Reece's Pieces

You'll Never Guess What I Just Heard...

2011-09-18T15:24:00.000-07:00

At this stage in my still to be completed novel I have been having difficulty with the dialogue. As a first step, I purchased "Writing Dialogue" by Tom Chiarella, which is a great book, and I highly recommend it. In Tom's book, there are a number of exercises for gathering dialogue, as well as recognizing the nuances and rhythm of the way we say things.

The first exercise I decided on was to carry a notebook with me everywhere and write down the last statement/phrase that I said when talking to someone. I thought it would be boring, but feeling open-minded (and a bit desperate to fix my dialogue problems) I went for it. Boy, was I wrong about boring! It is amazing what comes out of my mouth some days!

I learned that there are catch phrases that I use too often:

"Right on" and "that's funny," being the worst offenders

And then there are the one-offs that probably won't be said again in the history of mankind, although, I have come to realize that parents do tend to put together phrases that you just never would conceive of hearing, like:

"Grover, stop licking the sofa!" and: "Don't do it again; when you lick the DVD's it makes the machine sticky!"

If nothing more, I learned through that exercise that my son licks too many things that are not really 'lick-able'!

The next exercise was to "Crowd." This is when you go to a public place and basically eavesdrop on conversations. Typically, a mall is a great place for people-watching, but for dialogue-listening, I find that the echoed voices create too much of a din to properly hear conversations. I decided on our local bookshop, which is equipped with a handy coffee shop.

With Grover as my 'cover', (I mean, how much more unassuming can a tot and a mom playing 'go fish' be?) we headed to the circle of chairs to set up our... erm... dialogue sting. I was hopeful; there was a pair of middle-aged men sitting in two of the chairs engaged in conversation, stern conversation I gathered from their expressions. I settled into a chair in the corner and gave Grove my credit card to get a hot cocoa from the counter (probably won't be able to to that much longer; he'll be coming back with more that hot cocoa before long!).

Man with beard: "I know, I know. I told her she should make her amends before--"
Man with beanie: "Before it's too late, but it was."
Man with beard: "Bitterness, man... Bitterness will eat you up and kill you from the inside out."
Man with beanie: "I know; I told my niece the same thing before her mother died... Ate her up... Can't take it back now."
Man with beard: "You want another lemon cake?"
Man with beanie: "Yeah, alright."

They got up and went to wait in line behind Grover, who, already exerting his independence, was receiving, not only a cocoa, but a plate with a donut on it, complete with frosting and yellow sprinkles. Grover came back to me, proud of his sticky accomplishment. I quickly fished my credit card out of his pocket.

Grove and I were halfway through a game of 'go fish' by the time another dialogue opportunity sauntered in and plopped down in chairs close to us. They were a pair of teens; a tall, thin boy with just a bit of fuzz on his chin, and a short girl close in age to the boy, with a light pink flush on her cheeks and ears; obvious hints of infatuation.

I got my notebook ready and pulled my secret weapon for Grover out of my purse: A new "Charlie and Lola" book I had purchased in secret. Grove took the book with relish, and I brandished my pen...

Boy: "You don't want anything do you?" (Code for: I'm broke, I can't buy you a coffee)
Girl: "No, I'm fine; I'm not even hungry... at all." (Code for: I'm starving, but I know you're broke)
Boy: "Cool."
Girl: "So it was, like, totally cold today!"
Boy: "Yeah, I guess."
Girl: "Yeah... and I was, like, waiting at the bus stop, and, like, was gonna go in a get a sweater, but like, I knew my mom wouldn't gimme a ride to school if I missed the bus, so I just, like, froze."
Boy: "Yeah."
Girl: "So... yeah."
Boy: ...
Girl: "So cold..."

I looked up from my notebook at this point; partially because Grover was beginning to vibrate from cocoa/donut combination, and partly to check and make sure the boy hadn't gone into a coma. The boy was sitting in the armchair with his chin in his hand, stroking the tuft of hair with his pinkie while the girl sat in the chair caddie-corner to his looking at her fingernails, but stealing glances at the boy (perhaps wondering herself if he had, indeed, fallen into some sort of coma).

I don't suppose using the second conversation in writing will win any O'Henry awards, however, the act of paying close attention to everything that accompanies a conversation will help to build our ability to write more effective dialogue.

My challenge to you: Get yourself a notebook and steal away! Learn the art of lurking for dialogue, and it will improve your skill... at the very least, you'll have fun feeling like a spy!

Write prolifically!

~RR

Gratitude

2011-08-22T23:07:00.000-07:00

Last night after Grover went to sleep, my friend from Portland sent me a text in response to a panicked text I sent to him about all the pressure I'm under right now. The text simply said: "Breathe. Go outside & look at the Milky Way; I'm looking at it right now."

I went down to my dock with a blanket wrapped around me. I didn't look up until I was settled on the dock, facing where I knew the fuzzy band of the Milky Way would be... I closed my eyes first, listening.

Sounds trickled into my awareness slowly, then gaining volume. The lapping of the water against the dock gently rocked me. The voices of snickering children heading to their bunks for the night floated lazily across the cove from MDA camp. A duck or two that swam softly, but not silently near the shore ruffled their feathers in a flurry of urgency. Frogs called amphibious love songs back and forth, though I'm sure the mocking tone I was sure I heard was my own insertion.

The smell of seaweed and salt, and wet rocks were comforting in their familiarity, but from somewhere, the smell of lilies tainted the air; out of place mingled with the scent of the saltwater bay.

Finally I lie back and open my eyes, straining at first, then seeing it; the magical sprinkling of the Milky Way spread across the sky like so much salt tossed over the shoulder of God. I marveled at the beauty of it and was reminded how, in spite of all trials and worries, God is still good. I am who and where I am supposed to be. And I am thankful...

If you can be thankful at the end of the day, you will have whatever strength you need to get through tomorrow. ~RR

By Any Other Name

2011-05-03T20:16:00.000-07:00

Claudia Honeywell hiked her over-sized purse higher onto her shoulder, bracing the bag with her hip she leaned over the cold, Formica counter top. She looked over the form and paused with the pen poised over the signature line for just a breath, than pushed the point of the pen onto the document and signed her name for the last time. She was finally rid of the name...the legacy.

The sickening sweetness of 'Honeywell', the name forever carried by her brothers… her father… carried forward into history with heavy shame that would not be hers to bear any more. A single tear punctuated the still-wet ink, leaving a dirty smudge on the paper that would no longer be a stain on her heart.

~Rebecca Reece

March 2011

September

2010-09-17T06:19:00.000-07:00

September has a flavor; savory, sweet, and saliferous treats seek to fill your senses on bittersweet gusts of trailing Summer wind.
September brings with her greater learning; places of education swing wide their doors and windows, inviting in those who seek to know.
September will tell you secrets, for she has many in her vibrant flowing locks; each secret whispers softly, woven in the hair of Autumn's mother.
Love, blessing, hatred, jealousy, lust, and passion bang together like flint, sparking hot against one another each seeking to be the first to seize your attention. Your heart.
September has a flavor. Taste her.

~RR

*Photo Credit: September Morn, by Paul Emile Chabas

The Sun, The Wind, and The 10 Commandments

2010-05-02T12:52:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine sent this cartoon to me the other day, and while it's a funny image, I started thinking about the 10 Commandments, and the bible, and how humans have, for both pure, and selfish reasons, have distorted the message over time.

The 10 commandments themselves are pretty straight-forward (in my opinion) but what's most important?

In Mark 12 (and I am somewhat paraphrasing, which is perfectly fine, because most people quoting scripture do it...) a disciple asked Jesus which commandment was the most important. Jesus answered:

"And thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind, and with all thy strength: this is the first commandment."

"And the second is like, namely this, Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself. There is none other commandment greater than these.

Of course this isn't to say the other Commandments are moot, however, it is obvious that you love God, and love others. Seems to me that "Love" is the central theme... not condemnation... judgment... or punishment.

No, "Thou Shalt not Flog" is not a real Commandment... or is it? "Love your neighbor as yourself." Unless you go around flogging yourself, don't do it to the people around you.

I am reminded of the story of the wind, the sun, and the man in the brown coat...

One day, the wind and the sun were having an argument to see who was stronger. Each was trying to convince the other that he was the stronger force of nature.

"I, clearly, am the strongest of us," said Wind, "did you see the trees in the forest after I blew last night? Gone, fallen to the ground, and with one of my softer gusts!"

Sun smiled, shining his light. "I am quite strong as well," Sun said, "did you see the happy faces of the Daisies in the field when they shone their faces toward me?"

"Daisies?!" Wind scoffed. "There would be no daisies had I not carried their seeds across the valley! I am clearly the stronger of us; I felled trees, and you, you made the Daisies happy?"

