Evil Gimmick-ey stuff

I'm convinced that whoever came up with the children's mouthwash, Agent Cool Blue, is not a parent. Or has even been around a child for that matter. Today the twins emerged from their sisters bathroom resembling naked smurfs. I'm just sayin'.

When the bough breaks...

I am not one to break down, and when I do it is rarely in tears, and certainly not at the prompting question of a mere stranger. "Are you okay?"
But there I was, in the pink bathroom stall for the fourth time, trying desperately to stifle the sobs and repress the tears with the might of a teen aged boy injured on the football field. I'd rather gnaw my arm off then cry, or more accurately, rather gnaw my arm off than acknowledge the feelings I have been fighting to keep at bay for too many weeks.
I have been moving nonstop now, for months, yet never really accomplishing anything. I have been too busy, but doing what? I don't know. There certainly hasn't been anything to show for it - until today.
After the typical Sunday rush to Church, we took our seats the usual fifteen minutes late. Almost immediately the barrage of emotion I have desperately fought to keep at bay assaulted me. The stillness and reverence that filled me could not allow the noise and chaos I have resorted to for comfort surround me. I felt the Spirit settle into my soul, and I had no resistance. Not to say I have been fighting his presence, but rather his effect. For with the good comes the bad, and I so desperately did not want to feel the bad. To feel the gut wrenching sorrow, or incessant worry that comes with some of lifes trails.
But, as I seem so prone to forget, when I give over myself to the spirit, I am comforted, and always profoundly amazed by the calm and peace that comes after the storm. I was reminded of the little things that matter, the ones that go so easily overlooked. Like the dimples in my four year olds knuckles that always remind me that her time on this earth has been so little, that really she is still a baby. Or the lack of dimples in my seven year olds hands that remind me to treasure the too short years ahead of me until she herself is a woman.
I knew there was nowhere else I could have been just then, nowhere more important or with more possibility for growth and learning than where I was. Not because I was in a church, but because I was where I was powerless to do anything but feel. The tender care of a loving lord, and his mercy.
He says, Be still and know I am God.
Be still.
And I was.
And because I was, my troubles were less great, and my blessing more profound. My joys magnified, and my sorrow lessened. My pride was stripped away, and I was more tender for it. My capacity to love renewed and heightened, and because of this, I know my future trials may be greater. However, I also know that with each stripping of my soul, it will be made stronger and capable of far greater. So this I write mainly as a reminder to myself, that when I begin the process of building a wall of chaos around me, the power to renew is but a breath away, a silent prayer to end my struggle.

Pace Cars and True Love...

I get lost in thought often. This tends to happen while I am doing mundane things, things that require more muscle memory than anything else. For instance? Driving. (Yes, I realize driving in more than just muscle memory. I do pay attention. Almost always...)
I think this happens to most people. The repetitious movements, the soothing sounds and motion of driving down the freeway. Assuming children aren't screaming, of course.
This is when I had the great "Pacer" epiphany.
I live pretty far out there, so its not unusual to be the only car on a long stretch of road. There I was, lost in thought, when I happened to glance at the speedometer. I was going 90 mph. Speed limit? 60 mph. How did I get to be driving so fast? My husband will tell you that its my stubborn refusal to use cruise control.
Nope.
There were no other cars around me setting the pace. Naturally you know what I am talking about. Whether traffic is a little fast, or a little slow, the surrounding vehicles determine the speed that you will be going. Safety dictates you conform, within reason, to the flow of traffic around you.
So back to my epiphany. Between my being so lost in thought and there being no "pace car" around me, I was soon going much faster than I should have been, thankfully, I didn't get into trouble by a cop lurking under a viaduct. But I easily could have; and rightfully so. "Sorry officer...I wasn't paying attention." Yeah. That's gonna work.
As is my never ending love of analogy's, The wheels started turning, (Ha ha!) and in true fashion I was comparing this realization to other aspects of my life.
I am fortunate to be surrounded by my own "Pacers". People who love me enough to set boundaries, point out my strengths, and sometimes, my shortcomings. These people keep me honest, and hold a mirror to me when I most need it. Sometimes I dont like what has to be said, but know that it is needed.
Now I realize that what I am saying can easily be misconstrued to seem as though I am saying I need people to tell me what to do. I do NOT mean this at all.
So here is the definition of a pace car...incidentally, also called a Safety car. New spin, eh?

In motor sport, a safety car or pace car is a car which limits the speed of competing cars on a racetrack in the case of a caution period such as a major accident or obstruction on the track. During a caution period the safety car enters the track ahead of the leader.

Sometimes in life we need to be reeled in. We need others to help us set boundaries when we ourselves are incapable for whatever reason. Be it emotional distress, or are just in the throes of a plain ol' selfish spurt.
It is not lost on me the great love those brave souls who dare pull in front of me have. While it is easy to tell someone how well they are doing, what great strides they are making, it is never easy to tell someone that they are in great danger of hurting themselves or others. This is what truly takes love and genuine concern. While it is easy to say "I'm sorry, can I help?" It takes a real friend to say, "No. This is wrong."
These courageous souls are my pacers. They see the "caution period" I am in, and hop in front of me to make sure I don't drive headfirst into calamity. Courageous? Yes. I dont handle criticism with a great deal of grace, however, I recognize true friendship for what it is, and love will always soften the blow.
Real love does not support self destruction. I heard this recently and it has left an indelible impression on me. The people who care most will always have you succeed. And make no mistake, when you suffer, so do those who really care. And hopefully they care enough to risk alienation from you rather then see you hit a wall and go up in flames. That, is real love.

