag when the paint needs to be wiped away from places it doesn't belong. The kids are doing their very best to keep things neat and clean. You. Got. This. 

Stage 3. Fatigue
After a few hours, you are reminded that painting actually isn't a 'quick' project. It always takes two coats, even when you do your very best to lay it on thick and even. It's hot working up on the ladder when it's pushing 108 degrees outside. As soon as you find your groove, you run out of paint and have to go back to the store for another gallon. The kids start to disappear for "breaks" that seem to go on longer than necessary. You face the wall so you can roll your eyes without hurting anyone's feelings. You come to terms with the fact that this is clearly not a one day job. 

Stage 4. Chaos
Your son turns around and you realize he has, at some point, leaned his entire body up against the wet wall of paint. The kitten can't resist the liquid jug of goo and insists on dipping a paw into the paint can. Your daughter has somehow convinced you she is capable of cutting in around the ceiling and you don't even care anymore. Because, as she reminds you, it is her room. A word (or two...or ten...) comes out of your mouth that is not PG. The kids spend more time debating about what music to play than actual painting. 

Stage 5. Completion
Eventually you manage to finish the job. Paint is mostly in the right places. You remind the kids that the job isn't actually finished when all of the bedroom furniture is still sitting in the living room. Tarps are folded and returned to the garage. Brushes are cleaned. You head out to dinner and toast your rookie painting crew on their first, largely successful, painting job. 

Forgetting entirely about stages 3 and 4, everyone gets excited about picking a color and painting the next bedroom....

Unplug to Charge Up

When I think about my favorite places to be, unplugged really tops the list. In our tech-heavy, over-connected world, setting my phone aside and being still feels like a unique luxury. 

I begin each morning by unplugging and hanging out on my back patio with no agenda but to finish my cup of coffee. I listen to the birds, watch the sprinklers, notice the sky and the temperature. Sometimes I think about what I have to get done that day. Sometimes I think about nothing. Mostly I just sink into this little slice of stillness and soak it all in. 

During the workday, I'm mostly tethered to a phone and/or a computer. This constant presence of technology allows me the convenience of working from home, or really any place with a good wifi connection. While I appreciate this flexibility and the miracle that is remote work, at the end of the day I find myself craving something (anything) that doesn't involve a screen. Sometimes I scratch this itch by taking a walk, or working on my crocheted blanket that has been in progress since March, or getting lost in the kitchen throwing something together for dinner. I read a book. I work on puzzles. 

The irony of typing these words on a computer is not lost on me. 😀

But when I think back on the most meaningful connections and moments of 2020, during the height of COVID quarantine, I'm surprised at the connection that technology facilitated. While we all huddled alone in our houses, our only method to connect was over the computer. These screens that were tools of disconnection suddenly became our lifelines to anyone outside our family or quarantine bubble. 

My book club continued to meet online, providing inspiration to keep up with my reading habit and the opportunity to keep connecting with this group of women that has buoyed me for the past 15 years. 

My gaggle of high school girlfriends that usually gather only once a year, suddenly found ourselves with time to connect more often. Cancelled soccer games and working from home meant more time in the evenings for biweekly zoom calls to catch up, laugh and share stories. 

When a mom friend passed away suddenly, the other mamas didn't quite know what to do. Normally we would be gathering in someone's kitchen to cry and drown our sorrows. So we gathered on Zoom to cry and connect at some basic level. 

Though I was dubious about its effectiveness, I led two, 8-week mind-body skills groups via Zoom. The groups offered a place for people to connect, share, learn and grow in  meaningful ways that I never imagined possible on a virtual platform. 

Now as we begin to emerge from the isolation of COVID it's interesting to see how we have all weathered the storm. Suddenly an in-person meeting is a novelty. Going out for dinner seems like an exotic treat. With everything that managed just fine online during COVID, I'm suddenly re-thinking what really needs to happen in-person.

After decades of being used as a tool to zone out and disconnect from those around us, the internet has proven its ability to be the great connector. But in-person gatherings with friends and family have taken on new meaning as we realize that a life lived behind a screen is actually no life at all. The internet is an incredible tool that created moments of connection when we were most desperate for it. And its ability to be a tool of isolation, endless scrolling and mindless searching is still real. 

As I tiptoe back into the real world again, I have profound gratitude for the internet and all that it provided for us during the pandemic. And even greater appreciation for the true connections to nature, ourselves and other humans, that only come when we choose to unplug. 

Castle Crags, A spectacular place to unplug. 
During a pandemic, or any other season of life. 

Lessons From my Mom, Lessons From the Bible and Living the Season of Grief

Teacher. 

Principal. 

