TLC

If there's one thing I'm learning through parenting with Spirit it's that any experience life throws at you - no matter how mundane - can become a spiritual experience if you choose to look at it that way. Case in point: the chicken pox, which Nicholas came down with two days before March Break was scheduled to begin. It's rare to be struck with this kind of convalescence these days: one whole week off - at least - and quarantined from public places. I canceled plans, rescheduled visits, and prepared for boredom, misery, and mangy-ness.

The afternoon that I discovered the spots we bundled up against the rain and gloom and I pulled the kids in the wagon to the nearest drug store. I bought the biggest bottle of Epsom salts available and enough calamine lotion to last through my grandchildren having the chicken pox. Back at home, cold and weathered, there was nothing to do but take care of each other. I ran Nicholas a hot bath and poured in the salts slowly and from a great height so we could watch them cascade and plink into the water. I grabbed a fresh hand towel for his back so he could lay comfortably against the porcelain, a soft cloth to pat his sores and a measuring cup to ladle the warm water over his battered skin and - presto! - created our own little ritual of healing.

Like water on rock, this illness slowly smoothed out my curt, rough and busy ways. Normally I don't have time for such coddling - running water over blistering sores, carefully preparing pots of rosehip, chamomile or lemon echinacea tea, patiently dotting tiny spots with pink lotion - but there I was, labouring over a bath, warming the tea pot, scouring the linen cabinet for cotton balls, and feeling surprisingly content because I'm useful and comforting and...much more gentle than I usually am.

I don't know exactly what got me to it, but in the week that I was at home with my son and the chicken pox I came to the realization that being gentle in life is akin to being reverent. Perhaps it was the intense intimacy involved in caring for someone who is sick; cleaning wounds, dressing sores, cuddling a shivering, skinny boy, each act in and of itself a sort of prayer...my son, who art my heaven, hallowed be your name! It seems to me that the search for a gentle way to relate to others - interacting without being harsh or rough or inconsiderate - is simply the best means of honouring the sacred in our midst; that is, the incredible and impossibly curious fact that we are alive, and that we have these precious bonds to other living being as parents, or children, or life partners. Illness reacquaints me with the sacredness of being alive - and of all life on this planet.

When Nicholas was sick last week I took care of him like I meant it - with tender, loving care. It embarrasses me to say I'm not like this every single day, because we all deserve a little TLC, if only for the awesome fact that we are here and we are living - and not just when we're ill. Indeed, I've come to see a gentle reverence for life as the only thing that will keep us well.

Just Dance!

I made a delightful discovery last week, on the lookout as I was for a gentle way through the (sometimes) rough moments of day to day life with young children. The challenge: to get through that awkward time many mothers call the "witching hour" (or "arsenic hour," as my mother called it) without any harsh words on my part. Are you familiar with the witching hour? If you haven't lived through it, let me fill you in. The witching hour happens after school, but before supper when you're trying to cook dinner but the kids are already hungry and tired and in need of more of your energy than you have it in you to give. During the witching hour there is too much to do for one set of hands, but your partner isn't home from work yet. A colossal challenge for any mother, the witching hour is that much more difficult for us Canadians in the long winter months when it is impossible for us to send the kids outside and out of our hair without a fight.

The solution? No, it's not TV, and it's also much healthier for you than downing a glass of wine or bottle of beer to make it through until your partner comes home. What could it be? Why, Lady Gaga, of course!

Mid-arsenic hour the other day, Nicholas and Emma wanted to listen to "rock" music, which is what they call any music that is pop-y and played at loud volume. Normally I detest loud music during the witching hour as it only seems to add to my stress when I'm cooking under the gun and tripping over toys on my way between the fridge and the stove, but just this once I gave in, put on Lady Gaga and pumped up the volume.

As soon as the music came on Nicholas and Emma ran off to put on their costumes, each of them choosing something pink and frilly that gives good twirl when they spin. In the midst of the chaos that is our kitchen in the witching hour, the kids were having so much fun, spinning and swirling and grabbing whisks to use as microphones. Feeling their joy in spite of the pressures it dawned on me that even though it was technically the witching hour, that didn't mean I had to be a witch. Gentleness was right there, I just had to embrace it.