Henry Ward Beecher:
It is one of the severest tests of friendship to tell your friend his faults. So to love a man that you cannot bear to see a stain upon him, and to speak painful truth through loving words, that is friendship.

Accidental truths...

I went outside barefoot the other day. Granted, the only reason I did was because I needed to get the mail, and someone ran off with my slippers. I'm not known for finding things without a team. Still, I was pleased to find that between the lack of snow on the ground and the "warm" weather, I made it back to the house without freezing. I was elated! Spring must be around the corner! Right?
It snowed the next day.
This is what my parents called "trick weather."

"Mom? Can I go outside?" I ask.

"So long as you wear a coat." She replies.

"I don't need a coat. It's warm; The sun is even out." I frown. Dumb mom; cant she see that?

"You don't have to wear a coat, but then you wont go outside. It's cold. Just because the sun is up doesn't mean it's warm. It's forty degrees out." My dad chimes in. I knew it. They're both dumb.

"Katie," My dad says with warning as I grunt and roll my eyes, (Note the spelling of my name. I changed it from 'ie' to 'ey' in seventh grade. My dad refuses, still, to acknowledge that. Fine.)
"You think it's warm because the temp is up slightly, but not enough. It's called trick weather. Your gonna get sick if you don't wear a coat."
Okay...maybe not so dumb.

I remember that coat. Baby blue little number with hideous purple and pink vertical piping, possibly yellow too. 80's chic. There was a hole in the pocket and pennies always dropped into it. It jingled when I ran.
Hastily I pushed my arms through the sleeves and ran out to play, managing to zip it up before my little fingers began to freeze. Within the hour I was at the kitchen table, cheeks ruddy from cold and those same little fingers wrapped around a mug of hot cocoa. I'm sure my mom was grinning smugly.
"I was bored," I claimed. Right. It was bloody well frigid. I stayed in the house the rest of the day, watching Captain Kangaroo.

So why this little jaunt down memory lane? I was reminded of this when my daughter attempted to follow me to the mailbox, also without shoes.

"Go inside, Abby. You don't have shoes on, and your gonna get sick." I say as I hop over a rock.

"It's not even cold and you don't have shoes on. How come you get to?" She asks. Good question.

"Because." I reply, using the parental response I vowed never to. It has occurred to me over the years, just what that blessed-but-hated-by-kids response means. 'I haven't a good explanation that wont get me into trouble so your just going to accept it cause' I'm the boss.'

She growls and rolls her eyes. I know she thinks I'm dumb. I grin.
"Abby, It's called trick weather."

It's good to have things like these in the arsenal of parenting. Accidental truths...

Let me explain...

Why The Faerie Gate? If you were to ask anyone in my home you would know. To Alice, it was through the looking glass. To Wendy? Third star to the right and straight on till morning.
It is the magical threshold to the imagination. The thin place between doorways, passed through too quickly; The place we frequent less and less as we grow older, and are reminded of more and more as we watch our children play. It is where you find yourself when between asleep and awake, and ultimately, for me, the root of my greatest joys.
The Faerie Gate swings freely in my home, its hinges well oiled, the occasional smell of sunshine and honey drifting into our realm. It’s how the shoe stealing goblin gains access to our closets and the I-don’t-know-who-did-it fairy steals away my perfume to sprinkle it in my daughters‘ hair. Once, I swear I found a Brownie’s botched attempt at cooking buried in a waste basket in the bathroom, beneath a used up roll of toilet paper. From time to time a Screeching Harpy may find her way in, shrieking and causing havoc where ever she goes…(she likes to take the form of little girls to be less detected. I’m not fooled.) And on occasion I may find a Changeling in one of the twins beds, but the Good People always bring back my little boys.
This is a place of ancient beauty, where songs from my childhood emerged, and my dreams for the future wait patiently. Where English ivy grows and where Voodoo roses are always in bloom. (A hybrid I stumbled upon a few years back and fell madly in love with. Incidentally, I killed them.)
My daughters hang their wings there, and my sons hide the fattest toads in magic pools, and nothing is ever lost. It is a place without locks, and just to be sure, I always remember to kick a rock into the doorjamb; just in case.
I grew up with the Faery Gate, as do my children. Here at bedtime you will never hear “Once upon a time…” because the magic still flows in the veins of my own little ones, not in a land from long ago and far away. Like all things, if neglected, it will fade, and eventually die. I cant afford that to happen, so I tend to it frequently and enter it often.

Pixie Dust and Faerie wings,
Into your ear the Green Man sings.
Dreams and stories fill your head,
Angels whisper, you are led.
You hear the Mermaids laugh with glee,
You even join them is the sea.
A ship of pirates take you down,
To search for treasure in the ground.
But sunlight comes-
A day awaits,
You hop a cloud,
Walk out the Gate-
You yawn and stretch,
You rub your eyes-
And now your mine…
Till night arrives.
- Abby, Rachel, Jack, and Ryan’s Mom
(I wrote this for my kids when I was sixteen...my first go at the whole poetry thing, and it stuck.)

The good news is...

Okay. So I am finally motivated enough to start this blog. The bad news is that I have three children with varying degrees of illness, there for not much time on my hands. What is the good news, you ask? I got this far!