Just then, a man happened by, he was wearing a brown coat, tightly wrapped around him.

"There, see that man there, the man in the brown coat?" Asked Wind.

"I see him." Sun replied.

"Whichever of us can make that man take off his coat is the stronger of us!" Wind challenged, very sure of his ability.

Sun agreed, and also agreed that Wind could have the first go. And go Wind did! He huffed... he puffed... he blew the... (wait... that's the big bad wolf...) Well, Wind blew, and blew, and blew. But the man just walked more quickly, pulling his coat tighter and tighter around him.

Finally, Wind had tried his hardest. He looked at Sun and said: "Good luck! I was as mighty as could be, and I could not get the man out of his brown coat!" He watched, very smug as Sun smiled softly, and began to shine.

Sun shined softly, warmly, and before Wind even had the chance to catch his breath, the man in the brown coat began to loosen his wrap... and then, he took of his coat, hooked his finger in the collar, tossed it over his shoulder, and whistled a lively tune!

Wind hurried off... in a huff!*

Are you Wind? Or are you Sun?

The best way to live a life that draws others to what is good and right is to shine warmly, to show love. Unconditionally. Be an encouragement to those around you. God's love is not shown in biblical scripture we can memorize and recite, and blow into people's faces; God's love is shown through us, because of the way we live... the way we love.

Go shine! (or blow off) ~RR

*The story of the Sun, the Wind, and the Man in the Brown Coat is one I remember from childhood. This is my own version, written on May 2, 2010. ~Rebecca Reece

Anything Goes!

2010-04-24T06:45:00.000-07:00

If you had the confidence to do anything, I mean really, anything, what would you do?

Did you think of something?

Did your "anything" consist of an activity within the realms of physical possibility?

For a lot of us, when we are asked to think of something we would do if we could, we think within the limits of what we believe could be conceivable.

I want to fly.

From the time I was a little girl, I wanted to fly. I didn't only want to fly, but I believed that I could. Of course, I set conditions for myself, but I did believe, if the conditions were met, that I could, indeed, spread my arms... and fly!

Outside of an airplane, helicopter, or other flying contraption, I am now sure... okay, pretty sure... that I cannot fly. But what about conceptual belief? I believe with everything in me that we hold ourselves back by lacking the belief in ourselves to achieve things that really are possible.

When I was in my early twenties, I used to joke that I was "not meant to be rich." Being fairly religious at the time, I was convinced that I was not meant to be rich because I would be selfish with my wealth. What was the truth? That I lacked the belief in myself to be successful enough to be wealthy, so I made up a story for myself, and through that thinking... made it true.

What would you be doing if you really believed you could?

What kind of life would you be living?

What's stopping you from living that life now?

Is it you? Are you living up to the story that you have created for you?

Write a new story! The amazing thing about your life is that YOU hold the pen, the paper, and all of the right vocabulary to write your own story with a much, much happier ending!

On Relationships:
Honesty and sincerity, or the lack of either, will decide a relationship.
Relationships are work, but will reward you in the end.
You don't have to settle. Period.

On Family:
Love IS enough, but sometimes it has to be the tough kind.
If you wait until you can afford children... you never will.
Family is not just the people who are related to you by blood.
Remember that children are exploring and enjoying their world, and they are washable!

On Success:
Success never works unless you believe in the possibility of it, and you're willing to work harder than everyone in front of you to get it!

On Flying:
Flight doesn't have to be literal to be possible...

Live a great story!

~RR

Day in the Life

2010-03-31T16:12:00.000-07:00

***This is a journal entry from 3 years ago that made me laugh again... Thought it should be shared... ~RR)

Okay, so I have recently had a bit of surgery, and while it was minor, and I really am doing better, yesterday really seemed to be "just one of those days," that really qualify for blogging. I mean, who wants to read a blog with the content of a blank sheet of coffee-stained scrap paper?

You know what I am talking about, and if you have written one of those such blogs yourself, don't feel bad about it, just don't do it again... Seriously, nobody cares what time you got up, what you had for breakfast, or what a boring day at your job looks like.

Moving on...

*****

My husband, James, and I have been blessed with a three-year-old bundle of joy and energy. Raising our son, Benjamin, (also known to us as "Grover," the cuddly-est of all monsters) has been a series of ups and downs, and many adventures!

I have recently had a bit of surgery on my arm, and while it was minor and I really am doing better, yesterday really seemed to be "just one of those days."

First, though, I have to say, that since the surgery, James and Benjamin have been good sports about helping to take care of me, and to pick up some of my duties that are difficult to do one-handed. Granted, there are considerably fewer glasses and cereal bowls in the cupboards, (they are apparently quite slippery) and our white socks and underthings are now pink, and, of course, my wool sweater is now just the right size for Grover... I digress.

I had to get my stitches out, and a get new cast on my arm, so I thought I would write (okay, type, and slowly, at that!) an account of yesterday, because this morning, as yesterday's pain medication wears off, I am able to see the humor in yesterday's events...

The doctor's appointment went okay; the wound looked not too bad considering my lawn-mowing incident the Friday before (I had gotten the itch to mow the grass, after all, I was feeling no pain, thanks to Mr. Pharmacist. I was chastised for my offense, and told that I ought not be mowing the lawn any time in the next 4 to 6 weeks).

I nearly fainted when they took the stitches out; it did too hurt! (the nurse said it would just feel like a little bit of a pinch; she was right about that, as long as the "pinch" to which she referred was administered by Mr. Gregorio, a man I knew as a child who had metal pincher-hooks for hands, and was notorious for disliking children).

While I fought nausea, and watched tiny lightening bugs that zoomed their way across my vision, Benjamin (he had to come with me because James was working and we don't seem to have enough of a social life to have, as yet, enlisted a sitter) watched the procedure in rapt fascination.

Benjamin had many questions for the nurse and me, like:

"You pull out the 'titches?", "You hurted, Mama?" and, "Mama, are you sad?". To which I replied (weaving back and forth, very white, and near enough to yarking up my breakfast that waves of saliva flooded my mouth almost faster than I could swallow them back):

"No, Honey, Mama's not sad, but it hurts a little." (yeah, a little like smashing your thumb against a cement block with a hammer).

Having done our best to raise a caring child, my little sprite, Grover, in the spirit of all that is good and kind, proceeded to hug me, causing the nurse to pull VERY hard on the stitch she was working with, to which, I responded by nearly fainting completely dead away... Fun times.

I took a fair dose of pain killers on the way home, which was fine, considering that James had my car, (his car was in the shop, so he drove mine to work) Benjamin and I had taken the bus to the doctor's office; I live in Seattle, by the way, and to complete the idea of "the joys of public transportation," it was, of course, raining. (On that note, my appointment was at 10:30am; we had to leave home at 8am, and we didn't finally get back until 2pm just in case you are thinking about a day out on the bus, by the way, the public transportation service in my town is NOT the way to get around if you have an appointment, or if you have a life, for that matter!)

By the time we got back home, Grover and I, it was clearly time to slip a video in the machine for him, and another pain pill in for me, and collapse together on the couch for some relaxation.

As soon as we are cozy together under a down throw, Benjamin turns his cute little, buttoned-nosed face to mine and says:

"We ride the bus again tomorrow, Mama?"

"We'll see, Grove," I say. Which, as anyone knows from their own childhood, is a phrase that roughly translates to: "Fat chance, kiddo!"

Where is this life I dreamed of? Part One

2010-01-26T15:27:00.000-08:00

The other day there was a moth in my kitchen; the moth was very beautiful, strikingly so, actually. It was early in the morning; no one was up but me. I stood next to the sink sipping my first cup of coffee of the morning at watched the moth. It was still dark outside, so the moth fluttered here and there around the dim light over the sink, a tiny dusting of iridescent powder floated around the moth like pixie dust every time it banged against the light. I marveled at the tiny details on it's wings.

"How many people actually see such things," I wondered aloud.

The moth banged hard against the light, and seemed to knock itself off balance. Before the moth could right itself, it flickered and fluttered down to the sink, and landed in the casserole dish soaking from the night before. Covered in cold, greasy soap, the moth struggled, just getting more and more covered in the muck.

Suddenly overcome with sadness, I set my coffee mug down on the counter and my eyes filled. I shed hot, bitter tears for the dreams I had carried and somehow lost along my journey when life got in the way of living them.

What can you do when you wake up, I mean, really awaken with awareness that this is not the life you dreamed of? Is it possible to turn the life you are already living into the life you always dreamed of?

Going back to the moth for a moment; not accounting for the amount of awareness that a moth can or cannot have, do you think the moth expected such a disaster? I'll bet not. What "disasters" have we experienced in our life's journey that stopped our forward movement.

