Thinking Out Loud

93 million miles from the Sun, people get ready, get ready, ’cause here it comes it’s a light, a beautiful light, over the horizon into our eyes…
Jason Mraz

A hush descends on the earth when it snows.  It’s as if the fluffy white stuff that covers the ground and coats the trees and houses and cars also mutes the volume of the world.  The rough edges are smoothed.  The hard places soften.  In the stillness, magic glitters.  Untouched, the newly fallen snow collects; fresh, like a blank canvas to be painted, like a story to be written, like a new year to be lived.

2013 sounded like science fiction when I was a child, eons away.  But, I’m getting older and the passage of time is accelerating at a spectacular pace. I am stunned to find myself, once again, on the brink of another year.  Change beckons and opportunities entice.  Anything seems possible. 

Lofty New Year’s resolutions often set me up for disappointment, but I can’t help feeling excited to welcome new adventures, to shed old habits and create new ones.  Recapping the events of the past year, I analyze what worked and what didn’t; what I want to repeat and what I definitely do not.  Using these conclusions, I look forward and set goals.  I make ‘plans.’  As the list making, Type-A, get-it-done-now kind of girl I’ve always been, this appeals to my sense of control in the universe.  The thing is, the longer I’m a mother, the more I evolve into a spontaneous, go-with-the-flow, get-it-done-whenever kind of girl.  The more I learn control is an illusion.

But, I continue to set my goals anyway—not so much written down as voiced in conversation or even just in the back of my mind: exercise and good nutrition, organization at home and work, time management, stress reduction, quality relationships with family and friends. 

Fortunately for me, exercise isn’t just a daily habit, it’s my job. I took my first aerobics class in 1987 after my son was born, and I’ve been hooked on the benefits of working out ever since; from Jane Fonda to Billy Blanks’ Tae Bo, from distance running and weightlifting to becoming an instructor and personal trainer myself.  Vital to my mental health, it’s made me a better mother and wife.  “Mom is always so happy when she comes home from the gym,” Jeremy used to say with sarcasm. But it’s true—all seems right in my world after a great workout.  And I get to witness transformation in the lives of others.  I am lucky indeed.

A healthy diet, on the other hand, is a work in progress.  I wage my own battles with food, succumbing to convenience and surrendering to sweets. But even when I’m eating clean, getting the kids onboard is tough.  Sydney will tell you she’s a ‘big fan’ of chicken nuggets.  Her idea of vegetables is tater tots, and she thinks ranch dressing is its own food group. Haley would happily live on sugar, buzzing 24 hours a day instead of just 20.  Preparing fresh, nutritious meals for my family, served up cheerfully at the end of each day ala Betty Crocker, remains an elusive fantasy and at the top of my wishes.

Undoubtedly the biggest endeavor I pursue every blasted year is to get organized, something akin to the pictures in Real Simple magazine.  (Forget about Pinterest.  It’s not happening.)  Chic yet minimal, and so clean.   Commencing anything more than a temporary tidying up is like shoveling the walk while it’s still snowing.  Yet, projects stretch out alluringly in front of me: start (or finish) remodeling and redecorating inside the house along with landscaping and overdue maintenance on the outside; print photos and put them all in albums; arrange and back up all the files on my computer(s); weed out the years of accumulation in storage; clean out the closets, drawers, cabinets and pantry (I recently threw away a soup mix with a 2007 expiration date, no joke); catch up on filing/shredding the office paperwork; sort through all the toys and clothes and books.  Basically put my whole house in perfect order.  Yeah, right.

I’m grateful for all we have—really, we are blessed beyond belief and it’s paramount to me that our kids learn to appreciate their good fortune—but our abundance has become overwhelming.  Too much stuff, too much responsibility, too much work, too much on-the-go, too much, too much, too much!   I’m caught between the visions in my head of a simplified, balanced life, all gears well oiled and running smoothly as I effortlessly administrate my domestic, professional and social duties and … the reality of my cluttered home, frenetic schedule and daily chores that feel at times as if I’m running on a rat’s wheel, going nowhere.

Inevitably, at this point the enormity of my New Year ambition weighs down my momentum and I’m left still wanting that life that seems out of reach.  I’ve got less time when I wanted more, more stress where I needed less.  The time I want to spend with family and friends in those quality relationships is greedily sucked up meeting endless expectations.  When I finally get that I am the one imposing those expectations, I also get that I’m working against myself in my pursuit of accomplishment.

