I have long known the danger of threes, that human impulse to form "us and him/her/it" coalitions. Woe to the singleton in most of those situations.
Most, but not all.
These days, I am gleeful to be that lone "her," watching on the sidelines as Allison and Mark--daughter and father--form an impenetrable bond, usually with a guitar between them. That a 17-year-old girl would knowingly spend time with her father--seeking him out, even--is a mystery I happily witness, even if I was a wee bit jealous to learn that she texted him the other day, proposing a creeking adventure (did you know you could text a land line? Apparently, the robot-like voice is a hoot.).
I have loved watching my children grow into their own lives this year, talking of their futures with enthusiasm and hope. And I hold my breath each time they return to us for comfort and conversation, to sit in the same room with us, just to be close.
What more could a parent want than to see her offspring spring off of the roost and spread their damp, new wings, trusting the air to hold them aloft?
There are worse things than a homing pigeon finding home again, between adventures.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Saturday, April 27, 2013
Ode to a Sluggish Spring Awakened
I awoke this morning to treetops exploded,
their limbs no longer able to keep the flowery secrets inside.
To brassy Flickers
bellowing throaty claims atop Midwestern jungles
of Elm and Sycamore,
Locust and Linden.
The slow unfolding of this strange cool Spring
reminds me of the value of patience
the ache of hope
the steadiness of trees.
Spring brings other reminders, too.
. . . That strange giddiness of teens teetering on their futures
their toes curled tightly over the lip of this day
eyes peering intently into
the fog of a vast unknown
I am comforted by this steady evolution
The brilliant 23-degree tilt of my home
that lets in life and growth
seasons and renewal
I breathe it in
filling my lungs with
the musty essence of what once was
the fragrance of tulips steeped in ancient memory
the umami of wet earth
teeming with possibility
And I am awake.
Finally.
their limbs no longer able to keep the flowery secrets inside.
To brassy Flickers
bellowing throaty claims atop Midwestern jungles
of Elm and Sycamore,
Locust and Linden.
The slow unfolding of this strange cool Spring
reminds me of the value of patience
the ache of hope
the steadiness of trees.
Spring brings other reminders, too.
. . . That strange giddiness of teens teetering on their futures
their toes curled tightly over the lip of this day
eyes peering intently into
the fog of a vast unknown
I am comforted by this steady evolution
The brilliant 23-degree tilt of my home
that lets in life and growth
seasons and renewal
I breathe it in
filling my lungs with
the musty essence of what once was
the fragrance of tulips steeped in ancient memory
the umami of wet earth
teeming with possibility
And I am awake.
Finally.
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Finding My Norms
I'll be honest. I haven't been my best self lately. In fact, I can't recall the last time when I even rated half a tick above adequate.
Too often this school year, I've been small minded and a wee bit dark. Apparently, this is what happens to me when I have to do something difficult, especially if it's a task spread out over a long stretch of time. Like more than 10 minutes.
I have also been reminded of what I already knew--that I need play as much as I need work. And that play, for me, is like fuel or air. It feeds and rejuvenates me, staving me against bumpier days. I have been short on play this year and it shows.
Take yesterday, about a half hour before my journalism students arrived at my house, when I got an email that set me on edge. Its subject, while vague, hinted at another month of drudgery at work, and I was not amused. In fact, I pretty much went to a dark place before I even got to the end of the email.
Thank goodness my goofy, hungry, funny students showed up. Had they not, it's entirely possible I would have rolled up into a tight ball and sucked my thumb in bed. For 48 hours. Instead, I found my way out of my funk and pretended to be Buddhist, enjoying the moment instead of feeding the monkey that was running around in my head.
Turns out that the email was part of a brilliant ruse. I discovered this happy fact about 20 hours after I'd read it, when a dozen good folks starting pelting my friend and me with clunky paper planes and wadded up answer sheets. It was their way of celebrating the end of a long job we'd completed.
After I realized what was going on, I felt both giddy and ashamed--giddy that this tough thing was behind me and ashamed that I'd so quickly gone to the dark side when faced with a mysterious email.
Certainly, I have grown new warts this year, marks that, at first glance, are more abrasion than beauty. And yet, as I come out on the other end, I realize how beautiful they really are--complex, with sharp corners that catch and bend the sunlight, edges that are strong and resilient.
And, always, there are the good folks who surround me, people who are patient and kind, forgiving and funny, who know that a boxful of wadded up tests, tossed happily my way, can act like magic wands, waving away all the slough of a challenging year.