What knocks us out of our chair, or out of happiness?
Death?
Illness?
Relationships?
Loss of wealth?

The moment of awareness is different for everyone, as is the path to survival. I believe that there is hope, however, for everyone.

The first lesson that I am learning on my own path, is the importance of grieving loss. Whether it is the loss of wealth, material things, relationships, or even a life, it is crucial for us to grieve. While everyone will grieve in a personal way, there are some generally accepted "stages" of the grieving process: *

Shock
Denial
Anger
Bargaining
Depression
Acceptance

Shock: This stage began for me with the loss of colors, smells, and tastes. I still had my senses, of course, but I had no appetite for any of the things that brought me pleasure. I lived on coffee and auto-pilot.

Denial: This is where I hung out and justified... everything! I made up reasons that I thought made my loss acceptable, and even deserved. If it was supposed to happen, then nothing changed; "it is what it is!" I kept telling everyone. This stage, for me, tried to disguise itself as acceptance, but it wasn't really.

Anger: I thought I would break teeth here, from all of the angry jaw-clenching I was doing. I snapped at everyone, could often be heard muttering, "I hate my life!"

Bargaining: This was another stage of justification for me. Hanging on to false hopes and creating my own solutions that really weren't going to go anywhere. I think of this as my "busy-work" stage.

Depression: This stage really explains itself. I found myself muddling through days, just thankful that I had a child to take care of, otherwise I would not have found reason to even get out of bed in the morning.

Testing: This is where I started "tapping my toe out on the ice to check the thickness." I started to realize that no one could, or would, give me the decisions to make, no one would tell me what to do, or how, or when to do it; I had to try myself. So in small ways, I began to try little things to get moving, even just a bit, in a forward direction again. For me personally, I began to seek work, and in seeking work, I started to feel like I had my own purpose again.

Acceptance: I will let you know when I'm there. But the best part about this place, is that I know it exists!

There are no hours, days, or weeks that are set by grief. Depending on the type of loss, the process could take hours, or much longer. More important than the time it takes, is the direction that you're headed in.

One thing I strongly believe in, is that we should always endeavor to keep moving forward! The realization that we have lost sight of some of our dreams is a horrible moment; the realization that there is opportunity in that awareness is the moment where we gain freedom!

Until next time, Dream Prolifically!

~RR

*Kübler-Ross Grief Cycle

The Bob Dylan Experiment Continued...

2009-12-05T20:36:00.000-08:00

Some time has passed since I started the Bob Dylan experiment, and what a time it has been!
What have I learned, you wonder, while on this musical journey?
Tons...
You probably want more.
Bob Dylan. What can be said for the buttery-smooth tones of Dylan's vocals? Nothing! In fact, if you were wondering what I was going to say next after I said "buttery-smooth tones" then you don't know Dylan. Some of his earlier work is better as far as vocals, but the older he gets, the worse he sounds.
So what!
If you DO know the work of Bob Dylan, you know that it isn't his singing that touches your mind and heart; the touch comes from the meaningful prose.
There is meaning, under meaning, behind meaning, and ladled with more meaning within the stanzas of Bob Dylan's lyrics.
My mentor, IB, told me when we sat in the coffee shop that blustery day over a month ago: "As a writer, you should study Bob Dylan." He was so right. There is so much that I have learned, and so much more to learn by studying Bob Dylan's work.
A few snapshots of wisdom that I have gained thus far:
1) Sing!
It doesn't matter what you sound like; if there is a song in your heart, sing it!
2) Be passionate about what you believe in!
People are going to like you, or not; don't let what other people may think about you, or about your work, dictate whether or not you move forward with it!
3) Be brave!
Say what you mean; mean what you say, and don't hide behind the ambiguous. It is interesting that even though there are deeper meanings within Dylan's lyrics, they can also be read or heard at face value. Just say what you need to say, and let others take or leave what they want. One of the largest obsticles that I have battled in writing is the desire to please everyone with what I write. It is a fact that not everyone can be pleased. Period. Bravery is the only way a writer can be successful.
I have a lot to learn about life. I have only been living my life for 33 years, and have done a lot of living in that time, but through something as pure and simple as music, I have learned much. I have learned how much I don't know, and that, my friends, is where wisdom truly begins!
~RR

The Bob Dylan Experiment:

2009-10-24T23:07:00.000-07:00

Day One: Introduction

Friday afternoon was a stormy afternoon. The rain came down sideways pulling bright yellow leaves from the trees making a sunny blizzard outside of the coffee shop where I sat at a small table across from IB, my mentor.
We started out talking about our week, and ended up talking about a blog he was writing.
"It's good," I told him, taking a pull from the mug in my hand. I was referring to to his blog, not the coffee.
"You don't think it's too self-serving?" He asked.
"Nope; it's professional, inspirational, and has a call to action... I wonder, though," I said, pointing to the printout of IB's blog, "why do you always quote Bob Dylan? Who is he anyway?"
*Silence*
"What?" IB said. I could have sworn he lost some of the color in his cheeks. "You're kidding, right?" He asked me, incredulous.
"Well, no... I mean, I know he's a singer or something. Is he still alive?" I asked.
IB was silent across the table; he looked a bit ill.
"So...?" I said. He was looking at me as though I were a foolish little girl.
"I need a moment to process," he said; he leaned back in his chair for a second, and then leaned quickly toward me leaning his elbows on his knees.
"Okay," he said, "who is most influential in literature?"
"Easy," I said, "Henry James, Nathanial Hawthorne, Hemingway, a few others."
"Henry James; English author, hard to read, but highly influential, right?" IB asked.
"Yes; that's all true." I said.
"Now take Henry James and put him up against Salinger." IB said, tucking in for a true teacher/student session of education.
"There isn't a lot of depth to Salinger; his writing is what it is; each sentence means exactly what is written." IB is speaking passionately, still leaning toward me, his eyes shining.
"Sure," I agreed.
"Henry James wrote meanings within meanings; there was always something layered underneath." He said.
"Right, definitely!" I said. IB took a sip from his water glass, raised an eyebrow, and continued:
"That's Dylan!" He exclaimed. "Bob Dylan is one of the most meaningful and prolific songwriters in the world. He wrote meaning on top of meaning, and layered it with depth not seen in any other music or poetry!" He sat back in his chair again, seemingly spent.
"Wow," I said.
"Rebecca, I can't believe you are an author, and you don't know. You should know Dylan's work. As an author, you should study his work." IB said. He ripped a piece of yellow paper off of the legal pad he always carries with him and murmured bits of songs as he feverishly wrote:

It's alright Ma, I'm only bleeding
Forever Young
Lay Lady Lay
Blowing in the Wind
Positively 4th Street
Tangled Up in Blue
Just Like a Woman (he scribbled a star next to that one)
Gotta Serve Somebody
One More Cup of Coffee Before I Go
Shelter From the Storm
Maggie's Farm

IB looked up, satisfied, and slid the paper across the table to me.
"These will get you started," he said. "This is your homework; I'll bring you some CD's to borrow."
"Wow," I said again. I took the paper and folded it in half, and in half again and slid it into my notebook.
"I'll do it!" I caught his excitement, and I was suddenly resolute.
"I will do an experimental study on Bob Dylan; this will be fun!"

That, my friends, is how it started. "The Bob Dylan Experiment" is underway; I will be on a lyrical, musical journey for a while, and I'll let you know how it goes!

Live a great day!
~RR

Sometimes I don't even have to leave the house for the best dialogue gathering...

2009-10-05T08:57:00.000-07:00

After the longest, most frustrating Sunday in history, I was getting Grover's uniform ready for school the next day...

Undershirt, polo, slacks, socks, check!

Backpack, check!

Shoes... shoes... where the heck is the other shoe???

Me: James! Have you seen Grove's school shoe?

James: Just one?

Me: Yes, just one, so you've seen the other one?

James: I saw you with one...

Me: Nevermind... Grove, where is your other school shoe?

Grove: Dunno

Me: You just wore them to church today, where did you take them off?

Grove: Dunno... (noticing the lone shoe in my hand) you have one, where'd ya get that one from?

Me: What does it matter where I got it... Where is the other one?

Grove: Dunno... Guess I can't go to school tomorrow.

Me: NO! You will just be going to school with one shoe... How about that?

Grove: Was that shoe in the bathtub?

Me: Um... No.

Grover: Maybe the other shoe is in the bathtub...

Me: Why is it in the tub???

Grove: Dunno...

The missing shoe was, indeed, in the bathtub, along with two soggy socks, and the business card of our family friend... What where they doing in the bathtub?

Me: Dunno!

My Mama Said...

