what i’m into :: august & september 2015.

Just today I looked at the calendar and realized my son is – to the date – 13 months old. Here I was, telling everyone he’s a year old, that he’ll soon be 13 months …and lo and behold, IT’S ALREADY HERE. Do you ever feel that way about life in general? Linking up with the lovely LOCAL Leigh for this month (and last’s) What I’m Into. 

—

We had some fun, this time at the Bay Area Discovery Museum:

The highlight of the past couple of months was hopping on a plane to the middle of the Pacific. This pretty much captured our everyday world:

The HBH (Hot Black Husband) and I celebrated our fifth anniversary, and cheered on Papa John and Aunt Tina’s ten year vow renewal:

I wrote every day – and completed four chapters! – and we swam, lots. We grilled fish most every day, used Yelp like it was nobody’s business, read and rested. And we celebrated this little dude’s FIRST birthday:

I also read a few books, including these four and five star favorites: 

Jacob Have I Loved (Paterson), 5/5 – This was my favorite book when I was twelve, and it’s still just as good.

Go Set a Watchman (Lee), 4/5 – Y’all: just read it. But don’t read it with TKAM in mind.

Loser (Spinelli), 4/5 – Jerry Spinelli is a magical weaver of children’s literature. I can’t wait to introduce my boys to his writing someday.

The Whole-Brain Child (Siegel), 5/5 – This might be the best parenting book I’ve read TO DATE.

Tiny Beautiful Things (Strayed), 5/5 – Wow. Wowwowwowwow. I couldn’t stand Wild, but this book rekindled my faith in all things Cheryl Strayed.

A Man Called Ove (Backman), 5/5 – Grumpy Old Man. Hilarious. Heartwarming. And true. So, so true, for there is a story behind every hurting, angry human.

The Girl Who Fell from the Sky (Durrow), 4/5 – The book I feel like I need to read a second time in order to truly understand.

Wild in the Hollow (Haines), 5/5 – Quite possibly the best spiritual memoir I’ve read this year. And y’all, I read a lot of them.

Orphan Train (Kline), 5/5 – Absolutely fascinating and fun and captivating from start to finish – and unbelievable that this is based on a part of American history.

How to Be a Woman (Moran), 4/5 – Snarky. Witty. Funny. Crass. Caitlin Moran is one brilliant lady.

The Girl With All the Gifts (Carey), 4/5 – Let’s call this one “The Most Unexpected Book I Found Myself Reading.” I would not have chosen this in a million years, but y’all: fascinating.

Out of Sorts (Bessey), 4/5 – Sarah’s second book is sure to strike a chord with a whole new flock of readers. I felt like we were sitting down to a cup of tea together, it’s that personable.

Maisie Dobbs (Winspear), 4/5 – While it’s well-written, I really don’t think it should be hailed as a mystery novel.

Astonish Me (Shipstead), 4/5 – A terribly fascinating look into the last place on earth most of us have probably ever encountered: the world of ballet. (Well, but for my performance in “E.T. on the Moon” when I was four).

Also read: The Cultivated Life; Amsterdam; The Seven Good Years; The Book of Forgiving; The Last Anniversary; Lunch in Paris; Three Daughters; A Tale of Two Cities ; Sailing Alone Around the Room.

Currently reading: Rules of Civility; The Magician’s Assistant; The Boys in the Boat; Simply Tuesday; The Beginning of Desire.

If you’d like to unite as book nerd friends, forever and ever, amen, then let’s be friends on Goodreads!

Otherwise, here’s a bit more of what we’ve been up to: 

Cancan officially started preschool, and y’all, he is AMPED.

Then, two weeks ago, in a moment of brilliancy, I spilled half a glass of wine on my laptop. It sat in rice for forty-eight hours, and then hung out at hotel de la M.A.C. store for a week …where it was found to not have an OUNCE of damage! We were all doing a happy clappy, praise Jesus dance over here.

This man and I went on another (!) date (even if it did end in parent happy hour):

And the cookie cups that were supposed to look like this…

But ended up looking like this…

Landed these pictures an upcoming highlight on Tyra Banks’ new show! (No, I’m not joking. Yes, I’m totally serious. Keep on failing, friends, keep on Pinterest Failing).