Thanks to these good folks, I pulled up to the "happy" pump today and played my way back to normal.
Too often this school year, I've been small minded and a wee bit dark. Apparently, this is what happens to me when I have to do something difficult, especially if it's a task spread out over a long stretch of time. Like more than 10 minutes.
I have also been reminded of what I already knew--that I need play as much as I need work. And that play, for me, is like fuel or air. It feeds and rejuvenates me, staving me against bumpier days. I have been short on play this year and it shows.
Take yesterday, about a half hour before my journalism students arrived at my house, when I got an email that set me on edge. Its subject, while vague, hinted at another month of drudgery at work, and I was not amused. In fact, I pretty much went to a dark place before I even got to the end of the email.
Thank goodness my goofy, hungry, funny students showed up. Had they not, it's entirely possible I would have rolled up into a tight ball and sucked my thumb in bed. For 48 hours. Instead, I found my way out of my funk and pretended to be Buddhist, enjoying the moment instead of feeding the monkey that was running around in my head.
Turns out that the email was part of a brilliant ruse. I discovered this happy fact about 20 hours after I'd read it, when a dozen good folks starting pelting my friend and me with clunky paper planes and wadded up answer sheets. It was their way of celebrating the end of a long job we'd completed.
After I realized what was going on, I felt both giddy and ashamed--giddy that this tough thing was behind me and ashamed that I'd so quickly gone to the dark side when faced with a mysterious email.
Certainly, I have grown new warts this year, marks that, at first glance, are more abrasion than beauty. And yet, as I come out on the other end, I realize how beautiful they really are--complex, with sharp corners that catch and bend the sunlight, edges that are strong and resilient.
And, always, there are the good folks who surround me, people who are patient and kind, forgiving and funny, who know that a boxful of wadded up tests, tossed happily my way, can act like magic wands, waving away all the slough of a challenging year.
Thanks to these good folks, I pulled up to the "happy" pump today and played my way back to normal.
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Jane and the Terrible, No Good, Very Bad Week: What Now?
I watched the national news on Wednesday. Boy, was that a bad idea. For 30 minutes, I was assaulted by terrorists, poisoned by a justice of the peace and haunted by a young boy, suddenly deaf, who only wanted his dad to take him home now.
Nothing seemed simple this week.
And yet. . . .
Lest we think that "simple" just melts away, there it is, tucked into a forgotten corner, covered by the dust of the moment, which seems so much more dire, so complicated, so here and now.
This was a good week to sit under a strong, old tree and feel its resilience. To know that its roots, like fingers hidden underground, reach out, always looking for a cool, long drink of water.
We could all use a cool, long drink of water right now.
And so, I try my best to get "simple" again, to focus on the essence, rather than the esoteric. Who needs exotica when spring lurks just underneath the surface? What I need right now--what we all need--is for one, brilliant grape hyacinth to poke its crazy beautiful head above the ground and shout out "I am HERE, dammit!"
Today, I need my brood close by, so that I might run my fingers through their too-long hair, comforted by the steadiness of DNA, its magical message holding us close together. I need fresh air and bird song, a rabbit standing vigilant in my garden, readying itself for the sharp-shinned hawk that circles above.
I need this beautiful, complicated, natural world to cycle its way through me, like blood, oblivious to the hardness of the past week. I need good books, great songs, brave students, soulful encounters.
I need the cleansing qualities of all that is simple and pure. The basics, if you will. The beautiful bottom of my pyramid, so that I might build something good upon it.
Like a life worth living.
Nothing seemed simple this week.
And yet. . . .
Lest we think that "simple" just melts away, there it is, tucked into a forgotten corner, covered by the dust of the moment, which seems so much more dire, so complicated, so here and now.
This was a good week to sit under a strong, old tree and feel its resilience. To know that its roots, like fingers hidden underground, reach out, always looking for a cool, long drink of water.
We could all use a cool, long drink of water right now.
And so, I try my best to get "simple" again, to focus on the essence, rather than the esoteric. Who needs exotica when spring lurks just underneath the surface? What I need right now--what we all need--is for one, brilliant grape hyacinth to poke its crazy beautiful head above the ground and shout out "I am HERE, dammit!"
Today, I need my brood close by, so that I might run my fingers through their too-long hair, comforted by the steadiness of DNA, its magical message holding us close together. I need fresh air and bird song, a rabbit standing vigilant in my garden, readying itself for the sharp-shinned hawk that circles above.