2009-09-20T18:11:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow will mark the five year anniversary since I lost my mom suddenly to cancer. While this is always an emotional day for my, this year I have decided to make a compilation of some of the wisdom that she gifted me with when she was here.

I am actually amazed at how often I think, say, or do something that I realize came from her. Even when I wasn’t actively listening to her, I was aware. I feel blessed to be able to share some of her with you.

The world was a better place when she was in it, but I am the woman I am because she was here. I wish I would have listened to mom more when she was alive; but I am surprised to find that some of her best stuff is still floating around in my head...

On Common Sense and Incredulity

“What onion truck do you think I just fell off of?”

Once, my sophomore year in high school, my mom and I were on our way to Lloyd Center on I-5 in Portland. I had skipped a class that day, and of course, mom knew (stupid automated school calling system!). She asked me where I had been during Political Science that day, and of course I lied… badly.

“I dunno.” Great! If I had been in class, wouldn’t I have stated that?

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Mom said.

“Well, I mean, maybe Mr. Beck just missed me during role call.”

“Becky, what onion truck do you think I fell off of?” She said.

No joke, there was a Walla Walla Onion truck on the freeway just ahead of us.

“That one?” I said, pointing.

We both laughed… and I was grounded for the weekend.

“When your potential is obvious, you just look irresponsible when you don’t live up to it.”

I think of this statement often when endeavoring to do things. I think I sometimes have the bad habit of pretending I’m doing all I can, and even convincing myself that I am, but this statement (which came from her the day she got my report card that included a big, fat “F” in biology) comes to me, and I really take a look at my task from a realistic perspective. What is my potential, and how conducive is my effort vs. ability?

On Love and Relationships

“We should, out of respect for ourselves, and our future husband or wife, work diligently to guard our heart. Whoever you are with will guard theirs and yours as well; if they don't, they aren't the one.”

This lesson came up again and again over the years. It’s funny that mom never really said to wait until I was married to have sex (although it was strongly implied). By “guarding my heart” she explained it as being careful not only how much of yourself you gave physically to another, but also how much you gave in emotional intimacy. It was a “heart-on-your-sleeve” lesson. As I learned (more than once) that what I reveal to others can often be used in hurtful ways later.

“Be careful who you trust with your heart… but when you choose to give your heart to someone, give it to them fully.”

This gem came after my divorce. Mom and I were talking about my marriage, and I told her how I felt that I had not really been open about who I really was with my husband. The truth was that I didn’t really trust him; that was my problem, not his. Trust is a choice. Love is a choice.

“Keep your eyes focused upward [on God], and if your future husband is doing the same, and you both keep moving forward, then you will eventually run into one another!”

This was one of the most comforting, and most logical pieces of advice she imparted. It helped me to take my focus off of looking for a mate, and on to making my own life better… She was right, and here I am!

Out of everything mom told me, the one statement that made the most impact was simply:

“I love you.”

Foster moms don’t have to love… Not to would have been inconceivable for her.

I loved her too…

~Rebecca Reece

The Scent of Grief

2009-06-15T14:28:00.000-07:00

"Sorrow makes us all children again - destroys all differences of intellect. The wisest know nothing." ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

After helping James prepare for work on top of getting both myself and Grover ready for church, we are late. I hurry Grover to his Sunday school classroom and find a seat in near the back of the sanctuary. The first song is over by the time I am settled; the music ends and immediately the guitar changes key and the introduction to the next song begins. I take a few deep, calming breaths to prepare to sing to God; not two minutes earlier I was cursing under my breath for being late to church... again.

I take a breath in and open my mouth to join the song; a wave of grief swirls around me in an invisible shroud of vanilla. The sweet, musky scent of "Vanilla Fields" fills my senses for a moment then fades. The words of the song halt in the back of my throat, and for a moment, they block my breath from leaving my lungs. I swallow quickly against the words, the lump they form in my throat, choking me, the familiar scent of my mother's perfume pressing into me.

I close my eyes tightly and wait for the scent of grief to fade, and for a moment, it does, but then returns warm and sweet, yet acrid; it burns in my eyes, in my chest. This time, I cannot stop the stinging tear from escaping my eyelid; it runs down my left cheek, hot and painful, it burns a path to my chin and lingers there.

I don't know whether or not to wipe it away. I am about to, and lift my hand to do so when I feel a hand on my shoulder. The women next to me holds a tissue out to me, on the woman's face is a knowing smile, she assumes my emotion to be religious. I am, at the same moment both touched and frustrated by her kindness; I want to be alone in my struggle. I receive the tissue with what I hope to be a grateful look. She turns back toward the front, singing in a sweet, clear voice.

I touch the tissue to my cheek, to the corner of my eye. Grief once again swirls in on a wave of vanilla and takes its' permission from the arrival of the tissue to rise again. Anger, confusion, hurt... Pain. Grief sits on my shoulder and beckons me to embrace it. I can't breathe; my stomach seizes and I excuse myself to the ladies room. I am grateful for the small miracle of an empty lavatory. I slip into an empty stall and slide the latch into place. Grief, tired of waiting for me to invite it in, punches its' way into my stomach and I vomit into the lidless toilet.

Spent, heaving with sobs, I sit down and give into grief as it grabs on to me in a suffocating embrace releasing tendrils of sadness that wrap like cold fingers around my neck. I sit down on the toilet and finally succumb gulping for air, the tears flow as my breath is stolen from me.

Why does Grief take liberties where Peace, Love, and Joy are afraid to? How long will I be blindsided by the ugly beast of Grief, or perhaps it is as I fear: There is no end to the pranks Grief is allowed to pull at its' own cruel timing.

~RR

September will mark four years since my foster-mom, my mom, was taken from us by cancer.
Jan Schmitt 1944-2005

Guide to Perfect Parenting *(no actual guide exists, such a guide is a falacy of people who don't, in fact, have actual children)

2009-05-09T11:22:00.001-07:00

There are two things that I have realized about myself:

1) I want to be a perfect parent

2) I am not a perfect parent

Trying to be the perfect parent can be a destructive process; since there is no such thing, it is a goal that can never be reached and as such I would either have to lie to myself, or I would have to beat up on myself for my inability to be perfect.

I have to wonder what my biological mother wanted when she was younger. Before she had children, what kind of parent did she want to be? I find it difficult (if not impossible) to believe that she wanted to be an abusive, tyrannical parent. Who grows up looking forward to parenting as being in total control of your own child so you can do whatever you want to them? No one, I would hope; and yet, how does one get to that point?

This past year, my son has come into the age that, were he my mother's child, would begin to get regular beatings and verbal abuse. I watch him grow, and learn, and I just can't imagine striking his face or pulling him by his hair. I have been frustrated with him to the point of putting him in his room so that I can have a time out, but I just can't fathom doing the things to him that our mom did to us.

I am so thankful that God blessed me with a child. Nearly daily I remember his birth and what a beautiful day in July it was when he came to be my son. That smooshed face with those big brown eyes were the most precious gift that I have ever received. I hope that I will be who and what he needs, and that God will, in the end, be as glad that he blessed me with my son as I am glad to have him.

Signs of a perfect parent:

Hmmm... I'll let you know if I ever see them.

Signs of an imperfect parent:

1) Too many toys

2) Too much tv

3) Ice cream before dinner

4) Jelly in the peanut butter jar

5) Happy, well-balanced children with great memories of childhood

The best thing I can remember when I try to be "just so," is that Grover thinks I'm pretty great! (At least for now, I may have to edit this when he is older!)

Happy Mother's Day!

~RR

Dominick the Runaway Soul

2009-04-19T14:05:00.000-07:00

When the time came for a woman to bear a child, God would send a little soul to become that woman’s child. God had a favorite small soul, whom he lovingly called Dominick, which means “belongs to God.” This is the story of Dominick.

Dominick would eat his meals at God’s table, and partake of the best foods in heaven. He would spend time with God each day near the throne, entertaining God with his antics, and soothing God with his beautiful clear voice. God favored Dominick as much as Dominick favored God, and they were rarely seen apart.

One day, God decided that it was time for Dominick to fulfill his purpose to go to earth and be born as a baby. Dominick dearly loved God, and did not want to go.

“Please God,” he said, “you are my parent, I want to dwell with you here, for I have seen through the clouds the ways of the world, and I am afraid.”

God dearly loved Dominick as well, but He felt that it was time for Dominick to go for it was selfish that God should keep the best from his people on earth, whom he also loved greatly. God told Dominick this:

“It is time Dominick. You must go to earth now. You will grow into a boy, and then a man. You will learn much about life on earth, and then, one day, when your years on earth have been many, I will welcome you back to live with me forever, but first you must fulfill your purpose.”

