Quiet Dreams

"Many people get caught up in day-to-day living and put their dreams on hold."
—John King, Media Planner, Fallon Worldwide
I received this quote in my email from Fast Company today. It stopped me in my tracks. I am a dreamer from way back. I like to accomplish my dreams. However, I frequently plant them like seeds, only to be returned to later. I check back in on them to see if they have taken root. I nurture them.

Sometimes, I do get caught up in the day-to-day. Sadly, it demands my attention louder than my dreams. Dreams are quiet and soft like clouds. They are unassuming. They are patient. They feather in the winds of my life. They change and morph over time. They are there if I remember to look up. However, that's the tough part. To remember to look up.

Streaming Thoughts

Lately my thoughts are racing. I posted on my other blog about being unsure if I might be suffering from bipolar mood disorder. If I am, it's giving me new energy. Today, I was in a board room with my boss and three others. Our assignment was to learn a new product, come up with some talking points about it and develop a voice mail script for generating interest for this product with executives at large corporations. I walked into the room having taken ten or so minutes to prepare earlier in the day. I started reading my script. Inside my head, the thoughts were streaming. I was talking...A lot. I was "adding value" as they say in the biz, but I just couldn't help but wonder, where are the brakes? What if I need to stop?

It reminds me of when I was an eight-year-old child and we lived at 36 Flax Hill Road in Brookfield, CT. The house is on a monstrous hill. It's so big, I even went back and saw it as an adult and it was still steep and huge. That hill was responsible for stealing my first adult tooth. I sledded into a big boulder and knocked out my left front tooth. Anyhow, the speeding thoughts and energy remind of the way it felt to sit on a skateboard and ride down that driveway. The vibrating pavement jarred my teeth. My hands clutched, white knuckled at the board. My feet stuck straight out. I often had no shoes on, no gloves, no way to stop. I am sure there were many scraped heels and palms, but I don't remember any of that. I only remember that feeling of flying down the hill and the accompanying elation. It was an amazing high, but similar to today, I found myself thinking, where are the brakes and what if I need to stop?

Oars Up

Inside my husband's wedding ring is the inscription Oars Up. It was my way of saying to him, go with the flow. Don't fight it. Let it be...a message of release to him. It might seem like the opposite message for a marriage Instead of raising our oars in the air and coasting downstream, shouldn't we be a rowing team? Shouldn't we be setting our sights on a shared goal and heading towards it? Not for us. For us, marriage is about acceptance. Acceptance of where we are heading. Acceptance of each other as we are.

The knowledge that our lives are akin to riding the rapids of a river is a helpful image for us. We know that sometimes we are racing with a fast and strong current and other times we are practically resting in a gentle pooling eddy. For us, it's the only way. This is not to say that we don't sometimes put the oars down and attempt to row. Sometimes this is even in the opposite direction of each other or of the river. We are fighting the current and swimming upstream. Eventually, we look at each other and laugh. We aren't resting in the arms of the river...of life or God. All of our effort is in vain and we never make any progress while we are backtracking. Eventually, we realize our fruitless efforts are impeding us. We look at each other and embrace. We clasp hands and head down the rapids. It may be scary, but we have each other, so we'll be alright.

Is It I? Or Me?

Look at that baby in the window! How cute he is. Our babies are working on developing a sense of self. They are embarking on the great sorting project of self and others. The seperation of me and them. I and they.

Elena is not quite there yet. I combed the Web to find some information on a dim memory from college. I remembered that the development of the words me and I somehow reveals the internal development of this concept. From my experience, it seems that the child parrots their name, then talks about themselves in the third person, then uses me and then gradual acquires the adult understanding of I.

I am enjoying watching Elena discover these things. I remember the first time she bit her own finger and cried. She was the biter and the bitee...this might have been an epiphany. She knows her name, calls herself Nanana. If you try to get her to answer, "Where is Elena?" or "Where is Nanana?" even, she won't answer. She turns away hurriedly. She is even reluctant to point to Elena's nose or Elena's belly. It's odd. She used to do these things willingly. I think it may be a way of asserting herself.

And come to think of it, doesn't NOT responding (intentionally as she does) require the knowledge of self? Is she already rebelling? I doubt it. I bet it's just really confusing to figure this whole thing out. After all, a mere fifteen months ago there was no me or you, Elena, there was just us. I'm kind of glad she isn't racing away from the us!