So, that’s it, in a nutshell. We’ve entertained and we’ve watched football. We’ve had moments with some of our dearest and never snapped a picture because the moment was that good. We’ve tried our hardest to lean into love and into life, and that, if you ask me, is what it’s all about.

xo, c.

—

What about you? What have you been into this past month? What have you read and watched and listened to? What’s struck your fancy, and what’s just sent a shriek of terror through you? Join in the conversation!

rituals: saturday morning breakfasts (kristin wolven).

Guest post Tuesday! Today’s post – and writer – will make you want to find your people on Saturday mornings. It’ll make you want to dirty pans with scrambled eggs and partake with glee of the slow, precise, perfect art of baking. Kristin is an old friend from camp, but I can picture her reading this story – so, enjoy her heart as you get to know her voice as well.

—

Long ago, I slipped into a ritual of daydreaming what it would be like to be married someday. This was the direct result of well-intended youth group sermons, and the promise I felt owed to me if I attended a Christian college. You can imagine my disappointment, when at the ripe age of 26 I was still not married.

Fortunately, my friend Emily called me one weekday afternoon while I was shopping and said, “Do you want to start a Bible study with me?” So we did. And it was great. A few years later, five of us from the group decided to become roommates. Because who wouldn’t want to rent their Orange County track home to five single girls? Did I mention we met in a Bible study?

We eagerly moved into a quaint, two story home in a neighborhood surrounded by green hills. Although there are many adjectives I could use to describe our time together, it’s just easiest to say it was fun. It was a ton of fun. Together we binged watched episodes of The Office, hosted parties, indulged in late night talks and early morning runs.

Sometime during our third year as roommates, we started having breakfast together on Saturday mornings. It wasn’t planned. It just happened.

There were six of us in the house at the time. Gradually, we found ourselves spending Saturday mornings making Val’s scone recipe, scrambled eggs with cheddar cheese, or French toast. We would sit at the large kitchen table talking, laughing, and pouring cup after cup of coffee. Eventually, we’d glance at the clock and it would be noon.

It slowly became a tradition. One we still celebrate. Only Emily, Katie and I live in Pasadena now, but the habit remains.

The first roommate up on a Saturday morning pulls the coffee press out of the cupboard, grinds the beans, and boils water. I love waking up to the aroma of fresh coffee. Emily might whip up a delicious egg dish. Katie always pushes for pumpkin pancakes even when it’s 90 degrees outside. Since I’m not the most skilled cook, I tend to focus on making coffee. Then I usually end up standing at the sink, grabbing dirty dishes to wash as Emily and Katie cook and bake.

Although some of the roommates have gotten married, they still come back regularly for Saturday morning breakfasts. These mornings are sacred. We sit and we talk. We eat and we pray. We give thanks for the time we have together. We share our hearts and catch up.

These years I’ve spent with my roommates have been a profound blessing. This journey hasn’t looked quite like the daydreams of my youth. But walking alongside such strong, beautiful, wise, and compassionate women has been a gift.

Community should be a ritual everyone gets to enjoy. It’s one of the most beautiful parts of being human.

It’s been six years. Six years of Saturday morning breakfasts. A tradition that I’m sure we’ll be preserving for the rest of our lives. Because these are lifelong friendships. This will be a lifelong ritual.

—

Kristin Wolven lives in Pasadena, CA where she spends her days as an associate producer and studio teacher for  television. She loves coffee, writing, singing in the car, and living life with her roommates. Kristin’s blog, “In the Meantime,” is currently under construction, but look for its rebirth in 2016. It’s Cara again, and I’d love to stay and chat, but I must make my way to the kitchen and whip up a batch of scones. Mmm. Didn’t Kristin’s words make you hungry for every beautiful part of Saturday mornings? Leave her some love below!

neon pants, lectio divina & a funeral, all in the same breath.

Sometimes I forget how much I love the light.

For instance, take the current living room situation: I sit atop a neon green yoga ball typing. Neon orange work out pants cover my bum and neon pink Asics still adorn my feet from an hour at the gym this morning. You could say I have a problem with neon, in which I would respond, that yes, that’s probably true – but I am so glad All These Colors have resurrected themselves from the late 80’s and decided to pay me a visit. 

But the truth is this: I dress myself in light because it speaks to my insides. It somehow makes me feel a little happier and a little lighter and little more upbeat than a dreary all-black get-up.

But it’s easy for me to forget that we don’t live in a Rainbow Brite world.