Dominick was saddened. Part of him was excited to go to earth. He saw many things when he peeked through the clouds, things that looked exciting and fun. But he loved God so much, that he was sad too, and afraid to leave. God took the little soul to a place at the edge of the sky, a place where God liked to look down and watch the goings on down on earth. He pointed a great finger to a place in the city. Dominick saw a young woman sitting beside a tree. She was a beautiful woman, as God had created all of the women on earth with a beauty all their own. The woman was crying, and Dominick heard her wishes for a child of her own.

“She is who you must go to, Dominick. See her tears, and feel the heaviness of her heart? You can make her happy, and that right now, is your place.”

Dominick stared at the woman little while longer, and then turned to God. “I love you God,” He said bravely “and if that is where you want me to go, then I will go, but I will long to come back to you every minute that I am away.”

God smiled at Dominick, and was proud of him. “You are a good soul Dominick. I love you greatly, and I will welcome you back when you have finished.”

With that, Dominick gave God one final embrace, and leapt off of the edge of the sky and went to join the woman.

When Dominick had been inside the woman for a few weeks he became sad. He missed God so much, and he longed to be near him again. It was cramped and dark in the small space of the woman’s womb, and he longed for something better than the nourishment that entered him through the cord in his belly. Dominick kept reminding himself that he would be able to return back to heaven one day, and tried to entertain himself with the thoughts of dancing and singing before God again. He passed his time in the womb by counting off his favorite heavenly dishes that he would eat at God’s table again one day. He tried to dance inside the tiny space, but there was no room for that. He began to thrash about in anger, kicking hard at the sides of the uterus. The woman felt the quickening inside of her, and was overcome with happiness. Dominick could feel the pressure of the woman’s hands on her belly, feeling the places that his feet had kicked. He could sense her love for him, and was calmed by her touch and quickly fell fast asleep.

While Dominick was sleeping, an idea came to him. He dreamt that he could leave the woman, and get another soul to take his place! He could be back in heaven and eating from God’s table much quicker than he would if he stayed on for a human lifetime. Dominick woke with a start. He could nearly taste God’s dinner on his tongue and he wasted no time escaping through the umbilical cord, and out of the woman’s belly.

Dominick hurried back up to the sky. He was thinking of things to tell God about his return. He was worried, but he knew that God was always forgiving in the past, and hoped for that same forgiveness again. On his journey back to heaven, Dominick came upon Sara, another young soul. Sara greeted Dominick with surprise.

“I thought you had been sent on your earth-journey.” Said Sara. “You have been missed, God longs for your completion every day so that He can welcome you back. He has even been planning for your return feast since the day you left.”

Dominick was happy to hear this. He was certain that God would take him back early, but he still needed to fill his place on earth.

“Sara, it is good to see you as well. I have missed being in heaven, but I have done something wrong. My time on earth hasn’t finished, but I couldn’t stand it any more Sara! I want to be here with God.”

Sara looked pensive. She too knew of God’s favor of Dominick, but she also knew how much God hated to be disobeyed. “I don’t know Dominick,” she said. “He may be angry, what are you going to do?”

Dominick had been looking down when he replied to Sara. “Well… I could… I mean, if I were to find someone who would go in my place, to earth I mean, maybe God wouldn’t be so angry.” When he finished speaking, Dominick looked imploringly at Sara, he was pleading her with his gaze. Sara knew what he was asking her, and she shook her head, but without conviction.

“Please Sara. Go to earth for me. It really isn’t that bad. Just a little lonely in the darkness of the womb, but it is warm, and it only lasts a few earth months, then you would be free, and could live on earth for many years.”

Sara looked doubtful, but she had wanted God to send her soon, and she was growing excited that she could go now. Finally she nodded.

“I’ll go,” she said “show me the woman.”

With that, Dominick pointed out the woman who was walking in the same park where Dominick had first seen her. Sara jumped down to her, and entered her through the belly, crawling through the cord the way that Dominick had escaped.

God was angry at first when He saw Dominick, but could not stay angry long, for He had missed his favorite small soul. God agreed that Dominick could stay for a while, but that Dominick would have to go back to earth and fulfill his calling. It was well in heaven. Dominick again ate from God’s table, and danced and sang at God’s throne.

When God felt that the time had been long enough, He decided that it was time for Dominick to return to earth. Again God showed Dominick a woman who was ready for a child, and again Dominick left with sadness. It was only a few weeks before Dominick was overcome again with the loneliness and boredom that had plagued him before, and he escaped the womb for a second time. He found a replacement, and went back to heaven.

Again and again this happened. Sometimes though, he could not find a soul to go in his place, and the baby would be not be born as a live child. Often, Dominick would escape after only a few weeks, but sometimes Dominick would make it for as many months as it took to grow a baby on earth, but escaped through the cord at the last minute. Often, his hasty escape would cause the cord to become entangled around the baby’s neck. If Dominick was able to find a replacement, the baby would live, but that was not always the case.

To this day, the struggle has not been resolved between the will of God, and Dominick’s own will, much like the struggle between a parent and a child here on earth.

Many times, when a woman loses her child, she thinks that she has done something wrong. But as likely as not Dominick, the runaway soul, has probably been there, and then… gone.

My personal struggle with multiple miscarriage over the past 12 years has been a difficult one. There is nothing like hearing a baby's heartbeat, your baby's heartbeat, for the first time, and weeks or months later being faced with a horrible, yet deafening, silence. "Dominick the Runaway Soul" is my way of dealing with a the loss of my son at 4 month gestation in 1999.

If you or someone you know has dealt with the pain and grief of miscarriage, you can find out more here: American Pregnancy Association. ~Rebecca Reece

Becky's Beans

2009-04-12T17:43:00.000-07:00

I didn't start gardening until I was twenty-nine, actually, my husband started gardening when I was twenty-nine; I became "gardening support." It all started with one sad, wilted tomato plant that spring, and ended with a freezer full of garden-fresh tomatoes, zucchini, and beans that fall.

"Look!" My husband, James said. He had just come in from work, he was holding up a black, plastic pot with a wilted tomato plant that hung limply to the side; James was smiling like a twelve-year-old boy with a huge toad bulging out of his fist. I eyed the tomato plant, and didn't say anything.

"It's a tomato plant!" He said, thrusting it toward me. I reached my hand out toward it, then changed my mind, instead folded my arms across my chest. Our two-year old son, Grover, plowed into my husband's legs at that moment, and the tomato plant flopped limply from side to side.

"I can see that it's a tomato plant; what is it doing here?" I asked, as though the plant had followed him home like a stray kitten.

"We're gonna plant it! We'll get more, and we'll have a vegetable garden this year," he said.

He knelt down on the floor to show Grover the plant, "look, Grove, tomato plant," he said to the toddler, who promptly grabbed at the limp greens; James pulled the plant out of Grover’s reach.

"'Mato pants,” said Grover. "'Mato pants... Mato pants!" He chanted, dancing a jig around my husband.

That was the beginning of our garden. Plots were dug and the soil was prepared, gardening books of all kinds started showing up around the house. Nearly every day brought James home from work with some new plant, or more seed packets. Vegetables, fruits and herbs were planted, and started to grow in our back yard garden.

James was thrilled with each new sprout, and I was indifferent. It wasn’t that I disliked gardening; I had not been enthusiastic about anything then; my mother had died unexpectedly from a ruptured tumor in her lung a few months before, and nothing I did held much pleasure for me. Gardening just seemed like another chore to do, something else to be “gotten to,” during the day. I kept Grover out of the garden, watered it when it was hot, and just continued to muddle through my days, reminding myself to get up each morning and breathe.

It was a Tuesday evening when James brought home a packet of bush beans, and I finally began to garden.
*****

“Mom!” I shouted, running into the house from the school bus. “Mom, where are you?” She answered from her room, so I toss my book bag on the sofa and hurried down the hall to her door.

“Becky, what are you shouting about?” She said. She saw at what I was holding in my hand and furrowed her brow. “You’re getting dirt all over the carpet! Get that thing outside!” She walked toward me and shooed me down the hall, and out the back patio door. The plastic baggie in my hand had sprung a leak sometime between school and my front door, and I left a trail through the house.

“Sorry mom, but look, can I plant them in the back?” I held up the baggie toward her with its treasure inside; three small bean plants peek out of the top of the leaking bag.

“What are they?” Mom asked her brow still furrowed.

“Beans!” I say.

“You’re a sophomore in high school and you are growing beans in a baggie? What are you learning, kindergarten botany?” Mom said.

“I don’t know; I do what Mr. Thomas says. Anyways, can I plant them in the yard?” I said. I was still excited; I had visions of Jack and his beanstalk climbing beyond the clouds.