So off I ran into my bedroom and rooted around in my "give away" bag for the slinky black number my 19-year-old-built-like-a-runway-model cousin had passed on to me. It was a dress made for her body and not mine, accentuating my floppy stomach and the way my bosom, well, barely exists, but for dancing in the kitchen, it was just the thing. The kids loved seeing me in costume too - they thought I looked beautiful. "You should wear that to church, mama," Emma said. Now that would be a Sunday you wouldn't want to miss. My mood went from sour to soaring as I danced my way through the chopping and the simmering and the washing and the tidying, rocking out to Lady Gaga in my little black dress.

I was reminded in the moment that when we can find ways to make light of the heavy parts of life - choosing to be a little more gentle with each other, while still attending to the tasks at hand - life is a lot more fun. So, now, when tensions rise and my natural inclination is to whip out a harsh word and launch it at anyone in firing range, I'm going to remember the gentle wisdom of my children and, of course, Lady Gaga and her wise directive to "JUST DANCE!"

La Vie Boheme

This week and last week I have been feeling overwhelmed and sensitive about the lack of "things" in my house. It started last Monday morning when I woke up and couldn't get past the fact that I still don't have a proper bed and I'm in my 30s. At the moment we make do with a box spring and mattress, a big step up from the mattress we used to have on the floor. Why don't we just go to Ikea and pick up something cheap, you might ask? Good question. Here's the answer: Steve and I made an anti-consumerist vow not to buy any "temporary" furniture; we would wait instead until we could afford good and solid pieces that would last the rest of our lives and avoid adding one more poorly-made bed frame (and dining room set, and living room furniture, and television) to the landfill. But I'm starting to feel like it's time to buy something already because our living conditions are just plain weird.

Last week I couldn't help but look at our house the way visitors must look at it. I felt like journalist Gail Sheehy must have felt on her first visit to the dilapidated Grey Gardens mansion to meet the eccentric Big Edie and her daughter, Little Edie Bouvier Beale - full of shock and awe that real people were actually living in such a run-down crazy place and seemingly okay with it. At least I don't have raccoons inside my house like the Bouvier Beale ladies...at least I don't yet, but believe me they look in our windows like it's only a matter of time.

Who do I think I'm kidding? It's obvious that the "couches" I've created in our front room with a big bunch of fabric and throw pillows are the kids' beds. The old change table in our bedroom is too wide to pass as a book shelf, I should know this. And the old jam jars are just that and belong in the recycle bin; I can't keep passing them off as water glasses. We need so much stuff in order to be considered a normal North American family, starting with a whole house instead of just the main floor and an actual bed frame.

So my "to buy" list feels a tad long at the moment and this is overwhelming because I don't have any time to buy anything anyway, and no car to cart all my stuff home and no means of entertaining the kids on what would be long and tedious errands.

In the midst of all this I needed to think about my focus for the month of March and went out for a long run to process my thoughts. I wasn't expecting to meet my goddaughter at the park where I run the trails, but there she was, out toddling around in the way that only two-year-olds can, enamored with a rock and a dog and a mom that passed by pushing a baby in a carriage. I stopped, talked, pointed out a tree that had been gnawed by a beaver, gave the girl a big squeeze and - wouldn't you know it - felt a million times better about myself and my life when I got back home. Children - my own and others - remind me that feeling good within and without is the result of treating ourselves gently, meeting our daily physical needs for nutritious food, vigorous exercise, lots of water and sunshine along with meeting spiritual needs like connecting with others and nature. I'm always the first to tell my children that buying more "things" isn't going to make them any happier. As I said goodbye to my goddaughter and finished my run I knew that of all the fruits of the Spirit what I really needed to focus on this month was growing in gentleness - towards myself and the planet - and that this would do more to help me feel right in the world than any amount of furniture ever could.