Darkness and sadness and hard things do exist, mingling and moving, swerving and crashing into the light.

— 

On Saturday morning, I sat with a few friends of the heart. We try and gather on a monthly basis to eat pastries and drink hot beverages and catch up on one another’s lives. Then, when it’s time – when the inevitable pause emerges in conversation and each of us seems to know that it’s time to cease chatter and close our eyes – we enter into lectio divina.

We close our eyes and we pause.

We breathe in and out stillness, quietness, peace.

We seek to stop the ceaseless chatter that tends to steam roll its way from mind to heart to fingertips and toes and belly buttons, overwhelming and consuming The Present and What Could Be. 

We listen and we sit still. We whisper words of hope heavenward and we grab an arm in comfort.

And then, inevitably, as always happens, somehow the Enneagram makes its way into one conversation or another. Micha is a Four, and she always feels the feels, we say. She has a thing for darkness, and she embraces it with every part of her being. Me, I’m a Seven, even though I don’t always want to be. At my best, I’m fun-loving and light-filled, an optimist to the core and an utter delight to be around.

Obviously.

But I tend to run from darkness, always.

When Life isn’t pretty, when darkness or sadness or death enters my world, my natural tendency is to flee. Beauty, I say, over and over again, is found in the most unlikely of places – but if I’m honest, I’d just like for it to exist in the happy places.

We are resurrection people, after all. So why dwell in darkness? 

But Beauty, I’m learning, does exist in the most unlikely of places, including (and maybe even more than) those places that are light-filled. Beauty needs darkness to make itself known, to shine that much brighter, to help us realize that we aren’t resurrection people without being cross people first.

—

That morning, as I sat with these intimates, I told them about a memorial service I’d attended the afternoon before: Death wasn’t supposed to happen, at least not to her, not to a twenty-two year old girl. Her graduating class from high school wasn’t supposed to find their first reunion at funeral home in Belmont, and her family wasn’t supposed to expect death from a routine appendectomy.

As I sat in the very last row on Friday, I shook my head in disbelief – at the absurdity of her death, the shock of whys my only response. 

I struggled to agree with the pastor’s premise that God needed her more than we did here on earth, that this day was a celebration, a celebration indeed! Can I get an amen?

No one responded to his charismatic call. No one gave him his asked-for amen.

I struggled to see God – to see Beauty and Light and Peace – in the midst of Cristin’s memorial service.

But on Saturday morning I was reminded of Christ’s presence – that even if there’s not an answer to our whys, Christ is still there, in darkness just as much as in light.

It’s a with.

Christ with us: Even if it’s not the answer I want, it’s the answer I have. 

So, sweet Cristin, rest with him.

RIP Cristin Padilla, second from left.

—

Life: it sure is hard sometimes, isn’t it? How are you at embracing the dark? Would you rather make a celebration of light, always? In this with you. 

a round of story-weaving for you today.

It’s not everyday that you get to see your words featured at the homes of three of your favorite writerly friends. But sometimes, perhaps because your laptop is still at the doctor’s office, and all forms of organization are out the window, it just happens. So, will you join me in this storytelling soiree today? 

—

First, over at Heather Caliri’s blog, we have these words:

Heather invited us to write about a time when the yoke was easy …and for me, I reflected on the year after leaving ministry, when God wasn’t necessarily easy to find but there all along. Click here to read those words.

—

Next, my C.S. Lewis buff of a friend, Jennifer Neyhart, asked us to write about a book or author who influenced us greatly. I really, really wanted to write about N.T. Wright or even Karl Barth, but nope – Saint Anne won the coveted spot again. Click here to read all about how Traveling Mercies changed me entirely that first year after college.

—

The effervescent Lindsey Smallwood invited me to write about an extraordinary moment …but as you know by now, I believe that the ordinary is really quite extraordinary (and the extraordinary is sometimes quite ordinary).

I’d love for you to join in a reflection on this past Sunday, when Cancan declared “Jingle Bells” the song of the day and we all joined in. Click here to read that post.

—

Okay, fine, there’s one more: some of you may have seen a post in your inboxes last Wednesday that directed you over to She Loves Magazine. Well, the latter half of the piece – the part with a sprinkling of hope, if you ask me – had gotten left out, so they featured it again on Sunday. Humanity happens, y’all!