Swimming in the Womb

Many times it is impossible to remember where our babies came from. Just last week, I held Elena on my lap and she stretched from my chin to thighs. I am hard pressed to remember a time when I could lay her on my forearm. This picture, however, reminds me that our babies are born amphibious creatures. Before their first breath, they have gills and receive oxygen and nutrients through the umbilical cord. They are comfortable in an underwater environment - our little water babies.

I heard once that the womb is noisy. Water conducts sound better than air and our bodies that provide the shell for their home, are full of loud gurgles and pops. Our voice must sound like bass tones spoken through a broken speaker. Farty and undiscernable - a piece of discordant music. In this aspect, this swimming baby is not at home underwater. In a pool, it is all but silent underwater. From a sound standpoint, it is like being suspended in a glass cube.

The womb is drastically warmer too - a balmy 99 degrees. This water is cold and tangy comparatively. But still, there is an amphibious quality to a small baby. They remember what it is like to swim the day away. If we keep them swimming, perhaps they'll never forget it either.

Intelligent Design

This is the kind of picture that makes you believe in God. No painter painted this. No company manufactured the colors. This is just the design of nature. On days like today, I am so happy to see evidence of intelligent design in my dumb disorganized life.

If there were no God, would such beauty exist? It's just seems when the idiomatic "man" is left to his own devices, ugliness and dirtiness prevail. If the world were merely an accident, would it all "go" together so well? From the perfect, heart-shaped petals of the phlox, to the deep grape of the dianthus and the barely-there, light orange dot on the butterflies back, it's all just so perfectly created. Who would spend the time in such aesthetically pleasing details? God would, that's who. Amen to that.

Ordinal Position - The Birth Order Blog

Today's picture made me think of birth order. There are four kids in the family depicted above. One first born, one middle, one later born and one youngest. One for each category. See if you agree with what the following article says about these various ordinal positions.

The only child/first born tends to be an organized, researched thinker. They are subject to high expectations and, as a result, are pleasers. The parents are more anxious, but also give their first born more responsibility. They are most likely to succeed, to be conscientious, get high grades at school, and achieve a higher salary and more conservative job in adulthood. Reliable, serious, rule keeping, self-critical, anxious and perfectionist, the first born enjoys being around adults and provides the link between parents and the younger family members. They’re problem solvers, strong-willed, determined, good listeners, worry about new experiences, controlling, jealous and moralistic. There have been more first born US Presidents and Nobel Prize Winners than any other birth ranking. Famous first borns include Bill Clinton, Hillary Clinton, Ted Turner, Winston Churchill, Jimmy Carter, Geoffrey Boycott, Edward Heath, Cecil Parkinson, Saddam Hussein, Joseph Stalin, Mussolini, Che Guevara and Carlos the Jackal. In the entertainment profession, firstborns tend to play macho leading roles. Famous firstborn actors include Humphrey Bogart, Sylvester Stallone, Sean Connery, Roger Moore, Timothy Dalton and Bruce Willis. First born actresses tend to become leading ladies. They prefer the strong roles and shy away from the damsels in distress. Bette Davis, Joan Collins and Vivien Leigh are all first borns.

Middle children are said to be diplomatic. They mediate between siblings and are flexible and giving. They have lots of friends, but they can also be manipulative. They can feel elbowed out of a position of significance, or be forced to become the keeper of the peace between their siblings. Many feel forced to assume roles that their older siblings for one reason or another are unable to fulfill and this may leave them with a chip on their shoulder. Famous middle children include: George Washington, Dwight Eisenhower, Richard Nixon, Jack Kennedy, George Bush, Damon Hill, Cindy Crawford, Robert Graves, Tony Blair and Edward Elgar.

The later born child always has someone ahead of them to compete against. Their parents are more relaxed and less strict with the later born child. They try to establish a place for themselves separate from their older siblings, and so tend to be more creative. The later born child can be rebellious, but also are pleasant, agreeable and easy going. Unlike the first born, they generally don’t excel at school and aren’t concerned with achievement. They’re rebellious, creative, unconventional and always feel like the baby, even in when they are adults. But they can also be practical and competitive, though they can constantly feel like the underdog. They’re likely to be good at sports and art. Famous later borns, and rebels, include Joan of Arc, Charles Darwin, Gandhi, Leon Trotsky, Charlie Chaplin, Bob Hope, George Michael and Sir Laurence Olivier..