Shopping can wait. I think that treating myself gently - meeting my physical and spiritual needs - is the only priority for which it's worth rearranging a schedule. If browsing for a bed frame means I won't have time for a much-needed run, and if a shopping list makes me feel like I don't have even half an hour to sit and read a few scriptures and pray, then it's the browsing and the shopping that I need to comprise, and not my health. People before things, wise women have always said. Besides, the earth needs some gentle treatment too. I don't need to add more discarded purchases to our planet's garbage dumps, and I would undoubtedly end up tossing what I buy in haste sooner rather than later.

So I ran three times last week and I actually got up to the loft to read scripture every morning and I just got back from a wonderful afternoon at the playground with the kids. I don't have a very clean house this week or even a whole house or even any gosh-darned furniture to put in my house, but I think a spirit of gentleness is more important than all that anyway - it's got to be. As Big Edie said, "My body is a very precious place." So is our planet. And my challenge this month is to judge my life more gently, by how I FEEL on the inside, instead of fretting about what surrounds me on the outside. And I think Mother Earth will thank me for this. But my house will still look weird.

Who's Laughing Now?

What's it going to take to turn me into Mother Teresa? Do I need to read scripture and pray for 24 hours a day? Do I need a new diet? More exercise? A lobotomy? Last night I slept for twelve (yes, twelve) hours and I'm still the same cranky and impatient mom that I was the day before. You'd think that after getting that much sleep I'd be a walking saint, but it turns out I'm still me and I haven't changed yet!

It's been two years since I first noticed how many opportunities I had for spiritual growth in my daily interactions with my children, two years since I first noticed how they seemed to offer up every opportunity to grow in the fruit of the Spirit, two years since I became conscious of actively choosing to pursue the Spirit in the moment, two years of trying to grow more loving, more joyful, more peaceful, and (at the moment) more patient, but I'm beginning to wonder if there isn't something wrong with my method, because I don't seem to be changing at all. Kindness and gentleness and self-control still don't come naturally to me. What's it going to take for me to change? When will this stop being work?

Looking for opportunities to practice patience this month has made me realize just how impatient I am for this spiritual discipline to yield results. I feel like all this should be getting easier and it's not. Maybe there's no Spirit behind all this fruit. Maybe people can't change. Maybe this stuff doesn't come naturally to me because I have some sort of a block, maybe there's some sort of barrier between me and God.

Or maybe it's only a matter of time. When my kids are impatient it's usually because they lack perspective on the bigger picture. They get so frustrated because they think that how they're feeling or what they're experiencing is the only thing they'll feel and experience into eternity: the bus is NEVER going to come, the drive will NEVER end, the food will NEVER be served, we will NEVER eat, things will NEVER change. I can't help but laugh at their absurd reasoning. Maybe I should laugh at my own?

(im)patience

What parent doesn't get daily opportunities to exercise the virtue of patience, February's spiritual fruit of the month? In fact, I'm looking at a full evening of fruitful growth opportunities. The challenge: Stay patient and sane over the next five hours while folding six loads of laundry, tidying the house, getting supper ready, getting Nicholas to drumming at 5pm and Beavers at 6pm, picking him up, cleaning the kitchen, and packing for our trip to Quebec City. Care to place a wager on how I'll do? Oh, there's an extremely high-pitched squeal! The first of many tonight, I'm sure. Deep breath. Spirit in, Spirit out...patience.

Just writing the word - patience - makes me realize that there's a lot to it; patience is about more than restraint in the moment. I'm thinking that the practice of patience also involves an appreciation of the moments in which we find ourselves, no matter what the moment brings. Most days I find myself in such a hurry to get on to the next thing that I forget to enjoy what's in front of me right now: the mess and challenges, affections and intimacies of daily life with young children. I've got to ask myself, why the rush? Isn't this just what I've been waiting for?

You feel...because....