Board member. 

Quilter. 

Volunteer.

Reader. 

Traveler.

Advocate.

Friend.

Grandma. 

Mom. 

Wife. 

For a woman that wasn’t particularly concerned about fancy titles, my mom collected a lot of them during her lifetime. And as much as she gave to each of those roles, her family was lucky enough to receive the lion’s share of her time, attention, and love. 

One of my earlier memories of my mom was when I was about 5 or 6 years old. I was out riding my bike and my pants got stuck in the chain. (This was a common occurrence in the 1970’s, pre-skinny jeans) I struggled to hobble back to the house, dragging my bike with me, still attached to my pants. When I arrived at the front door, exhausted from my efforts, I realized with a bit of dread that there was a step up to the front door. Somehow, I managed to pull my bike (still attached to my pants) up the step and rang the doorbell. I was worried that when my mom answered the door she would be mad because my pants were now stained with grease and would probably have a hole in them by the time I got myself disconnected from the bike chain. When she opened the door, my mom took one look at my situation, and immediately realized I had drug my bike half a block and up a step trying to get help. But instead of scolding me for ruining my pants, as I had feared, she said “Why didn’t you just yell for me?” 

The idea of yelling had never actually occurred to me. I was laser focused on getting to the doorbell before the streetlights came on, because that was the rule in our house. But as soon as she said it I realized yelling would have brought a much quicker end to my predicament.  

And this was really the theme for her mothering of me. Not that I had to yell to get her attention, but that I shouldn’t worry about what it was that I brought to her. She would welcome me with open arms. She would be my advocate, my friend, and my protector in whatever life threw my way. 

This was true in high school when my guidance counselor commented to me during my intake interview that my grades “weren’t quite as good as your brother, I see.” That counselor got an angry earful from my mom, I found out later. 

It was true when I was in college and I had to drop out of school for a semester to have surgery. When I insisted that I could recover just fine living in the dorms, she stopped playing nice, and told me in no uncertain terms that I would be recovering at home. It was infuriating at the time, but in hindsight, probably a better plan. 

When my parents’ home burned, she held me as I cried and not the other way around. 

When I joined the board for Girls on the Run, she volunteered right along with me at every run. 

When my kids were born she was the first one there to meet them. 

When I announced my divorce, she didn’t ask questions but got busy prepping the guest room for me. 

Every birthday, anniversary, graduation, or professional accomplishment was marked as an occasion with a card, a cake, a supportive email, balloons, or all of the above. 

And when her cancer diagnosis came, in the midst of a global pandemic that had forced us to social distance, she held my hand and hugged me for the first time in months. As I cried, she told me that she was hopeful, but also that she wasn’t afraid to die. 

Throughout my life she was the one that I yelled out to. Never once did I wonder if she would respond. It wasn’t always the answer that I was looking for, but it was always, always a response that was rooted in love.  Sometimes it was hugs-and-giggles love. Sometimes it was tough love. But always love. 

In the early hours of my mom’s death, I found myself yelling out yet again, but this time it wasn’t to her. It was to God. “Is she there?” I sobbed. “Is she there? Please tell me that she’s there.” 

The sand beneath me had shifted and suddenly this idea of heaven seemed so far away, at the very moment it was supposed to bring me comfort. The promise of eternal life is so easy to swallow on Easter morning, in the company of other believers, singing familiar hymns, surrounded by lilies and kids in cute Easter bonnets.  It’s lovely to fantasize about in general terms like “We’ll all go to heaven one day” or “Death is not the end, but just the beginning of our life with Jesus.” 

But when push comes to shove and you’re alone with your own grief, staring down the death of someone you have held dear for your entire life, the questions of heaven and eternal life  become painful.  And personal. And frankly, a little far-fetched. 

Is this seriously what we believe? Is this really true? Is this real? I want to believe but how does this whole eternal life thing work, exactly??

I would love to tell you that in that moment of spiritual despair, I heard the deep voice of God respond, “Yes, she’s home. She’s got a glass of wine in one hand and a chocolate bar in the other…it’s all good.” 

But that didn’t happen. There was no flash of lightening, no mystical sign that everything was ok and that my mom had arrived safely home. 

There was silence. 

And in that silence was the valley. The shadow of death. 

But in the days that followed, with that deafening silence and questions of overwhelming doubt swirling in my head, I became one with Mary, crying out in frustration at the death of her brother Lazurus. 

I became one with the widow of Nain grieving the loss of her only son. 

I became one with Jesus crying out on the cross, “My God, why have you forsaken me?” 

And suddenly my despair brought me closer to God and not further away. My grief was not taken away, but I was reminded that I am not alone in this sorrow. My story is the story of grieving people from generation to generation. 