What I really want are dates with my husband and special “Mommy time” with my girls.  I want music and theatre and art and creativity and spirituality.  I want to experience joy every single day.  I want to write.  I want to laugh.  And cry, too.  Frequently. I want to engage in meaningful exchange.  I want to embody the essence of love.

I also want a beautiful home that’s a respite and a haven; a worthy desire, but as I sort through the to-do list of my resolutions, it dawns on me I’m doing it backwards.  I’ve been going about this my whole thing trying to shove a square peg in a round hole; to force change from the outside, manipulating circumstances rather than allowing them to unfold naturally by shifting my focus.

Throughout Sydney’s development, she’s hit many plateaus, not uncommon for kids with Down syndrome.  Milestones like crawling and walking and particularly potty-training, and skills like learning to write her name and tie her shoes, would progress to a certain point and then … stall out.  For a long, long time.  We would get discouraged.  Compare her to others.  Cajole her, push her, do extra therapy, try charts and reward systems.  We would give up.  But, honestly, it was all for naught.  When she was ready she made the leap, every time.  She would just … change. Patiently, and without judgment, she let go of the past and emerged into the newest version of herself. 

What if instead of asking myself “What do I want to do?” when tabulating the multitude of things I intend to undertake this year, I ask, “Who do I want to be?  What version of myself?”  To posit the question in this way elicits a discernible shift in energy.  Already I feel lighter, with anticipation for all the possibilities.  

In 1994 Dr. Masaru Emoto from Japan studied water molecules frozen into ice crystals and photographed under a high-powered microscope, expecting to see structures similar to snow flakes. The images captured revealed that each crystal bore a unique design; no two were the same.  Water samples taken from pristine rivers and lakes created beautifully formed geometric crystals while those gathered from polluted sources yielded chaotic asymmetry with no patterns.  

The research went further, exposing the water to music, prayer, spoken words and even typed words taped to the containers.  It appeared that positive thoughts and kind words generated intricate and magnificent shapes while exposure to negativity—harsh words and emotions—propagated results similar to those from the polluted water; misshapen and distorted without aesthetic beauty.  What’s more, after prayers were offered on behalf of water from the toxic sample, the crystals branched into crystalline symmetry; just as those from pure water sources and those exposed to music, prayer and words like gratitude, peace and love. 

Toxic polluted water

Water from same source after being prayed over

Dr. Emoto’s work has been celebrated by many, but criticized, too, by skeptics who say his methods lack scientific controls and his claims are simply invalid.   In answer to his critics, he has said, “ …the world is filled with wonders and mysteries … there are so many incomprehensible things that we cannot understand it all.”  The photographing of crystals is neither science nor religion.  He calls it art. 

To me, their beauty is awe-inspiring and irrefutable, and the concept that human consciousness can have an effect on the molecular structure of water is not implausible.  In fact, to me, it’s downright fascinating to consider that every thought, feeling and intention might carry its own signature and have an impact. Albert Einstein, the father of modern physics said, “Concerning matter, we have been all wrong.  What we have called matter is energy, whose vibration has been so lowered as to be perceptible to the senses.  There is no matter.”

According to Einstein himself, we are living in an energy field, inextricably interwoven with everything around us, our cells taking in and letting off particles constantly. Everything in life is vibration.  Change the vibration and change the reality.  Based on this principal, if I change my thoughts and change my words, I change myself. By focusing on positive intent, I gravitate towards people and situations and activities that inspire and uplift me.  I seek joy and kindness and I radiate the same. 

When in doubt, I need only observe to see the truth in this theory.  The days I’m rushed and harried, I inexorably get in line behind the slowest customer checking out with the rudest cashier. The days I’m especially exhausted are somehow marathon days full of appointments and impossible deadlines, countless texts, emails and phone calls, with no time for rest.  My frustration mounts, tension creeps in and my mood and attitude reflect it.  Those are also the days negative energy culminates at home.  It is interactive and exponential.  This is when the girls fight and misbehave; when my husband reacts and misunderstandings occur; when unkind words are spoken, tempers are short and we’re all pulled in a downward spiral.

Then there are the days I step outside and feel the early morning air on my face, and see the moon, and feel grateful to be alive and in this body of mine.  When I have a bounce in my step after teaching class to an amazing group of people, the energy in the room positively electric.  When my daily dealings are pleasant and I have a smile for everyone I meet.  And the smiles coming back at me are sweet and genuine.  When the nurturing compassion of my best friend far away reaches through the phone line and encircles me, leaving me warm and comforted. When peace washes over me, through me when listening to music.  When I’m met at the end of the day with squeals of delight from my girls: “Mommy’s home!”  And my husband wraps me in a bear hug.  And we share laughter and stories.  Those are the days we dance in the kitchen.   