The first time I threw a plate during an argument with Steve I knew I would eventually need help with conflict resolution. The plate was Corelle and supposedly unbreakable but six months later I was still finding the odd porcelain shard as I swept up the floor, each splinter an opportunity to reflect anew upon what good my outburst accomplished. Now - after throwing several punches, a glass angel, a wooden engagement ring box, two pieces of rotten fruit and a container of yogurt - I am finally enrolled in Communication Skills Training! But will ten hours, three sessions, and one course help me to settle my conflicts more peacefully?

The premise of the course I'm taking is that effective and peaceful communication happens when we focus on the person we're trying to communicate with and their feelings. We practice doing this at the first afternoon workshop I attend: You feel...because.... It seems simple enough.

Fittingly, the next day is the beginning of five long days of conflict at home, the presenting issue being the laundry: it's not done, when it is done it doesn't get folded, and who's job is it to do the laundry anyways?!?!

It was only after loudly proclaiming that I would never - NEVER! - touch one dirty sock of Steve's ever again that I remembered that this month I was supposed to be looking for opportunities in the moment to orient myself toward peace, rather than taking the direct route to conflict.

Sitting in the kitchen after dinner one night an opportunity presented itself. Remembering my communication skills training I realized that a way forward might be to focus less on myself and my complaints and more on Steve and his feelings. I had a road map to peace; all I had to do was follow it. Stand up, make a left, walk five paces, take Steve's hands in your own, listen. I could even use that phrase: You feel...because.... "You feel frustrated because your shirts aren't clean when you need them to be." I could say that, I thought. Imagine it! But I couldn't get the words out. You feel..., you feel..., well what about what I feel? I wanted to yell (I may have yelled). Does anyone ever think about that?

A few days later I came across this quote: "Letting bad feelings fester toward another person is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die." If conflict is ultimately destructive to ourselves, what do we need to do to move towards peace?

As luck would have it, prep work for a sermon I preached earlier this month required that I read over the gospel of John and it was there that I found some insight. I was struck by the fact that Jesus in John's gospel gives only one commandment to his followers; you won't find an account of the Sermon on the Mount in John's gospel, nor will you find a list of holy do's and don'ts to follow. Jesus instead offers one simple bit of encouragement near the end of the story: love one another. Just love one another. He goes on to say that no one has greater love than this: to lay down one's life for one's friend.

Perhaps our capacity for peace is related to our willingness to love even when loving others doesn't get us exactly what we want. Perhaps our capacity for peace is related to our ability to love more, to love so much that we'd let a part of ourselves "die" for someone else's benefit. It's been my experience that conflicts resolve peacefully when I just get past my own stubborn insistence upon being right; when I'm willing to put my own interpretations and experiences aside in order to hear the interpretation and experience of another.

Children are so good at doing this, aren't they? Kids don't hold grudges; at least my four and six-year-old don't (I'm not the mom of teenagers, yet!). When my kids and I have a disagreement about something or if I'm crabby and having a bad day they don't give me the cold shoulder. I'm always amazed at how quickly our squabbles are forgotten with the offer of a hug or a kiss. With my kids, the will to reconnect always trumps the will to be right. Perhaps then we can say that our capacity for peace is also related to our capacity to forgive.

I'm trying to remember that, when it comes right down to it, it's not magic words or a magic phrase that help us resolve our conflicts peacefully; it's the attitude and alignment of our hearts. Perhaps the best communication skills training we could ever receive is simply to learn to love more, and to learn to forgive, instead of learning how best to make ourselves heard.

Fighting Words

I spent the month of December with eyes and ears open, on the lookout for small opportunities to grow a little more peaceful. Could I use diplomacy instead of a high-pitched yell to work out the latest power struggle between Emma and Nicholas? Could I get my Christmas shopping and chores done and not recreate my resentment at having to do so back at home? Could I balance the kids' need for attention and engagement with my need to read my book by the fire (alone)? Let's just say peace deserves another month. And so I'm at it again this January, in pursuit of the Spirit through the pursuit of peace. Of all the fruits of the Spirit, I find peace the most difficult to internalize.