Since my mom’s death, my kids and I wonder together about what heaven is really like. Each morning, as I’m drinking my coffee and they are bustling around the house getting teeth brushed and homework shoved into their backpack, one of them will stop and sit with me and ask, “I wonder what Grandma is doing this morning?”

The first day we imagined she was hugging her mom and dad. Some days we imagine she’s motoring around somewhere in a fancy new RV. Some days she’s sleeping in. Some days she’s having chocolate for breakfast. One day it was simply, “I think she’s just being proud of Grandpa because he’s learning to do things by himself.” 

My friends, I don’t have the answers. I have a feeble human brain not fully equipped to fathom the magnitude of heaven. But I also had a mom who believed in miracles and taught me that we ought not be afraid to pray for them. And so my prayer is not that I would understand the mysteries of heaven, but simply that my mom is eternally enjoying them. And that her life among us will serve as a beacon of hope, love, humility and service to which we should all aspire.

And when the world overwhelms, doubt looms, and fear rises up in our hearts, let us not be afraid to yell out. Surely, He will respond in love. 

Joy for Every Season

I have a confession. When I started this blog 8 years ago, it wasn't because I was bubbling over with so much joy that I needed to find a place to document it. It was more the opposite. I was having such a hard time seeing the joy in my life that I needed a formal exercise to recognize it. 

I remember feeling tired. A bit overwhelmed. Beginning to become aware that my marriage was strained. Feeling like I was doing everything half-ass....not the best mother, employee, wife or friend that I should be. I'm sure from the outside it appeared that I had it all together. From the inside it felt like I was madly trying to hold things together with duct tape and Elmers glue. 

But in the midst of that, this blog was born, because somewhere inside of me I continued to find small sparks of joy that helped sustain me when so many other big, uncomfortable feelings were trying to take center stage. Watching my kids play peacefully in the sandbox, baking cookies on a random Wednesday afternoon, taking a walk with a friend...all these small things were the oasis's that kept me afloat between toddler temper tantrums, spilled milk, and struggling to define my identity and find my place in the world as I entered middle age. 

Through the years, I have come into my own space, come to know and trust myself more, and learned how to cultivate more joy in my life. So much of that process has really been about making space to listen and wonder. I've learned to trust myself more and listen to the "shoulds" less. I have learned to identify, feel and move through emotions (even the though ones) rather than putting them on the back burner to  slowly simmer into an angry boil. I've learned to give myself and those around me a bit of grace. I've learned to say yes to the things that are important and no to the things that drain me. I have decided I'd rather be a happy, imperfect human, than a worn out human trying to appear to be perfect. 

Thank God I came into 2020 with better clarity about who I am and what I need, because it was a YEAR, full of life lessons big and small. 2021 is shaping up to be another collection of lessons and challenges as we navigate my mom's terminal cancer diagnosis. This is not something I feel prepared for, and yet we don't really have a choice but to continue through this heartbreaking season of life, ready or not. And ironically, after neglecting this blog for months, I'm drawn back to this space again. 

Where is the joy now? 

The joy is in the depth of my grief, which is actually just a measure of the depth of my love for my mom. 

Joy is in my newfound awareness of and empathy for those that grew up without a mom, lost their mom younger in life, or have a relationship with their mom that is life draining rather than life giving. 

The joy is in watching my children navigate lessons on mortality and faith and love with sadness and curiosity. As they process the magnitude of this impending loss, their questions and compassion remind me that they are remarkable little humans that I am privileged to call my own. 

The joy is in recognizing the strength of my village. Friends offer support in so many ways and receiving their love is comforting. It buoys me and draws me down off my pedestal of self-sufficiency. I've also realized that the beautiful village my mom created for herself will be one of the most precious gifts I will inherit from her. Those that love her are now loving me. 

The joy is in sharing jokes about how my mom's body is now "bikini ready" after losing 30+ pounds on her chemo diet plan.  

The joy is in this sacred, thin space where we are keenly aware of the truth of all the cliches of life.....it's a gift, every moment is precious, take nothing for granted. 

What I'm settling into is a new understanding that seemingly incongruent emotions can exist simultaneously. Joy and grief are not mutually exclusive. Allowing ourselves to laugh while our hearts are breaking is not disingenuous. This dichotomy is the full and authentic expression of our human experience. Finding joy during difficult seasons is a challenge. We have to look a little harder, and pay closer attention. We have to relax into the process of embracing both at the same time, not postponing one for the other. But if we allow ourselves to seek the joy, even in the midst of grief, we will find it is there, in its most raw and precious form.