This post might be the saddest of the lot, but I’m telling you: Hope still sings. I’d love it if you clicked here to read about my beautiful grandmother and her fight with Alzheimer’s disease.

—

So, that’s about it. Otherwise, how is your yoke made easy today? And what author or book changed you entirely? What ordinary part of your life is really, quite extraordinary? And, how are you doing the only thing you can and holding a hand? Let’s dialogue!

rituals: everyday chaos (marcy weydemuller).

Guest post Tuesday! I want you to meet Marcy, one of the people who helped me fine tune my writing, who believed in me the very first time I uttered, “I want to be a writer. Is it possible?” Although we’re not able to be in a writing group anymore, I’ll always hold and admire her influence in my life. Enjoy her words today. 

—

Photo cred (of Ocean Beach, San Francisco): rentcafe.

When Cara Meredith asked me to consider a blog on rituals I hesitated because I didn’t think of myself as a ritual type. Then I wondered how to define a ritual ‘type’ and, if I could, then how might that attitude, or activity, differ from habits or traditions? Since I knew I had several months to ponder I said yes, and then immediately forgot all about it until the deadline loomed. Now that is a typical habit.

I consider myself a quiet introvert who loves structure and giant blocks of time to read and write and think. However, my actual life is chaotic, dramatic, always rushed, often loud, and no day is ever structured anymore.

Instead my days are in free-fall even when my calendar is clearly marked with assigned commitments. Some are of my own making such as forgotten lurking deadlines, some the general life trials we all struggle with like power outages, some totally random slivers of brokenness, and others the deep valued relationships with family and friends that trump any activity any time.

Lately transition seasons seem to interrupt with more frequency and add a sense of dislocation as well. The most recent one has lasted over a year and is still is process. I became overwhelmed and needed to find a way to cope. I tried to think back on what I’d let go of, or now did too seldom, to keep my heart above water. I know there is really nothing to do about the trials and circumstances that wash in like a flood, but I have been able to navigate with peace in the storms before. What had I let go of?

Surprisingly I realized nothing externally, but definitely internally. I had allowed the craziness of tick-tock clock time, filled with no margins, overcome my timeless rhythm. Instead of quiet devotion and prayer time to start my day, I raced through the reading as a checkmark on my to do list. And pushed prayers to mimic a quick shortened message like quick texts throughout the day. Nothing wrong, but nothing deep either. I no longer paused to take a breath even when I physically stopped moving. I missed inhaling nature except for the wind’s touch when I rolled down my windows driving.

So I guess I found I am a ritual type—at least for myself. I need to consciously choose to take pause breaks for scripture or devotional reading, to pray with concentration even if only a few minutes at a time, and to stop and look at the beauty God created.

Sometimes on my way home lately I stop near the ocean and set my alarm for fifteen minutes and do absolutely nothing but watch the waves. Or take a detour on my way home to drive along tree-lined streets instead of fast car choked cement roads.

I’ve been really intentional the past few weeks and guess what—the external chaos became an avalanche. But rushing and reacting are no longer my immediate internal heartbeats, even if outwardly I am actually, literally, running. A pause to calibrate changes everything.

To listen, to be aware, to participate by choice, to trust, changes my story from despair to hope—every day.

Blessings on your pauses,

Marcy

—

Marcy lives in northern California. She is a Freelance Content Editor, Writing Coach, Workshop Instructor, and Author. Her fiction includes fantasy, historical, and contemporary stories, and in non-fiction she writes devotions, Bible studies, writer’s workshops, and poetry. She is the author of Lightbearer: The Lorica Prophecies, a YA novel; A Writer’s Spiritual Retreat, a reflective journal; and An Advent Journal, which releases this November. Connect with Marcy on her website, two different blogs (here and here), on Facebook and on Twitter. 

 

i don’t know where home is, but maybe it’s in my kitchens.

Sometimes I don’t know what it means to come home, because I don’t always know where home is. 

Officially, I’m what you would call a grown-up, so I should be able to answer this question by now. When I was a little girl, I believed a grown-up married, with children, along with at least one or two gray hairs sprouting from the top of your head, but now that I wear a ring on my left finger, have two tinies that trail behind me like baby ducks and find a new locks of wisdom every day or two, I’m not so sure.

But it doesn’t stop me from desiring an answer to this question.