Having to compete for their parents attention, the youngest has good coping mechanisms in place. They get special privileges and more relaxed parents, but because of this they tend to have less self-control. The youngest child can be a risk-taker, a joker and an exhibitionist. They are humorous and charming but also fresh and somewhat over the top. Youngest children are entertaining and know how to get noticed, Jerry Springer is a perfect example. Ted Kennedy is the youngest of the Kennedy clan and did not learn to accept the responsibility of being a member of that clan until he was well into adulthood. In the entertainment world they tend to play more dramatic roles. Sydney Poitier is the youngest of seven children.

What is your feeling on birth order?
Do you think it affected you growing up?
Which position are you?

I will write more about my ordinal position on Kiki and the Lou.

Great chart of Birth Order Personality Traits.

Does Birth Order Affect Intelligence?

(source of quote above: http://papa.essortment.com/effectsbirthor_omv.htm)

A Rog or a Dabbit?

I received this picture and laughed out loud. This is obviously a gifted child. Notice, if you will, the child in the back who rides neatly on her bike (in a dress, I might add). She has the helmet on and chooses the serene activity of bike riding. Not that she is not gifted, but she has chosen fairly "standard fair" from the menu of childhood games.

Look at the other child. What is she doing? It appears she has found some fluffy weeds and dandified herself with a tail. She must be a dog or a rabbit, or maybe even a r-og or a d-abbit. This is a creative child. This is an above-average intelligence child. I used to be one of those.

God bless her. God bless her parents.

Fall Forward

I have no idea when it will be daylight savings time, but I am already dreading it. Every night, I am warring against time. I used to have hours upon hours to get dinner made and get my walk in. If I wanted to cook something special or play with Elena for a long time before walking, I could. It was relaxing. These days, it's a race against the sun.

I am having trouble getting up in the morning. I am getting to work later. I have to stay at work for eight hours. So, get in late, get out late. When I come in the door, there is one needy fifteen month old and one whiney dog. Both need food. One of them is usually in her crib with a poopy diaper. I nervously glance at the clock in the kitchen, "Will I make it?" I have to. I have to. I love fall for the weather. I love fall for the foliage. I hate fall for the shortening of the day.

Peace, Man

This picture reminded me of a story my old boss told us all one time at one of our Sales Rallies. The entire company was there, dressed in semi-formal attire, and we all sat riveted as this man spoke. He had a gift for public speaking and motivating people. Here is what he told us.

One morning you wake up and you are grouchy. You stayed up too late the night before. You spill coffee on your suit and have to change. You are going to be late to a big meeting. Your husband ticks you off as you are heading out the door. You get into your car and start your long commute. At one point, you are peeved. You are following a van with a bumper sticker that says "Expect Whirled Peas" or some other peace seeking advice that is driving ten miles below the speed limit. As you pull up to a stop light, you finally to get a chance to pass on the left. As you pull up beside the driver's side of the van, you see the driver is a hippie fellow. He turns to look at you, and for some reason, it irks you. You scowl and he flips you the bird.

Now imagine an alternate scenario. You are well rested and, the planets must be in alignment, because your husband was an angel and got up early to take out the trash and make the coffee so you wouldn't have to get up until a half hour later. You have a big meeting this morning, but you are ready. You spent the evening preparing and you went to bed early. As you are relaxing in the shower, you look forward to donning your new suit. You are going to be a power player today. You kiss your husband and head out the door. There isn't much traffic and you have plenty of time. At one point, you are following a van with a bumper sticker that says "Expect Whirled Peas" or some other peace seeking advice that is driving ten miles below the speed limit. You smile and think about how nice the concept of peace is. You want to hug the driver of the van for advertising such a worthy cause. As you pull up to a stop light, you finally to get a chance to pass on the left. As you pull up beside the driver's side of the van, you see the driver is a hippie fellow. He turns to look at you, you smile and wave. He flips you the bird. You chuckle and think about how ironic it is that a man spreading peace, just got peeved with you for no reason. He must have had a bad morning.

The moral of this story is that attitude is everything. Your attitude colors how you see the world. It changes your ability to succeed. It changes how you interact with others at work.