I don’t need a microscope to know that something inside me is altered—not just metaphorically, but literally. Externally, things may not appear much different, but internally, I’m living in another universe.

Sydney lives there nearly all the time.  Last night she came looking for me, just to give me a hug.  Laying her head on my chest, she was still and quiet.  Her gentleness permeated every cell of my body as I breathed in her innocence.  “I love kisses with you,” she whispered. Placing my cheek next to hers, I closed my eyes.  This child, from birth, has slowed me down and opened me up.  I can breathe when she’s near me.  She resonates the purity I’m chasing.

I think this year I’ll resolve to become a beautiful ice crystal.  By exposing myself to magnificence and kindness and grace, I can release negativity and clear my mind of what doesn’t serve me, allowing the almost imperceptible shift in focus to bring about the changes I desire.  Then I become the change I want to see in the world.  Though unique, I am part of the collective.  I am love.

After a snowfall, when the sun breaks through the clouds, billions of snowflakes can be seen, sparkling in the bright light.  Together they make up the expanse of vivid white blanketing the ground just as the individual brilliance of every person on the planet comprises the world’s consciousness.  We are one.  Change myself, change the world.

And so lying underneath those stormy skies

She’d say, “oh, ohohohoh I know the sun must set to rise.

“Paradise” by Coldplay

It was Sunday afternoon.  The weekend that seemed to stretch out enticingly before me on Friday was, for all intents and purposes, over.  I sat on the couch, mindlessly surfing Facebook and playing Angry Birds.  I had what we call the ‘Sunday blues;’ that restless dissatisfaction that strikes around 5:00 p.m. along with the realization that my vision of a weekend filled with relaxation and leisure …  well, it’s just not gonna materialize.  This happens frequently.  My days get filled with grocery shopping, running kids to activities, projects at home, work issues, and other mundane tasks and my fun gets relegated to Saturday night after the kids go to bed, but by then I’m so beat I pass out halfway through a movie.

 I felt a coming shift in the weather foretold by a pounding headache that stormed my skull.  Sitting alone I looked out the window at the gathering clouds. Malaise settled in as I thought with a sigh how the girls would be home shortly.  I’d have to get up from this couch to start the nighttime routine; wrangle up dinner, corral kids into the shower and herd them to bed.  I’d go through Friday folders (Sunday night folders?) and look ahead to everyone’s schedules, gearing up for another busy week.

 But that was all before I got the news that my brother-in-law had died.  Just 45 minutes earlier, while I was lamenting the end of the weekend, he had taken his last breath and given up the battle he’d waged to the finish.  He and my sister were separated, but in the end, their differences didn’t matter.  The strife and tension between them healed spontaneously on his journey from this plane to the next.  When cancer took over his body, she took him into her home and tended to his dying.  In the process she found forgiveness and focused on creating lasting memories for her son, their son.  He is seven, my nephew; much too young to lose his father.  And his father, much too young to lose his life. 

 He suffered in pain and he struggled for every breath. And when his agitation became too great, he drifted in a morphine-induced fog.  My sister lay down with her husband, pressing her body to his, her mouth to his ear.  She whispered, “Go, my love.  Go to that beautiful place we talked about.  Remember we love you.  We will always love you.”  His ravaged body was stilled, his breathing calmed, and a tear formed in the corner of his eye.

 I remember when she brought him to Austin to meet us.  I remember that he was ‘over the moon’ in love with her. I remember his huge stature and his long hair, sometimes pulled back in a ponytail, sometimes let loose.  I remember his easy smile and the groovy way he said, “Right on” with the accent on the first word, like “Clap on.”  I remember their beautiful wedding and the beautiful baby boy that came later.  I remember how much that baby looked like his Dad.  And still does.  I long to wrap them all in a soft cocoon and buffer the pain until metamorphosis is complete; life is never destroyed, it only changes form.

 I like to think about our souls—the spark of divinity residing in our physical bodies—lingering after death, staying close for a time to comfort those left behind.  Or maybe never leaving, like the silent, vigilant angels in long black coats from the movie, City of Angels; remaining present as witness to and companion for our earthly travails.

 I know Sydney has at least one guardian angel, if not legions of them.  She came so close to dying when she was two that even the doctors say she was watched over by a benevolent presence.  In the hospital, the night before she was transferred to the PICU, I rocked her.  An oxygen cannula in her nose, she was listless.  Her fever soared to 105 and her breathing was labored and ragged.  We floated, she and I, through an exhausted haze that skimmed the edges of consciousness and waking dreams.  It was in that gap I felt her slipping away.  I couldn’t hold onto her. 