There’s an element of coming home that exists when my husband and our boys and I hop on a plane and fly into Portland, Oregon, when we see with fresh eyes the greens and blues and grays that painted my childhood. I can still give you directions to my parents’ house, because these are the roads I learned to drive on, this is the town that formed me and shaped me and molded me.

And when we finally pull into Papa and Gaga’s house (as my parents are affectionately known now), even though so much has changed, I still know my way around. It’s still home.

The plastic measuring cups still hang inside the cupboard, to the right of the sink, and Mom still saves every plastic container, her version of Tupperware for the supper’s leftovers. The cedar bookshelves that Dad built in the late 80’s, tall and stoic and inviting, our family’s very own library, are still stuffed to overflowing, now with pictures of the grandchildren and favored novels and trinkets galore. Still, still, still. New and old mingle and mix and marry each other in a place I know like the back of my hand.

There’s an odd mingling that exists and comes to birth all over again when we pop in for a visit: I know and I am known. I know my way around the kitchen, and I am known by the humans who, like the streets of my hometown, formed me and shaped me and molded me.

—

Don’t worry, there’s more, there’s more! Click here to head on over to Circling the Story, to read about how I come home through a thousand different kitchens. Otherwise, what is homecoming to you? Where and when and why are you most at home? Have a great weekend!

sometimes… (a story through picture).

It’s just been one of those weeks.

You have a moment of inspiration on a Monday night, but you sort of forget, as you’re holding a glass of wine in your right hand, that your laptop is less half a foot below, and that it’s probably not the best idea to raise a glass to the air and then proceed to drop it.

So now you’re really, really grateful for basmati rice from Trader Joe’s, and you’re really, really hopeful that the Apple techs will be able to salvage all those works-in-progress pieces of writing (…and speaking …and manuscript) you had saved to your hard drive instead of to Dropbox.

Meanwhile, you have hard-but-good conversations, the kind that make you grateful for that Thing Called Redemption. Your baby’s slightly sick and you’ve plunged disgustingly gross toilets. You think to yourself, I really don’t get paid enough to deal with this…

Well, you catch my drift.

But then you think to yourself: Honey, it really ain’t so bad. 

I mean, you had a bonafide, actual date with the hottest man you know last night:

It was a time in which you connected and ate a meal that didn’t start with a Dino and end with a Nuggets. You’re pressed with big questions, but together, you find a solution.

Then when you go to Parent Happy Hour for your child’s school later that night, and another mama asks you what you do, you respond with the line that rolls off your tongue all butter-like now: Well, I take care of the boys, and I write and speak. 

And a smile creeps on to her face. And her response makes you squeal inside:

“Well, that sounds utterly perfect.” 

Not only did she say utterly, but she called it like it is: perfect.

Because you get to be with your babies, and you get to see them and know them and love them on a very consistent basis. But then when you get breaks – which you believe in wholeheartedly – you get to follow your passion and use your gifts and follow your fingers as they remind your brain of the story hidden inside all along. You get to study, and close your eyes and think, then, when it’s time, if it’s time, you get to open your mouth and speak, and that – that – is an honor.

But you also get to see this:

You get to see two little dudes absolutely, positively enthralled by the service workers who will soon destroy the street to smithereens.

But really, you don’t mind so much, because they’ve declared it amazing.

“Isn’t that an amazing thing, Frodo? Isn’t that an amazing thing out there, Mama?”

And you’re reminded that yes, yes it is.

Because their new eyes restore your old eyes, along with your heart and your mind and maybe your soul, too. And you wouldn’t trade that for the world.

xo.

—

Yup. A day in the life. A week in the life. But a life worth living, that’s for sure. Tell me of YOUR week. Tell me how YOU’RE making lemonade!

rituals: walking in the mornings (kate gallagher).

Guest post Tuesday! Today you get to hear from Kate, the girl I shared a “Best Friends Forever” necklace with in the fifth grade. Her not-so-boring ritual really does make the story deeper, especially if you’re a dog owner, and especially if you need to start your day on a new foot. Enjoy!

Kate’s pups.

My husband and I and our two dogs moved in June.

This is not an unusual practice for us since we have moved at least every two years if not more often in the 15 years we’ve been together. Our dogs have been along for this ride for the last 7-8 years and they’re troopers.

I’d expected this move to be easier on us all because we were not closing on the old and new places on the same day; we had a two-week period of wiggle room that I’d assumed would make everything less stressful and less rushed.