He who has so little knowledge of human nature as to seek happiness by changing anything but his own disposition will waste his life in fruitless efforts.
~Samuel Johnson

Scrutiny

Babies start out their lives scrutinizing the world around them. What starts as a blurry mass of soft blankets, warm caresses and pastel colors, sharpens by eight months, to the equivalent vision of an adult. My latest discovery with my daughter is in how much she has learned during this quiet time of scrutiny.

She is just now starting to show us all she knows. It started with following simple commands. "Can you bring Mommy that bottle of water?" "Can you go into the other room and get your blankey?" "Come upstairs." Today, she started singing, speaking in two-word strings and reciting certain words from her favorite book. Conveniently, tomorrow is her 15-month pediatrician visit. Now we will have something to talk about. And so will Elena.

Twins

I have a question for you, my imaginary friends, do you think that if all people were born in fraternal pairs we would be more empathetic, better at sharing, more well-adjusted and more content? I think we might. Here's why.

When my baby sister, Ashley, was born, my mother used to say she should have been twins. She was the youngest of three girls by five years and she was often bored and lonely. My mother contested that if she had been a set of twins, she would have had a built-in playmate. She wouldn't have constantly whined to my mother:
"Can I have a friend over?"
"I'm booooooooored...What can I play?"
"Will you play a game with me?"

She is lucky that when she was four, we moved into a neighborhood that had a family of three little girls. These were her "sisters" and Alison their oldest, her twin. The two fought like, loved each other like and appreciated each other like sisters. They learned how to state their needs to each other clearly. They were there for each other. They are actually now twenty-five year old adults living together in Charlestown, MA.

Ashley is probably the most well-adjusted of us three girls. Is this because of her twin? Would I have been better adjusted if I had gone through life with a best friend who was always there for me and who loved me just as I was? Maybe, but being the bossy oldest girl, I wonder if I would have wanted to share those first five years, when I had my parents all to myself, with anyone. Maybe not.

Ten Fingers and Ten Toes

In the car today, on my way to work with my husband, we had a serious discussion about being a parent and what that means. It started when I told him that I cannot get these friends of ours off my mind. They just had their second miscarriage of the year in July, this time they lost twins, and they also found out two weeks ago that their two and a half year old is moderately autistic. Gone are the days of waiting for their baby to be born healthy with ten fingers and ten toes. The promise of a healthy childhood, adulthood, marriage, etc...was snatched from them with this diagnosis.

I asked my husband how he thought they were doing. He answered, "How do you think they are doing?" Thank you very much, Socrates. I think it is probably very hard and upsetting, I told him. He retorted, "I bet once you are over the shock of it, it's not any different then it was. He's still the same kid. The same boy you loved with all your heart and that you have been raising for the last two and a half years."

I wanted to scream at him. I managed to say in a firm, but serious voice, "YES, BUT NOW HIS WHOLE FUTURE HAS CHANGED!" He said, "That's the danger in developing expectations." He maintains that a parent will never, ever be able to predict the life direction their child will take, so why bother thinking about it? I maintain, as I always have, that he and I are very different. This isn't about wanting my child to have a high IQ or to have blue eyes or to have ten toes, this is about being broadsided by a disability. My mind is flooded with images of this boy's vacant eyes, catatonic rocking, the short bus. I can't help but see a bleak life for their boy. And for that, I will say many, many prayers.

Little Women

I don't know why this picture reminds me of Little Women. Remember when the girls published The Pickwick Papers and then they would pretend that they were all men sitting in a gentlemen's club reading them aloud and giggling profusely. "Ahem...Gentlemen!" I can hear Winona Ryder's voice, the voice of Jo clearly. Does anyone read that book (which I have never read, GASP!) and not want to be Jo?

I can't imagine wanting to be anyone but Jo. My mother once called me her little Jo and squeezed my hand while we were watching that movie. I have never been more secretly pleased. She couldn't have made me happier if she had said I was her favorite of us three girls.

Why is she my favorite? Is that because she is the closest to my natural personality? Is it because she is confident and bold? Strong and smart? Pretty and natural? I just can't fathom anyone wanting to be prissy Meg or sickly Beth or petulant Amy. Maybe it's because she is the one who writes it all down...Jo, the writer...just like me.