I couldn't have planned for a better location to begin my quest for peace. Personal growth opportunities abound where I've been for the past two weeks - in Edmonton, Alberta - visiting my family for the Christmas holidays. If peace is meeting your own needs without disrespecting the needs of others, where better to practice this than the old family home, surrounded by at least ten other people's pressing needs and expectations of what will make this Christmas memorable? Another discovery: we can't meet our needs if we don't have the tools to do so. No inner tools, no inner peace.

My cousins and I took Nicholas and Emma skating at Edmonton's Victoria Skating Oval the Sunday before Christmas. The Victoria Skating Oval is the size of a football field. There is no better place to skate, fast and furious (without running into anybody) than the Victoria Skating Oval, but neither of my kids can skate well. Last winter they got to the point where they could balance on the ice but when we arrived at the Victoria Oval it had been almost a year since they'd been on skates and we were back to square one. My cousins and I took turns skating with the kids, holding them up under their armpits. After about ten minutes Emma got her balance and could walk to one of us if we held out our arms and really encouraged her. Nicholas got to where he could take tiny steps without any help. This was fun for them for about a minute and then Nicholas wanted to know what he had to do to glide like everyone else at the skating rink.

I'm no skating instructor. I tried to remember my own skating lessons which were at least twenty-six years ago. Getting your feet into a "V" shape seemed to be important. Then I tried to think of the best way to explain the concept of pushing backward to glide forward to a five-year-old. Nicholas could not get his feet into a "V" shape and he didn't get my explanation of gliding. Things grew tense between us. He would get himself up and balanced and try to get his feet into a "V," fail, get angry, start scuffing his skates on the ice and fall.

Frustration eventually got the better of him and Nicholas had a full blown tantrum on the ice. Tears and spit and cold and snow. When he didn't lighten up, couldn't pick it up, couldn't try and try and try again I grew impatient. I could see so clearly that all this crying wasn't going to get him skating, in fact, it impeded his progress. It seemed so simple to me; stop crying, get up, try again. I can only comfort for so long before I lose all sympathy and get mean. The pen may be mightier than the sword but the words that come out of our mouth do more harm. I told him to get up because he was embarrassing me. No one else was crying. "You'll never get better if you don't practice."

Ironically I knew just how Nicholas felt. I know how discouraging it feels to realize just how much work it takes to be good at something and how overwhelming it can be trying to figure out how to get there. "You'll never get better if you don't practice," was what my piano teacher said to me. That's me sobbing in bed later that evening, my dad trying to comfort me by reading Rudyard Kipling's poem "If," me yelling at him to leave me alone, me quitting piano the next day. There's me kicking my sandcastle, in a huge fit because it doesn't look like the Taj Mahal. There's no calming me down. And there I am slamming the studio door on my ballet teacher at age fifteen. She'd asked me to show the class the latest dance she'd been teaching us. Even though I hadn't missed a class I still had no idea how do some of the steps, and couldn't remember what order they came in. I wanted to spit in her face for putting me on the spot (didn't she know that I had no clue what I was doing?). I never came back to class.

"I quit." "You'll never get better if you don't practice." Them's fighting words. The next time we went skating I brought along a couple of old chairs that were light enough to glide on ice but heavy enough to provide security and stability for a kid unsteady on his feet. I laced up Nicholas' and Emma's skates, walked them to the edge of the rink, put a chair in front of each of them and left them alone while I went back to put on my own skates. When I came back the chairs were out in the middle of the rink. Nicholas and Emma had used them initially but now they were out on their own. I couldn't believe it. The rink hadn't been cleared of snow, but there was a shovel sitting by the wooden gate that led onto the ice. Instead of clearing the snow altogether I used the shovel to make curved pathways for the kids to follow, snaky labyrinths, diagonal roadways. They skated the turns, stopped and started, glided down the long narrows. This time there was none of the agony that comes from seeing an end point without knowing how to get there. If anything the whole experience was...peaceful. And that peace didn't come because someone rescued us from us our frustrations. We were at peace because we now had the tools to get to where we wanted to go, and so off we went, skating.