If it's not fatal...

Beckam has carried a bruise on his forehead for the last year.

 It migrates, but it is always there.

It is his war badge, his stamp of bravery and I am proud.

We had to superglue it shut once last summer.

His skin popped open on the edge of a rock.

My rugby playing brother came over for dinner last night.

The first question he asked the 2 year-old was,

"Come here Beckam. You got a bruise on your forehead?....Oh, yep.  There it is."

I just read an article about a school in New Zealand.

http://www.theatlantic.com/education/archive/2014/01/recess-without-rules/283382/

They have recess without rules, and the results are positive.

The school now has less bullying, less vandalism, and higher concentration levels during class.

Their students are learning how to deal with risk, and with this comes accountability, common sense.

It also breeds self esteem.  I remember looking at neighborhood trees as a kid and thinking, "I climbed that."

I didn't swing from below the monkey bars, I walked on top of them with bare feet, toes wrapped around them like a monkey.  I remember the floating transcendence when this skill clicked, and I can also still do it.

The article makes another good point, a more subtle one.

It is one thing to read such an article and think, "Yes, we coddle our children too much, this needs to stop!"

However, are these readers able to allow their own children to get hurt?

Are they able to let go of the impulse to hold someone else accountable?  Can they give administrators, teachers, and coaches the space to let kids run free?

Last year at gymnastics, Sophie broke her arm.

She dove into a forward roll and dislocated her elbow.

Never once did I think to blame her coaches.  She is a gymnast.  Gymnasts get hurt.

My daughter wore that cast like a soldier in uniform.  

She had the experience of heart ache while watching her team-mates compete.

She attended their meets in her cast, with a smile.

Granted, she did cry all the way there, and she didn't want to go.

Her Dad told her, "You are a part of a team, and you will go support your team."

So she suited up in her GTC warm-ups, cheered them on, and learned the value of good sportsmanship.

I watched her struggle to regain the skills she'd lost while injured.

I saw her work hard for something she wanted.  The decision was hers.  The commitment was hers.  I am a teacher.  I know how difficult it is to teach kids to be intrinsically motivated.

The article's last point is this, those of us who remember free play will preserve it.

I would never want to rob my children of these medals.  My tag-line is:

If it's not fatal, it's okay.

Sophie belaying Pepper while she climbs in Big Cottonwood

The Truth about Baking a Cake

I programmed myself to wake up at 6 a.m. just so I could write.
I have been missing this time.
The rest of the world is asleep now, and I can sneak into my own heart.
Because once everyone wakes up, it belongs to them...and that is exactly how I want it.

When this life is over, my heart will be the most ragged stuffed animal.
It will be the t-shirt I can't give up.  The one so thin it looks like cheeze cloth.
It will be my 28 year old brother's baby blanket, whittled down to a 1 foot square and still draped over his shoulders in the morning.
It will be my husband's Big Book held together by duct tape, with a broken spine, and highlighted paragraphs.  The pages soft and brittle on the edges, like Grandma's skin.

I get hurt often, and I am grateful.
There is a line from the Big Book which I often meditate on, and it says:

"...we invariably find that at some time in the past we have made decisions based on self which later placed us in a position to be hurt."

In the margins I have written:

"I am not a victim."   and    "Not so bad, that I am human."  I am a willing participant in this human race.


Yesterday my daughter Sophie decorated her cousin's birthday cake.  He is turning 10 and he loves Batman.

We went to the craft store and bought black fondant.  She is pumped.  We baked cakes the night before. They sat perched on the kitchen counter, waiting to be draped in Batman's cape and logo.
She watches Cake Boss  with the eager face of a teenage groupie.
That guy can dream up any cake and make it happen with precision.
So, in her mind, her cake is supposed to be masterful.  It is the 2nd time she has used fondant...in her life.
To her, this does not matter.  She is supposed to be able to make her cake look like "The Boss's" cake.

I coach her through, just as my mentors have done for me.  They remind me that I am learning, and to take it slow.  This is impossible for me.  My ambition drives me smack into the solid wall of reality.  It hurts.

"Ugh!  This fondant work is sloppy!  Look there's a hole in it!"
She stomps around in her boots and sticky fingers, fluffing hair from her eyes.

"It's okay Sophie.  I promise, people won't see it as you do.  It is a small hole.  Let's wrap a band of fondant around the bottom to hold the frosting in.  It is good to learn to work with your mistakes. Because you will make them.  You are learning. It's okay.  It looks better than you think."

"No Mom! It is NOT ok!  It looks terrible!  I hate it!"

I remember this.  I remember studying art in school and feeling this way.  I had an idea of the painting but couldn't execute it.  My professor would say,
You have to paint a hundred bad paintings before you will paint one good one.
To which my head would respond,
Not me.  I'm going to paint a good one, now.

But he was right.  I am only barely able to paint...kind of...how I want to...sometimes.

I know she will kick against me.  I know I can't take away her frustration, because it comes from hope.  It comes from caring.  I will simply keep telling her the truth, no matter how many years it takes, for both of us to bring about the desires of our hearts.

still falling...

I'm wearing my knee-high Doc Martin boots he gave me 5 years ago for Christmas.

The world around us is rocking and booming and ending.
People are throbbing and sweating.  We are in a bubble.
We create that, still.  I don't have to go looking.  I have found exactly what I was seeking.
I need only what is inside this bubble.  He knows everything I can't say.
We don't find ourselves here as often.  Life crowds us tightly.

"I always get a little nervous on New Year's Eve," he confesses.
But his eyes say otherwise.  They have crinkles of joy at their corners and his grin is that of a Cheshire cat.
"Oh really?"  I bend backwards at the waist where his hands are locked.  "Yeah, you look very scared...."

Before our first New Year's together I told him,
'This is a very significant holiday.  If we kiss at midnight and it falls flat, then it's a sign.  If I look at you and dread the year ahead...well...that means maybe we probably won't make it.'
The poor man spent the whole day twisted up and afraid he would not pass the test.
But our kiss was luminous, and every year since then, the world stops for us on December 31st.

Sometimes I get scared this is too naive of me, too superstitious.
But I don't think so.  I don't think it is silly that I want to be in love with my husband.
Because if my eyes are wide open, If I am really looking, then I cannot help but to see him.
What I see is more and more about what it takes to be the man he is, and I cannot help but adore that man.
So I suppose it is an exercise in awareness too, and honoring something sacred.
For reasons I cannot understand, I was graced with an immense love for another person.
Every year my resolution is the same:
                                                 Do not forget to honor what Grace has given you.
                                                 Do not get too busy to see him.

How do I do this?  How do I stay awake?  The answer has been the same since I was a hormonal little twirp with a journal in junior high...keep writing.  That is it.   The resolution.  Do not forget.   Keep writing.

just before we took the plunge...