 She was put on a ventilator, unable to breathe on her own.  Pneumonia raged and her lungs filled with infection.  She didn’t respond to treatment.  She developed secondary infections and complications, and her condition deteriorated rapidly.  As the days stretched into weeks, Steven and I watched our daughter disappear under tubes and wires and leads and catheters that connected her little body to monitors and machines, lying lifeless while the fight to save her seemed interminable.  We couldn’t give voice to our deepest fear: “What if she doesn’t get better.  What if she never wakes up?” 

 My memories swim in a blur of panic, exhaustion and desperate hope.  And, too, unwavering love and support, as we were surrounded by an out-pouring of love; our families flew in from across the country, our community gathered, our friends with children who have Down syndrome stood by us, arms around us, all of them holding us up.  Prayers from across the globe were sent on behalf of our little girl.

 She came so close to dying.  But she didn’t.  Prayers were answered, angels attended and recovery came quickly once she turned around.  She came off the vent.  She woke up and recognized us.  She cried and reached for us.  We went home and exhaled after a month of holding our breath.  We slept together in our big bed for what seemed like days and felt we’d never need anything else again.

 A reprieve from death brought relief that rushed over us in waves.  At the same time my empathy for parents who had no such reprieve and had to face the unthinkable expanded a hundred-fold.  Life held an exquisite quality and Sydney’s essence radiated out in ever-widening circles, inspiring and touching people who’d never even met her.  In her recovery was a gift; a celebration of life, a rebirth. 

Facing mortality forces a confrontation with reality and the reality is this:  life comes to an end, for every single person.  It seems obvious, but to feel it up-close and personal is to know we are but transient here.  And yet it is my acceptance of the great mysteries, my belief in worlds beyond this existence, that allows me to transcend suffering and transform my perspective of mortal life; I have become a spiritual being having a human experience rather than a human being having a spiritual experience. 

Though I’d been expecting my brother-in-law’s demise, when it came, the sharpness of the loss split my heart wide open.  I put the phone down and wept.  For him.  For my sister.  For their fatherless child.  For all the days they will not have together.  He is gone and yet he remains; in spirit, in the hearts and minds of those who knew him, and embodied in the son who lives on. 

And in his death, a gift, as well; the invitation to pay attention.  To choose love.  It is a summons to me:  “Lisa, live now, don’t miss this! See the exuberance of your brilliant, creative children instead of the mess they’re making.  Hear the pure delight and joy in their laughter rather than noisy chaos.  Embrace all the love that’s right in front of you while you have it.  Cherish this!”

My complaints of a disappointing weekend were instantly eclipsed by an all-encompassing gratitude.  Grief juxtaposed with an awareness of time as a priceless commodity brought this clarity to my internal narrative: the hours I’ve spent angry or rushing or frustrated, wishing something or someone was different, these are squandered and I cannot call them back.

 In that moment, I vowed to be different; to see differently, feel differently and act differently.  The laundry is not important, the dishes in the sink and the spills on the floor are not important.  Lost opportunities or unmet expectations; not important.  Disabilities and challenges and limitations; these are not of any import.  My family knowing they are precious and loved by me, honoring the time we have together—that is of the utmost importance. 

I looked around the living room as a visitor in my own home and no longer saw the mundane, the burdensome, but the rich, the complex; a family’s dynamic presence, full of life and love and interaction.  I saw abundance and blessings beyond comprehension. My surroundings transformed before my eyes like an autostereogram, the Magic Eye phenomenon, in which 3D images arise from the 2D.  A sculpture, glittering magnificently, emerged, lifting out of the background.  It had been there all along, masquerading as everyday stuff, but when my eyes focused with a fragile, tentative shift, I glimpsed something extraordinary.  I saw straight through the outer trappings to the inner fragility and purity of every soul.  It became clear to me that kindness is the only endeavor worth pursuing. 

That night I tucked my little girls into their beds.  Wrapping my arms around them, I closed my eyes and felt their warmth as I breathed them in, deeply.  I made sure to tell my big kids, adults living their own lives now, how much I love them, and that they’ll always be close to me, no matter how far away they are.  And in my own bed, I pressed my body against my husband’s and held him close, hearing these words in my mind: ‘Cherish this.’  My mouth to his ear, I whispered, “Remember, I love you.  I will always love you.”