Well, that was not the case. Is it ever?

All it did was allow me to drag things out and as a result, we lived in a state of chaos in both places for a month. This was in the middle of busy workloads for my husband and I with travel almost every week on opposite coasts, not to mention the start of summer and all of the events and activities that kick into full gear.

To make things even more fun/smooth/calm (NOT), we were downsizing from a three-bedroom house with yard and garage to a tiny condo downtown with no yard, garage or things like a linen closet, pantry or walk in closets.

Hopefully that sets the stage…

Before we moved, I realized I’d need to change up my dog-walking routine because they were going to need more exercise and earlier in the day if I was going to leave them with my work-from-home husband and not have everyone go nuts, with no yard to fall back on.

I decided we’d start walking in the mornings before I went to work.

I’ve owned dogs for the last 15 years of my life and had NEVER walked them in the mornings. In spite of being a morning person, I’d spent most of my working life taking buses to work and my morning schedule was always tight. But one of the many benefits of moving downtown and being barely a mile from my office was that I was no longer tethered to a bus schedule and finally had a bit more flexibility in the morning. This was quite a treat! I vowed not to waste it.

So, our first few mornings in the new place felt like an absolute disaster. Yes, we’d weeded out belongings and made countless trips to donation centers. No, it wasn’t nearly enough. Every inch of our new condo felt overstuffed and disorganized and we were tripping over each other and everything we owned.

Honestly, putting on leashes and heading out for a morning walk felt like escaping. I’d researched our neighborhood and discovered a city park four blocks away.

We set off to check out this park, walking past construction sites of new condo buildings going up, walking past the winery two blocks away, past the brewery across the street, past the Mexican restaurant frying tortillas in corn oil every morning (drool), past the coffee shop, past the dry cleaner, the closed tattoo parlor and past the pot shops. Our new neighborhood was hopping! The park featured tennis courts, a pool, horseshoe pits and lots of grass.

My pups looooved their new park right away. They love the squirrels in the trees, the countless birds and most of all, the bunny who’s curiously taken up residence.

We’ve had this new morning routine for the last three months and it’s impacted me more than I anticipated. Alone time with my girls has always been one of the highlights of my day and though I have enjoyed our evening walks for many years, starting the day off with them and their hilarious, eager personalities has changed my outlook and my mood as I drive to work just half an hour later.

My dogs are pullers and not a day goes by that I don’t get one or two funny comments from passersby about just who is walking who. My dogs now bound out of bed ready to get after it on the streets. They know that bunny is waiting!

It’s been such a fantastic reminder for me to appreciate their simple enjoyment of each day. To start each day with enthusiasm, energy and a clean slate. I only wish I’d started this ritual sooner.

—

Kate lives in Denver with Curt, her husband of eight years, and two Brittany spaniels. She loves to cook, eat, hike, camp, bike, walk her dogs and read non-fiction, while also fitting in lots of DIY projects with Curt. It’s Cara again: as a former dog owner, I know it takes a lot to show up every morning and give those pups what they need. And I love how Kate brought us full circle, before, during and after. How did her words impact you today?

lessons in love (and really angry Ford F150 drivers).

There’s a recurring theme in my life that goes something like this:

1. Mama isn’t in a good space (see also: needs vacation, needs a full-time nanny, needs a sister-wife of her own, needs to go sit with her soul and be).
2. Mama decides to Rage Against the Machine at the service worker at closest firing range (see also: Target employee, parking garage attendant, 18-year-old YMCA front desk worker).
3. Said Target employee, parking garage attendant, 18-year-old YMCA front desk worker becomes a regular part of our everyday lives (see also: shakes head, pounds fists, screams Why, God, why?)
4. Mama eventually has a Come to Jesus moment and apologizes to aforementioned Target employee, parking garage attendant, 18-year-old YMCA front desk worker.
5. Mama’s little preschooler decides that he wants to be Best Friends Forever with every human on this earth (including but not limited to Target employee, parking garage attendant, 18-year-old YMCA front desk worker).

So we begin to learn their names, as we should have in the first place. We roll the back windows down and call Miss Lisette by her first name when she rings up our parking toll after a trip to the YMCA. We practice looking people in the eye, and then Cancan the three-year-old asks in his most scraggly monster voice, “Howareyoudoingtoday?!” He scrunches his nose and he closes his eyes and even though she can’t really understand what he’s just said, she too plays along. She too tries her hardest to show kindness to the woman who was far from showing kindness to her one day not so long ago.