“Fine. That’s fine I guess. You’ll need to make a place,” Mom said. She reached for the caddy that held her gardening tools and ushered me down the deck steps toward the back of the yard. “Near the fence will be best. There,” she pointed to a spot by the fence, far from the tall tree that sits in the corner of the yard.

“Why not over there, by the tree?” I asked her, gesturing toward a tall evergreen with my baggie of bean plants.

“They need sun,” she said. “I had better give you a hand or they will be dead by the weekend.” Mom let out a sigh meant to be exasperation, but she was enjoying herself. She knelt on the ground next to the spot she had pointed out, and instructed me to pull up all of the weeds and stones in a small patch. Less than an hour later, we had prepared a place, planted, and watered the beans. While we worked she explained how to care for them, and then we settled into relaxed silence with sound between us beyond the rings on her hands softly clicking together. When we were finished, we both had dark patches on our knees, dirt on our cheeks, and smiles on our faces.

A few weeks that passed school ended for the summer. Mom and I would go out often to see ‘Becky’s Beans’, as she had named them, and we watched them grow together. With three other foster girls in the house, there had never been enough time alone with Mom; our little bean patch brought us together. We shared conversations, some of our talks were about growing beans, but even those conversations were about more than gardening. Some of the things we talked about were important, and some were not, but the things we shared were just Mom’s and mine.

When the beans were finally big enough to pick and eat, Mom sent me out with a colander, and I gather beans for dinner. When we ate that night, she bragged about what good beans they were, and she said all of us girls should plant a garden together next year. We never did, though, and I was glad. That year, Mom and I didn’t grow a garden together, we grew together.
*****

I planted my own patch of bush beans in the sun last year, and I watched them sprout and grow. When I tended to them, I would think about ‘Becky’s Beans’ from all those years ago, and recalled the conversations we had together over my little patch of garden. She would encourage me when I was down, and laugh with me about something else. I weeded the rows of beans with the sun on my back and remembered mom’s laughter and wisdom accompanied by the comforting clicking of her rings.

When we harvested our crop last year, and ate fresh beans for dinner the day we picked them; I was glad that I had finally taken her advice about growing another garden, even if it was fifteen years later. I didn’t just find a love for gardening; instead, I remembered my love for my mother, and found her in the dark, rich soil that just like her life, and then her passing, fostered new growth.

*This is the final edit of "How I Lost My Mother to Cancer, and Found Her Through My Garden"

Help Wanted!!!

2009-04-06T12:46:00.000-07:00

*I did not write this, but wish I did! If I one more person says to me: "Oh, so you don't work?" I will not be able to stop my hands from wrapping around their neck... All mothers are working mothers! ~RR

JOB DESCRIPTION:
Long term, team players needed, for challenging permanent work in an, often chaotic environment. Candidates must possess excellent communication and organizational skills and be willing to work variable hours, which will include evenings and weekends and frequent 24 hour shifts on call. Some overnight travel required, including trips to primitive camping sites on rainy weekends and endless sports tournaments in far away cities. Travel expenses not reimbursed. Extensive courier duties also required.

RESPONSIBILITIES:
The rest of your life. Must be willing to be hated, at least temporarily, until someone needs $5. Must be willing to bite tongue repeatedly. Also, must possess the physical stamina of a pack mule and be able to go from zero to 60 mph in three seconds flat in case, this time, the screams from the backyard are not someone just crying wolf. Must be willing to face stimulating technical challenges, such as small gadget repair, mysteriously sluggish toilets and stuck zippers. Must screen phone calls, maintain calendars and coordinate production of multiple homework projects. Must have ability to plan and organize social gatherings for clients of all ages and mental outlooks. Must be willing to be indispensable one minute, an embarrassment the next. Must handle assembly and product safety testing of a half million cheap, plastic toys, and battery operated devices. Must always hope for the best but be prepared for the worst. Must assume final, complete accountability for the quality of the end product. Responsibilities also include floor maintenance and janitorial work throughout the facility.

POSSIBILITY FOR ADVANCEMENT & PROMOTION:
Virtually none. Your job is to remain in the same position for years, without complaining, constantly retraining and updating your skills, so that those in your charge can ultimately surpass you

PREVIOUS EXPERIENCE:
None required unfortunately. On-the-job training offered on a continually exhausting basis.

WAGES AND COMPENSATION:
Get this! You pay them! Offering frequent raises and bonuses. A balloon payment is due when they turn 18 because of the assumption that college will help them become financially independent. When you die, you give them
whatever is left. The oddest thing about this reverse-salary scheme is that you actually enjoy it and wish you could only do more.

BENEFITS:
While no health or dental insurance, no pension, no tuition reimbursement, no paid holidays and no stock options are offered; this job supplies limitless opportunities for personal growth and free hugs for life if you
play your cards right.

Twitter Traffic Wars! Jenni Hogan of KIRO7 is Today's Winner!

2009-04-01T08:23:00.000-07:00

"A sale is not something you pursue, it is something that happens to you while you are immersed in serving your customer.." ~Unknown

This economy has been tough on our family; we have had to look outside of our normal travel range for remodeling work. Gig Harbor, WA to Bellevue, WA; Google quotes the drive time at 59 minutes, to 1 hour and 30 minutes with heavy traffic. The actual drive time has varied even more over the past couple of weeks; I wanted a more professional opinion.

Monday morning: Stretch, yawn, let the computer load while I get some hot coffee... I sign in to Twitter and see that a couple of the local news folks that I follow, are now following me. Interesting! Hmmm... What's the commute going to be like this morning? I Tweet...

"Gig Harbor to Bellevue?" I get answers! A couple of different answers...

"Who's right?" I wonder. Joking, I Tweet again,,,

"Whoever gets me there with the closest time, wins!"

And so it began, "Twitter Traffic Wars: Dare to Get Me There!" is born!

Tuesday is even more exciting, and on Wednesday, another traffic guru jumps in; it's RachelleKOMO! The race is on: Adam Gehrke (Q13 Fox), Jenni Hogan (KIRO), and Rachelle Murcia (KOMO), all Tweet their best guesses:
Adam: 55min.
Rachelle: 1 hour, 6 min
Jenni: 1 hour, 10 min including James' coffee stop (already winning extra points for remembering the coffee stop from earlier in the week!)

James left the driveway, and the race was on... It was looking like Adam was going to win for the second day in a row, when suddenly, an accident on I-5 Northbound. 55 min. gone... 1 hour, 6 min. gone... 1 hour, 10 min. gone... Aaaaand... 1 hour, 12 min. James is in Bellevue, and Jenni Hogan won the day!

James' commute was exciting and fun, and with narry a thought to the gas and time it takes to get to the jobsite.

This is a good example of great customer service on the part of our local news stations; acknowledge the viewers, and gain loyalty. (I have to admit that Jenni Hogan dropping my name this morning on KIRO7 may have shifted my loyalties around... Slightly...)

What can you do today to make someone feel special, or at the very least, less invisible? Let "Dare to Get Me There" be a challenge to help others get into a better parking space, a better spot in line at the grocery (like, in front of you, maybe!) or even into a better mood! Let's go out in the world today and make 'em smile!

Quote found @ www.businesstrainingworks.com
Photo of Jenni Hogan found @ http://twitter.com/jennihogan

Live in the Moments that Matter

2009-03-22T10:44:00.000-07:00

“Happiness is not a brilliant climax to years of grim struggle and anxiety. Happiness is a long succession of little decisions simply to be happy in the moments.”

~ J. Donald Walters

The older I get, the more I am aware that time behaves like Jell-o in a sauna; days, weeks, months, and years pass as flashes of time, and I often find myself struggling to keep up with the moments.

High school gave way to college, which gave way to marriage, and parenthood, but I would swear that I could go to bed tonight and wake up on graduation day, learning that the past fifteen years have been nothing more than a fleeting dream.

I lament that my days rarely seem to last forever as they once did; I used to look forward to what I would accomplish in my future: “When I grow up, I’m gonna…”

Now I look down the path I’m on and feel like I’m traveling downhill on a bicycle without breaks; whizzing by me are memories that will be made and filed away long before I realize they are even happening yet.

How, in such a fast world do we slow down, or better yet, stop long enough to not only “smell the roses” but to tend the soil, plant the seeds, nurture the plants, and enjoy the blooming of the flowers?

I don’t have a definitive answer for that question, I do, however, know this: The best way to sabotage yourself from living in the moment is to often utter then phrase, “I don’t have time for that right now.”

“Mommy, watch!” Grover is playing with toys in the living room.

“Just a sec, Grove.” I say, not looking up from my work.

“Mommy, watch me!”

“Mommy’s working; I don’t have time for that right now!”

Several minutes pass before I remember that Grover had been trying to get me to watch him; I get up from my desk and find him in his room.