I need this beautiful, complicated, natural world to cycle its way through me, like blood, oblivious to the hardness of the past week. I need good books, great songs, brave students, soulful encounters.
I need the cleansing qualities of all that is simple and pure. The basics, if you will. The beautiful bottom of my pyramid, so that I might build something good upon it.
Like a life worth living.
Sunday, April 14, 2013
The Joke's on Me
I blame Archie McPhee for my recent heart troubles.
Usually, this Seattle purveyor of pranks and prattle is a favorite of mine, an adult version of the Johnson-Smith Co. catalog I poured over as a kid. Without Archie, I never would have found lunch bags embossed with moustaches, bacon breath mints or shushing-librarian action figurine dolls. Heck, they even throw in a handful of freebies when you spend a few clams at their store.
But, this time, Archie's gone too far, and I'm bearing the brunt of its overreaching. Fulfilling a recent order of ours, some yahoo in the mail room thought it'd be funny to include a plastic cockroach in the box.
I hate roaches. I mean really, really hate them.
It's not that I have a thing against fauna. A quick tour of our house, in fact, will prove just the opposite. We Holts are crazy for critters. Where most people hang art, we hang beautifully preserved examples of cicadas and butterflies, Atlas moths and beetles. You'll also find happy piles of bones and rocks, fossils and seashells throughout our house.
Since they were old enough to squash bugs, Eric and Allison have been told to leave creatures alone, especially when we're the ones invading their space. Sure, Allison has eaten a dozen or so roly poly bugs over the years, mostly to gauge our reaction, but both kids generally have obeyed our orders to love these tiny, kindred spirits and leave them alone.
Such orders do not extend to roaches, though. That is because roaches are vile, evil creatures (did you ever notice how those two words are anagrams of each other? This is not a coincidence, I'm sure). One of the few times I've cussed like a sailor with kids in the house was one night, a dozen years ago, when I located an American brown with my bare feet while shuffling to the bathroom for some overnight relief. Awakened by my roach rage, Mark momentarily mistook me for a rapper finding new ways to offend people.
So, why the anti-Archie movement of late? Because the other members of my family have taken to hiding the plastic cockroach wherever they are certain I will find it. The other night, for instance, I actually thought Allison wanted to spend some quality pre-sleep time with me. And so, I enthusiastically put down my book and headed upstairs. When I plunked down on the mattress, she and Mark held their breath, both knowing I'd eventually look up at the ceiling, where Allison had carefully taped that brown, little so-and-so. Yes, I yelped, although I didn't cuss.
I consider that real progress.
My crusty little friend has joined me in my shoes, atop my toothbrush, in my lunch bag, tucked into a pocket of my favorite jeans. Why, just this morning, I found him floating casually in my bathwater.
Ha.
Ha.
Ha.
That's so funny I forgot to laugh.
When I wrap up this over-long blog entry, you better believe I'll be writing the pea brains at Archie McPhee and giving them a piece of my roach-addled mind. Yeah, they'll be sorry they ever messed with Jane Raglin Holt, former queen of whoopie cushions and disappearing ink, now owner of a roach motel that I can't seem to leave.
They'll wish they'd never met me.
Usually, this Seattle purveyor of pranks and prattle is a favorite of mine, an adult version of the Johnson-Smith Co. catalog I poured over as a kid. Without Archie, I never would have found lunch bags embossed with moustaches, bacon breath mints or shushing-librarian action figurine dolls. Heck, they even throw in a handful of freebies when you spend a few clams at their store.
But, this time, Archie's gone too far, and I'm bearing the brunt of its overreaching. Fulfilling a recent order of ours, some yahoo in the mail room thought it'd be funny to include a plastic cockroach in the box.
I hate roaches. I mean really, really hate them.
It's not that I have a thing against fauna. A quick tour of our house, in fact, will prove just the opposite. We Holts are crazy for critters. Where most people hang art, we hang beautifully preserved examples of cicadas and butterflies, Atlas moths and beetles. You'll also find happy piles of bones and rocks, fossils and seashells throughout our house.
Since they were old enough to squash bugs, Eric and Allison have been told to leave creatures alone, especially when we're the ones invading their space. Sure, Allison has eaten a dozen or so roly poly bugs over the years, mostly to gauge our reaction, but both kids generally have obeyed our orders to love these tiny, kindred spirits and leave them alone.