Alice, Where are you Going? Upstairs to Take a Bath!

There was a little song my mother used to sing to me at bath time. The first two lines are the title for this post. Bath time was always a bonding time for mother and daughter. I do not remember a single time my father gave us our bath. I guess in those days, a women's place was in the kitchen AND bathroom. Alas, the point of this post is not to analyze the role of mothers in 1970's America. I want instead to transport you to bath time.

Imagine if you will, warm water flowing into a big, clean tub. A tablespoon or two of bubble bath make for an out and out party in the tub. We always wanted bubble baths, but due to recurrent bladder infections as a child and a bum urethra, I was not allowed. I got over it though. As soon as I would put my foot into that caressing water, I would forget about the lack of bubbles. The steaming water, itself, was a treat. I am not sure how long our baths really lasted as kids, but it felt like forever. This was back in the day when you would happily leave your eight-year-old and your three-year-old to paddle around in the tub by themselves. You would then go relax and have a glass of wine with your husband.

We played games and made up stories. We didn't need much in the way of toys, we could imagine anything that was missing. "Swimming" on my tummy, I could imagine I was in the oceans of the world. Exploring...floating...calm. Sure there were nights where the focus was not calm and relaxed. These were the nights of splash fights or boisterous bathtub songs (the acoustics in the bathroom lend themselves to LOUD singing). Needless to say, bathtime was prized in our lives.

Bath time with Elena has the same feeling. As an infant, she bathed with me every night. I would get in the tub and lay her on the floor beside it then pull her into the warm water. She loved it and would coo and look up at me with thankful looks. This week, however, she passed a milestone. She finally flipped over and started "swimming" in the tub. No longer afraid of getting her face wet, she has discovered the wide open sea that is her bath tub.

A Murder of Crows

My daughter is confused. She woofs when she sees a bird. She also woofs at horses, pigs, lambs, chickens, and any other mammal. For awhile she woofed whenever she was asked ANY question. We must have said, "Elena, what does the dog say?" so frequently that she thought a questioning inflection meant we wanted her to bark.

Just this week on our walk, we saw birds. Not a friendly, gently flapping mockingbird, or dove. Although, we often see these too. No. Instead, we saw a literal flock and a half of birds flying in the air and perched all over a bunch of trees. It felt like Alfred Hitchcock's movie. It was loud and scary. Of course they were crows and it was dusk, which made it that much more foreboding. Do you know what a group of crows is called? It's called a murder. A murder of crows...Isn't that so cheery? I, for one, have always preferred an exaltation of larks or a parliament of owls.

Original Artwork by Kristen Gill (that's Kiki to you)

Postscript: These group terms, called venery, are those imaginative collective nouns that evolved in the Middle Ages...here's a more complete list, if you are interested:

A bevy of quail

A bouquet of pheasants [when flushed]

A brood of hens

A building of rooks

A cast of hawks [or falcons]

A charm of finches

A colony of penguins

A company of parrots

A congregation of plovers

A cover of coots

A covey of partridges [or grouse or ptarmigans]

A deceit of lapwings

A descent of woodpeckers

A dissimulation of birds

A dole of doves

An exaltation of larks

A fall of woodcocks

A flight of swallows [or doves, goshawks, or cormorants]

A gaggle of geese [wild or domesticated]

A host of sparrows

A kettle of hawks [riding a thermal]

A murmuration of starlings

A murder of crows

A muster of storks

A nye of pheasants [on the ground]

An ostentation of peacocks

A paddling of ducks [on the water]

A parliament of owls

A party of jays

A peep of chickens

A pitying of turtledoves

A raft of ducks

A rafter of turkeys

A siege of herons

A skein of geese [in flight]

A sord of mallards

A spring of teal

A tidings of magpies

A trip of dotterel

An unkindness of ravens

A watch of nightingales

A wedge of swans [or geese, flying in a "V"]

A wisp of snipe

Finders Keepers

As a child, I kept my eyes trained on the ground. I was looking for things of interest to collect and save. Over the years I found: a 1976 silver dollar, several wads of money, nails, toys, sticks that doubled as firearms, and a large collection of construction site detritus.