“What did you want to show me, Grove?” I said.

“You missed it, Mommy, I was amazing, and you missed it!” He says, clearly annoyed with me.

I have no idea what it was that I missed, I turn to go back to my work, frustrated, not that I had missed something ‘amazing’, but that I quit working for nothing, and then I stop, realizing that if I go back to my computer right now, I am probably going to miss the next ‘amazing’ thing, and I know that I didn’t want to.

“Grover? You wanna play something?” I say.

“Go Fish!” He shouts, and runs to get the deck of cards, instantly forgetting that he’s mad at me.

I am lucky, a few years from now (years that will past as mere moments) a silly card game will not be reason enough to forgive such a parental transgression.

Working hard to make a living is fine, but what is the point if I am working so hard to make a living, that I actually forget to live!

Excuse me please, I have a game of “Hungry, Hungry Hippos” waiting for me in the living room, I don’t have time for this right now…

“It is only possible to live happily-ever-after on a day-to-day basis.”

~Margaret Bonnano

Life is like a "Choose-your-own-Adventure" book with pages that disappear once turned...

2009-03-20T08:07:00.001-07:00

I was 7 or 8 when I read my first "Choose-Your-Own Adventure" book. At first, I was annoyed at the inability to read the book from cover to cover. Once I got used to the way the books worked, I was fascinated! I was always troubled when I chose a path that took me to an early demise (I remember one story where I [the books written so the reader is the protagonist] fell into an icy crevasse, and was trapped forever...). I quickly learned that I could go back and start the story over again, just making different choices along the way. If only we could have as many do-overs as I had with those books! In "real-life" it is though the pages of the book self-destruct once they are turned; you can't undo a choice by going back, however, by making a series of choices we can get turned back around in the right direction.

We as humans are born into this world through no conscious choice of our own. We will one day die, and most likely, the choice will not belong to us then. However, for much of the time between those two chance days of our existence, we have the power to choose how our time here is spent. Even the Bible acknowledges the power of our own choices clear back to childhood: "Even a child is known by his actions, by whether his conduct is pure and right."*

Everyone is given sets of choices in their life; each singular choice is followed by an entirely new set of choices, and so on. Alongside the right choices are the wrong ones. The beautiful truth behind having the power of choice, is that we can control whether we make the right or wrong choices. Even after making a poor choice, we are then given a whole new set of choices; thus, making it (nearly) never too late to change our own destiny.

An abused child can not control what is changed within their environment by their abuser. However, an abuse survivor has as many choices as anyone when dealing with their past abuse. The easiest, and often the most tempting path to choose is the path of a victim; the victim's path is filled with people who will coddle and indulge the victim as they continue to mature, or worse, never mature.

Later, on a less cognitive level, the victim's choices eventually put them back into the arms of another abuser. This self-created cycle becomes an addicting companion to the victim. The cycle would then begin again and continue to run its devastating course until that person (the victim) begins to making choices to break the destructive cycle. This may never happen, or it may take years to happen; unless the person becomes mentally incapacitated, it is never too late to break the cycle.

The alternative to the victim role is the path of empowerment. Abuse, and the emotional grip of an abuser, can be powerful in a devastating way. Fortunately, some people come to realize that: Just as powerful as abusive power, is the choice to use that power to further themselves. By accepting things that we cannot change, and replacing the feelings of helplessness with something that we can control (positive actions), we find a way to gain a powerful and freeing autonomy.

The way we are brought up in our first few years in which we cannot control our own environment will definitely shape many things about us. However, because of the existence of personal power, we have the authority to choose a path on which we can mold and shape our environment ourselves, and ultimately lead a more or less fulfilling life in our years of independence. We can take the initiative and started making proactive choices to grasp our own ball of potters' clay to mold a life of our own.

Many people make the mistake of limiting their future by believing that they are only entitled to what they had at birth, and are then looked at in a bad light because of that false belief. It is never too late to begin making better choices for our lives unless a person is not of sound mind or is no longer living. Not only are we able to choose our own path in our story, we are allowed to bring a notebook and a pencil, and write some adventures of our own!

If it takes a person the majority of their life to figure out how to grab on to their own destiny, then so be it. For it will have been more worth it to taste the sweetness of that freedom for mere moments, then never to have tasted it at all.

*The Holy Bible, New International Version. Proverbs 20:11

"Choose Your Own Adventure" image from: wikipedia.org

I Fell Down

2009-03-18T14:19:00.001-07:00

Rebecca (age 7)

It is incredible to me that there are children like we were: Young, vulnerable, and innocent; victims of abuse, neglect, and exploitation. When I look at our faces from ago, I don't remember us being so young, and I have to wonder how we ever survived...

I Fell Down

In the grocery people look

Stare

Some ask her, the little girl

“What happened?”

She looks at them

But not in their eyes

She says softly

Quietly

“I fell down”

Others see her

In her yard

At her church

They ask about her arm

Suspended in plaster

White

Could this be the second time?

She answers them timidly

Softly

“I fell down again”

The little girl against the wall

Crouching

Clasping her knees

Tightly

To her chest

Mama stands tall

Strong

Her fists are hard knots

Ready

Mama asks her

“What will you tell them?”

The little girl is looking

Down

Worn blue jean drink in

Tears

Small body aches, the little girl

Hurts

But she replies

Whispers

“I fell down”

~Rebecca Reece 1994

What can you do in your own community to stop the abuse and exploitation of children?

Find out what you can do to help here: www.childhelp.org/home

If you know of a child who is being abused, call the Child Abuse Hotline 1.800.4-A-CHILD.

Later in my life when talking to the adults that knew my family, most of them apologized to me for knowing something was going on, but not doing anything about it.

Children need help, not apoligies...

My Love Affair

2009-03-16T19:00:00.000-07:00

"To be a great writer, one must first develop an intimate, sultry love affair with the written word." ~ Rebecca Reece 2004

(Grover, age 2 weeks)

I have often been asked about the books that have influenced me, and why I read so much. This will, perhaps, explain my love affair with the written word, and how it began...

As a young woman, my biological mother was a bookworm. Warn, mildewed copies of 'The Bobbsey Twins', 'Happy Hollisters', 'Trixie Beldon', and 'Nancy Drew', and 'The Hardy Boys' were all her influence on the bookcases of my very early childhood. My big brother taught me how to read from the Bible when I was just 3; I was young enough when I learned that I honestly don't remember not knowing how to read!

My five brothers and sisters and I raised one another; we all have different fathers, and our mother was mentally ill, and abusive due to her illness. Books were a lovely escape from the abuse and loneliness of being a child in my home; I devoured every book I could get my hands on.

One of the battles that mother fought was with depression; she would often spend days at a time in her bed reading. As a result, there were innumerable volumes of paperback fiction available. Whenever we moved (something we did a lot) one of the first things that happened in each new house was the installation of rows and rows of standard-and-bracket shelves to hold the boxes and boxes of books. I read them all.

It was fortunate for me, I think, that she was not the type to read romance novels, but I cannot look at a copy of Stephen King's 'It', however, without the same heat of fear washing over me that had overtaken me when I read it for the first time at the tender age of 10.

I fell in love with my favorite book to this day, 'To Kill a Mockingbird', when I was just 8 years old. I was held captive by the reality that my brothers and sisters and I were not alone in the injustices of life. I was also endeared to the characters because I found it terribly romantic that Scout and Jem had a father and no mother; with my mother's boyfriends in and out of my life more often than the changing of the seasons, my deepest, secret wish as a little girl was to have a father.

My first taste of Hemingway's work was at the age of 11; it was a collection of short stories, including 'The Three Day Blow'; there was something about the way the words fit together to create descriptions so real that I felt that I was in the cabin with that boy, feeling the pressing of the storm outside, and the warmth of the fire inside.

My favorite Hemingway (can there be just one?) is 'A Moveable Feast'. Upon reading 'Feast', I knew that I wanted to be a writer, and that I would, one day, make it to Paris and sit at the cafes where Hemingway sat, and suss out a book or two there.

I am thankful to have been lucky enough to have had my eyes opened at such a young age to the happiness, sadness, fear, magic, and complete joy that the written word holds in its' pages. At the end of my life, after I have passed many tests, and overcome many things, and experienced my life, my only complaint to God will be: "I didn't finish my list of books!"

*To Kill a Mockingbird image from www.art.com; Trixie Beldon image from www.abebooks.com, Moveable Feast image from www.log24.com

Leave a comment with your favorite book, and why.

See what's on my bookshelf: Rebecca Reece's Books

Look At Me!