Such orders do not extend to roaches, though. That is because roaches are vile, evil creatures (did you ever notice how those two words are anagrams of each other? This is not a coincidence, I'm sure). One of the few times I've cussed like a sailor with kids in the house was one night, a dozen years ago, when I located an American brown with my bare feet while shuffling to the bathroom for some overnight relief. Awakened by my roach rage, Mark momentarily mistook me for a rapper finding new ways to offend people.
So, why the anti-Archie movement of late? Because the other members of my family have taken to hiding the plastic cockroach wherever they are certain I will find it. The other night, for instance, I actually thought Allison wanted to spend some quality pre-sleep time with me. And so, I enthusiastically put down my book and headed upstairs. When I plunked down on the mattress, she and Mark held their breath, both knowing I'd eventually look up at the ceiling, where Allison had carefully taped that brown, little so-and-so. Yes, I yelped, although I didn't cuss.
I consider that real progress.
My crusty little friend has joined me in my shoes, atop my toothbrush, in my lunch bag, tucked into a pocket of my favorite jeans. Why, just this morning, I found him floating casually in my bathwater.
Ha.
Ha.
Ha.
That's so funny I forgot to laugh.
When I wrap up this over-long blog entry, you better believe I'll be writing the pea brains at Archie McPhee and giving them a piece of my roach-addled mind. Yeah, they'll be sorry they ever messed with Jane Raglin Holt, former queen of whoopie cushions and disappearing ink, now owner of a roach motel that I can't seem to leave.
They'll wish they'd never met me.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
Liar, Liar
Parenthood turned me into a world-class liar. I didn't even wait for Eric's birth to begin my new hobby. Just hours before Eric came into the world, I'd learned the value of a bald-faced lie. That lesson came when the nurse leaned over my hospital bed and asked me if I was okay with having a Ceasarean.
"Absolutely," I said.
Now, why on earth would a person willingly sign up for the pain and expense that come from such a brutal procedure? Because, right there, underneath the stiff sheets with their hospital corners coming loose, I had learned a universal truth. Sometimes we lie so that others--usually, much smarter others--can do what is best for us.
Assuming that a surgical procedure to remove my son represented the first moments of parenthood for me, then my second lie as a parent came within the hour. This time, though, we all lied a bit. Every last person in that room.
Moments after ruining my bikini line for life, the doctor held up Eric Carlson Holt for my first official inspection.
"Isn't he beautiful?" they all cried.
"Oh, yes," I lied.
Between you and me, the kid looked like a stewed tomato two weeks past its shelf life. But everyone in there knew the importance of their uttered untruth. They knew how vital it was for me to bond to Eric, and Eric to bond to me. And so, they lied. And I lied in response.
A funny thing happened, though. Despite his initial, kooky looks, within hours, Eric had grown into a fine-looking human being, one I could not take my eyes off of.
The lies have come swiftly ever since.
"Have a great day--you're going to love school!" "I love that drawing!" "Yes, I like your outfit." "She's a very nice girl. Of course she can spend the night."
Some days, I lie more often than I breathe, that's how important this parental tool has become to me. I lie because I know the truth--that school will be hard, that there is no way on earth that thing on your paper is a horse, that I have no idea what real fashion is, that I cannot stand that simpering child but she seems to be important to you.
I already know that I'll be lying in about 20 minutes, when I take Allison and another girl to school this morning. This girl has become a malfunctioning mood ring in my daughter's life and I'm not thrilled they've made up and are trying to play nice again. Still, when we pull up and I honk the horn, I know that the next thing I'll say is how nice it is to see her again. Sure, there's a small part of me that really means that. Most of me, though, would like to utter "You mess with my daughter again and I WILL FIND YOU!"
So, why will I lie?
Because I have faith in the world. Because I know that we are all a bunch of screw ups who trip along through our days, leaving emotional wounds and physical scars along the way. I know that, sometimes, a bald-faced lie--told despite everything we know--can go a long way to building a bridge, however precarious its trestles.
And I'll take an unsteady bridge over a lonely island any day.
"Absolutely," I said.
Now, why on earth would a person willingly sign up for the pain and expense that come from such a brutal procedure? Because, right there, underneath the stiff sheets with their hospital corners coming loose, I had learned a universal truth. Sometimes we lie so that others--usually, much smarter others--can do what is best for us.
Assuming that a surgical procedure to remove my son represented the first moments of parenthood for me, then my second lie as a parent came within the hour. This time, though, we all lied a bit. Every last person in that room.
Moments after ruining my bikini line for life, the doctor held up Eric Carlson Holt for my first official inspection.
"Isn't he beautiful?" they all cried.
"Oh, yes," I lied.