When I walk every evening, I have to fight the urge to slow way down and stare longingly at the ground for would-be treasures. I don't need to be hauling rocks and pinecones home with me...what the heck would I do with them? And yet, every acorn I pass begs to be picked up and studied. I want to hold a dozen of them in my hands and run my fingers over their smooth skin. I want to unscrew each little beret. I want to line them up like little men on my windowsill. But, I am the adult now.

Within the next year or two, Elena will be bringing me her finds. I will welcome them with open arms. We will sit down with our little acorn people and play. We will start a penny collection with our found coins. We will dip pinecones into wax to hang on our Christmas tree. We will do rubbings of leaves. We will pick especially smooth stones for a rock collection. Until then, I will keep my eyes turned up to the sky on my walks. I will stare past the clouds and on to heaven. I will thank God over and over again for making me a mommy.

Labor Day

I chose to save this patriotic picture for Labor Day. Our day to celebrate the toil we pursue during our weekdays. It is supposed to be a day of rest, a congregate Sabbath. Sabbath comes from the Hebrew verb shabbath, meaning "to rest from labor." Today, we rest from our labor...The paid labor at least...

The joke is really on parents. We never have rest. My only rest comes at seven o'clock in the evening. Once Elena goes to bed, I will have my mini-rest. Until then, I chase, feed, change, play, wash, walk...And, despite it's lack of rest, it's wonderful and fulfilling.

The Freedom to Cry

At work, everything is business as usual. At home, Elena is unaware that there is a national disaster on her mother's mind all day long. Groceries still have to be bought, breakfast made, dishes done, the house kept...All that must continue, but underneath all the routine:

I wish I were a caterpillar and I could just spin myself into a gossamer cocoon.

I wish I were a bird and I could fly away.

I wish I were a goldfish, swimming underwater in a bowl with a glorious memory span of three seconds.

Or, at the very least, I wish I were a child who could cry whenever I felt like it. Nobody would look at me and judge me for turning on the waterworks. Nobody would worry that I was losing it. Nobody would chastise me for letting a storm of emotions pass through my body. If only I were a child and had the freedom to cry, I would be swept away in a flood of tears by now.

Water, Water Everywhere...

The theme for today is water.

All of the problems in New Orleans right now boil down to water. Water that whipped into the city on the heels of the hurricane and inundated everything. This caused drowning in city streets...flooding of first stories, second stories then, third stories, washing out of bridges and homes. Too much water is a problem.

On the flip side, there is now the problem of too little water. As I sit at work sipping water from my Crystal Rock dispenser here, I am just heartbroken. Down South, people are shooting each other over a bottle of Evian. Completely surrounded by water, trapped on rooftops, people are parched in the sunlight. Children are the first to dehydrate. Forget about pets, they are the last to receive any relief. I am forced to grapple with the question, what if MY FAMILY were dying of thirst? To what lengths would I go? And, I am frequently frightened by my own answers.

I post this picture today to show water in its friendliest form. Behind a foot of tempered glass a school of sharks plays. Mother and baby look on. Safe and sound. They will go home to a table full of dinner with water. Thank God for that.

Thank God not everyone is in danger right now.

Thank God, there are those people who can afford to send their hard earned pennies, time, and care packages to New Orleans and the surrounding areas. Now, if only we could deliver these necessities to the rooftops ourselves. Where's Santa's sleigh when you need it?

The Scream

Light their way
When the darkness surrounds them
Give them love
Let it shine all around them

Bless the beasts and the children
Give them shelter from a storm
Keep them safe
Keep them warm

Light their way
When the darkness surrounds them
Give them love
Let it shine all around them

Bless the beasts and the children
Give them shelter from a storm
Keep them safe
Keep them warm


The Scream. It is a painting by Eduard Munch. A person stands in the forefront of the picture posed in "Home Alone" posture. I received this picture entry to blog about and it instantly transported me to that painting. Now, both have even more significance as I think about about the newly orphaned children, the ruined families and the folks made homeless. In my mind, I hear their scream. I put my hands over my ears like in the painting to silence them, but realize they will not abate. Turns out, they are my own wails I hear and I cannot seem to stop them.

"Compassion is the sometimes fatal capacity for feeling what it is like to live inside somebody eles's skin. It is the knowledge that there can never really be any peace and joy for me until there is peace and joy finally for you too." - Frederick Buechner
hurricane
katrina
flood
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Glenn's roundup post

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