Because even though the lesson is seemingly hard for me to learn, I want my boys to know and understand and realize in their depths that every human on this earth has value.

That we are not better than anyone, not one.

That all of us – Cancan and Frodo and Mama and Dada, and all of our neighbors and all of our friends and all of the people we see when we’re driving down the street – matter, deeply.

And sometimes I feel like a broken record player when I say it: we all just want to be known and understood, we all just want to be known and understood, we all just want to be known and understood, but it’s true.

We all just want to be known and understood.

This morning – in that same parking garage, with that same parking attendant – a man pulled up behind us. He revved his gas pedal impatiently, and because his window was down, I could hear his “Come on, lady!” shouts directed toward me. His threw his hands up in the air and he slapped the top of his truck and he sounded his horn while I waited for the car to my right to pull out of my future parking space.

And I thought about shouting back at him, because I am a rabble rouser! And it’s my right to this parking space! And who are you to think that your time is more important than my own?!

Exclamation point. 

But I didn’t.

Instead, I just waved, which probably pissed him off even more.

And then, when he finally was granted the freedom to pass me – Jehovah, Jehovah! – I wildly waved my left arm at him some more.

I wasn’t mocking him and I wasn’t trying to make him angry, I was just trying to acknowledge that he too is a human. He’s a human who probably spilled his coffee this morning, which made him have to change his nice button-up shirt, which made him late for his 10 o’clock meeting, which made him shout curses and beep horns and pound steel at me.

Because it happens to me all the time (even if Ford F150’s aren’t really my vehicle of choice).

So friends, this is my song. It’s my song and it’s my cry and it’s the message I’ll likely be shouting from rooftops every other day when I write and when I drive, when I walk and when I tuck my babies into sleep at night.

Would you like for it to be your song as well?

xo, c.

—

There’s a book I read recently – A Man Called Ove – that really reminded me of this message. Within a chapter or two the reader is reminded that Grumpy Old Men are not merely Grumpy Old Men, but there’s a story behind each and every one of us, behind the grumpiness we sometimes clothe ourselves with. It’s a fun, funny, and endearing story, so check it out if you’re in need of a new fiction read. Otherwise, what lessons are you learning over and over again? Who do you need to practice kindness toward? And really, how do YOU feel about Ford F150 drivers?

*Amazon Affiliate Links, yo.

when we all just want to be known.

Fifty of us invaded their driveway on Tuesday night.

Card tables and ice chests and camping chairs decorated the pavement, along with stacks of paper plates and plastic silverware and Red Solo cups. The grill sizzled, red and gray coals in wait for chicken apple sausages and hot dogs from the local butcher. We scrawled our names in Sharpies and affixed them to our shirts. My three-year-old zoomed his fire truck over sidewalk cracks, eager for his friends to join him.

As the clock struck seven, nearly every door of every house on our block creaked open: Neighbor after neighbor left the comfort of their living rooms for the potential discomfort of shaking hands and greeting those who don’t look like them and act like them, for interactions with those who aren’t them. 

Soon the card tables were filled to overflowing, with Sherry’s World Famous Mac and Cheese and Kaleo’s chicken and veggie stir-fry. Ellen, who sports an extra chromosome, beamed with pride as she offered a casserole dish of brownies, and Pierre smiled shyly, beaming over blueberry custard.

We came together, practicing hospitality with those who live within a stone’s throw. We dove into conversations with each other. We asked questions and we gave answers, we let it be awkward and we laughed at the children. We made connections and we practiced being what we already were to each other: Neighbors.

—

As I’ve gotten older, I like to think that I’ve become just a teensy bit wiser, mostly because I’ve eaten my fair share of humble pie—with every bite of that wisdom-filled dessert a result of the wide variety of humans I’ve interacted with along the way.

For all these humans, regardless of race and age, gender and religion, hold one unifying truth in common: We all just want to be known.

We want to be known and understood.

We want to hear our name spoken from another person’s mouth.

…and the list just keeps on going. Click here to read the rest of the words on being known, featured last week at the Mudroom. Otherwise, is the hypothesis true? Do we all simply want to be known and understood? Love love!