Between you and me, the kid looked like a stewed tomato two weeks past its shelf life. But everyone in there knew the importance of their uttered untruth. They knew how vital it was for me to bond to Eric, and Eric to bond to me. And so, they lied. And I lied in response.
A funny thing happened, though. Despite his initial, kooky looks, within hours, Eric had grown into a fine-looking human being, one I could not take my eyes off of.
The lies have come swiftly ever since.
"Have a great day--you're going to love school!" "I love that drawing!" "Yes, I like your outfit." "She's a very nice girl. Of course she can spend the night."
Some days, I lie more often than I breathe, that's how important this parental tool has become to me. I lie because I know the truth--that school will be hard, that there is no way on earth that thing on your paper is a horse, that I have no idea what real fashion is, that I cannot stand that simpering child but she seems to be important to you.
I already know that I'll be lying in about 20 minutes, when I take Allison and another girl to school this morning. This girl has become a malfunctioning mood ring in my daughter's life and I'm not thrilled they've made up and are trying to play nice again. Still, when we pull up and I honk the horn, I know that the next thing I'll say is how nice it is to see her again. Sure, there's a small part of me that really means that. Most of me, though, would like to utter "You mess with my daughter again and I WILL FIND YOU!"
So, why will I lie?
Because I have faith in the world. Because I know that we are all a bunch of screw ups who trip along through our days, leaving emotional wounds and physical scars along the way. I know that, sometimes, a bald-faced lie--told despite everything we know--can go a long way to building a bridge, however precarious its trestles.
And I'll take an unsteady bridge over a lonely island any day.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
My Bags are Packed, I'm Ready to Go
Like most people, I've got my downside. I am acutely aware that there are some days that, if my personal luggage were visible, an observer might mistake me for a flight attendant, minus the snappy outfit and svelte figure. Okay, maybe "flight attendant" is not an apt comparison. Perhaps "hobo" or "recently evicted tenant" would be better.
The point is that we are fools if we forget about the luggage. Especially if we aren't particularly fond of or patient with the folks who are hauling it around, ourselves included.
Decked out in my "test coordinator" uniform yesterday, I could not help but trip over all the luggage that littered our school that day. From the grumbling of the occasional adult put out by this added responsibility piled atop an already-full schedule to the palpable moans of a stressed-out kid who was drowning in words whose meanings evaded him, it was hard to ignore all the extras that people brought with them that day.
As for me? I had to make a little extra room in my office for my own carry ons--namely, a small bag of resentment, a backpack full of fatigue, and an overnight bag stuffed with the fear that people might not like me very much, considering what I've been asking them to do lately.
That's why it's especially important that we don't forget to pack a little compassion and forgiveness each day. And we shouldn't hesitate to apply a dab of those balms directly onto ourselves. If we're lucky, that handful of compassion we carry with us will look like the threadbare Kleenex our moms always had tucked into their sleeves--worn out from the opportunities presented to it.
Most days, I consider it a success if I have worked hard, played well, helped others and kept the damage to a minimum. Wouldn't it be something if, at the end of each day, we had played a part in helping folks--ourselves included--happily shed some extra luggage at the Baggage Claims area, where it would grow dusty and forgotten, its contents no longer needed?
The point is that we are fools if we forget about the luggage. Especially if we aren't particularly fond of or patient with the folks who are hauling it around, ourselves included.
Decked out in my "test coordinator" uniform yesterday, I could not help but trip over all the luggage that littered our school that day. From the grumbling of the occasional adult put out by this added responsibility piled atop an already-full schedule to the palpable moans of a stressed-out kid who was drowning in words whose meanings evaded him, it was hard to ignore all the extras that people brought with them that day.
As for me? I had to make a little extra room in my office for my own carry ons--namely, a small bag of resentment, a backpack full of fatigue, and an overnight bag stuffed with the fear that people might not like me very much, considering what I've been asking them to do lately.
That's why it's especially important that we don't forget to pack a little compassion and forgiveness each day. And we shouldn't hesitate to apply a dab of those balms directly onto ourselves. If we're lucky, that handful of compassion we carry with us will look like the threadbare Kleenex our moms always had tucked into their sleeves--worn out from the opportunities presented to it.
Most days, I consider it a success if I have worked hard, played well, helped others and kept the damage to a minimum. Wouldn't it be something if, at the end of each day, we had played a part in helping folks--ourselves included--happily shed some extra luggage at the Baggage Claims area, where it would grow dusty and forgotten, its contents no longer needed?
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