2009-03-15T11:08:00.000-07:00

When I was a teen, and later, an adult, I was involved with an organization called Western Youth Development (WYD) (I was first a participant, and later served as their Grant-Writer.) WYD ran weekend YES (Youth Empowerment Skills) trainings for “at-risk youth,” age 13 to 18 (many of the participants were either labeled as “troubled,” in the foster-care system, or court-ordered to be there.)

We participated in numerous activities/exercises that were meant to boost communication skills, relating with others, and self-esteem and self-empowerment. One of the exercises was called “Look at me!” During “Look at me!” we all stood in two lines facing in; each person had a person across from them, and the exercise was to look into one another's eyes. Out of all of the exercises that we did, this was often the most difficult!

After a long while, this exercise got easier and easier, but it always started with uncomfortable laughter, bad attitudes, and for some, complete refusal to participate. After the initial “shock” of having someone look directly at you, and looking directly at another person, some of the youth got very emotional.

Looking into the eyes of another human is a very personal, intimate thing. Something I learned through my experience with WYD was that by making choices to be platonically intimate with other people, I felt more fulfilled, stronger as a person, and able to have conversations on an equal level with others. It was, in a word, empowering!

Not only are you empowered and confident when you give good eye contact, but the other person feels respected and listened to.

Whether you are trying to grow your business, relationships, or just grow yourself, eye contact is more important than the smile, the hand-shake, or the words that accompany them,

With so many in this world these days with a craving for intimacy, perhaps mere eye contact can begin to spread the kind of fulfillment that will seep into and fill in the vast crevices that self-esteem falls into!

Look at me; I will look back at you!

The Cover-Letter

2009-03-10T08:30:00.000-07:00

I recently applied for a job as a Part-time Moderator & Marketing Associate for a social networking site. When I finished the cover-letter, I thought it was worth posting here...
I am Rebecca Reece. I am a wife, a mom, and a wicked good cook! One the side, I am an inventor; I invented The GumSpa, and I am a (budding) Web Designer (I authored both www.thegumspa.com and www.builderjames.com, as well as having bids out for a couple more), and I am a Writer, and have turned my love for writing into becoming an avid Blogger and Social Networker.
My five favorite websites, that is, the ones I frequent the most (not counting Facebook, MySpace, Shelfari, or Twitter because we will get to those in a moment; and with the exception of online bill-paying and banking, two evils that must be stopped...) are as follows:
www.helium.com This is where I write articles, and read and rate other people's articles
www.merriam-webster.com This is the site I always have open on a spare tab for those words I just cannot remember how to spell, or to find a word that is a outside of the realm of cliche. (Add cliches to to the list of evils that must be stopped as well!)
www.playlist.com Project Playlist is the where I love to browse for, and listen to music that gives me a musical muse to write. I love being able to find songs from high school or childhood at Project Playlist. especially when writing a story/blog/article from then; music really does take you back to a place of ago, (so do smells, but sometimes it's difficult to recreate the smell of a farm inside my office, where so many of my (mis)adventures happened as a kid!).
www.webmd.com I love the availability of having illnesses, diseases, and disorders right here on my screen whenever I may need one! Whether I am writing an article, making suggestions to a friend, or looking up something interesting to afflict one of my characters with; Web MD has been the best site for all of my medical research needs!
www.writersservices.com This is the best site that I have found for finding the 'just right' quote on any topic that I may need. Sometimes I am able to find a quote here, and turn it into a thesis statement for a short piece I am writing. Often, I just like to see what other people have said about someone or something that I might relate or debate with.
Here are my Social Networking and Blogging Sites:
MySpace
Facebook
Reece's Pieces(Blogger) (you are here!)
Shelfari
Urbis
Twitter
And finally, I write and edit a newsletter for my husband's remodeling business, Build It!, you can view the newsletter here:
Build It! The Newsletter
Also, I write for, and keep up the blogs for my husband's business.
The Blogging Builder
Build It! The Blog
Build It! on Merchant Circle
Ultimately, I love what I do! I love being "in the know" (there is one of those dreaded cliches again) about events going on in the news, and what people think about those events. I have been known to offer my opinion, humble may it be, about products, services, or businesses that I have used. I enoy spreading positive thoughts and encouragement, and can often be found skipping through the Internet passing out compliments, insight, constructive criticisms, and even the occasional chain of daisies!

Saint Valentine's Day

2009-02-14T09:33:00.000-08:00

I am not, nor have I ever been a fan of Valentines Day. My husband and I don't share in the "tradition" of making Valentine's Day a time to spend money on one another, or on anyone else. The commercialism of days (Christmas, Easter, Valentine's Day, etc., etc., etc.) that were meant to memorialize and remember, have turned the real reasons for these holidays into another spending-frenzy!

I don't send cards out on Valentine's Day, but often receive them; I AM thankful for the people who remember me, though. This year, I got a card from my wonderful Aunt Doris (who is always thinking about others!) and I thought I would share the content of the card here, because it is the first Valentine's Day card that I have received that I have really enjoyed. On it, is the story of Saint Valentine.

The Story of Saint Valentine

Ancient Rome was not a thriving city with all amenities as it is today. When Rome was founded, there was wilderness all around and the dense jungles were natural habitats of fierce wild animals. One animal that particularly should be mentioned in this context is the wolf. Countryside, in the infant city of Rome, abounded with fierce wolves who made mince meat of any human daring to enter their territory. But the Romans had Lupercus who looked after the poor innocent shepherds and their flocks of sheep. So to honor the God who does so much for them all through the year, ancients Romans celebrated Lupercalia in mid February. There was a great feast and young people mixed freely with each other in the hopes of getting a suitable bride or groom for themselves. Therefore the association of spring and love in the minds of mankind sprung in the pagan days.

Gradually with the passage of time and advent of a Christian society, love took on another dimension and meaning. If Lupercalia encouraged eroticism, then Valentine celebration is about more tender higher love which glorifies in sacrifices. There are many versions of Saint Valentine story and it is easy to get confused. There were at three Saint Valentines who may have or may not have anything to do with love. But the most accepted Saint Valentine story is about an ancient priest, St. Valentine.

He was chaste himself but that did not make him shun those who gave in to the most common failing (if it can be so called) of the human mind, love. Emperor Claudius II decreed that no young men should marry, as he realized that marriage and families made them reluctant to join the army. But how can the society move forward with so many unmarried people teeming with resentment and frustration?

St. Valentine performed secret marriage ceremonies in dungeons and other obscure places, with only the bride and groom apart from the priest present. Such activity obviously endeared him to the youth of the society, but the blow fell with Claudius coming to know of this practice. He was imprisoned before being beheaded on 14th February. There is a very tender story regarding the death of St. Valentine. The jailer's daughter apparently fell in love with him and visited him everyday in jail. She was cured of her blindness by the saint, but whom destiny had decided to part, what can any mortal do? The bereft girl received a message from him signed “from your Valentine”, on the eve of his death.*

Knowing the story of Saint Valentine, we as a family are going to start a tradition of having a family dinner (nothing commercially fancy, mind you!) and talking about the things that we love about one another. We will remember why we fell in love, how we stay in love, and reflect on our favorite ways of sharing love.

*source: http://www.mydearvalentine.com/saint-valentine/saint-valentine-story.html
source of heading heart picture: http://www.mackenziewhitetrust.org/images/Two-Pink-Hearts-lg.gif

One Day More

2009-01-24T16:27:00.000-08:00

In the months following the death of my mom I used to have vivid dreams about her. There was never anything spectacular in the dreams; we weren’t skydiving over an ocean of grape jelly or anything (yes, I have actually dreamt that before, which, of course is an absurd concept… I would never skydive!) But we were sharing routine time together.

In one of the first dreams we were in the basement of our old house sorting hot socks out of the dryer; most of the socks were white, but still, it seemed that not many of them matched. We stood side by side in silence, sorting through the socks and folding the obvious pairs together, and setting aside the orphan-socks in a growing pile.

“This is stupid,” I said as I tossed more socks on the orphan-sock pile. “Half of these socks don’t even fit together, why did we even wash them? We should have only put pairs into the wash to begin with, and then we wouldn’t have wasted soap; we should just throw them in the trash bin!” I tossed a sock, yellowed from over-bleaching on the top of the pile.

Mom didn’t look up or say anything; she just kept sorting and folding, her rings clicking together the way they always did when she and I did horrid-looking latch-hook projects together on Saturday afternoons in the Winter.

I was frustrated with her silence, so I threw the next sock with more force than I needed. and it flew over the pile and slid into the crack between the wall and the dryer; I grabbed at it and missed, barely feeling the warmth of the cotton before the sock disappeared. I turned to roll my eyes toward mom in a “that figures” sort of way.

She was gone.

The basket of matched socks was gone as well; it was just me and the pile of miss-matched socks on top of the dryer. A wave of grief hit me hard enough to wake me from sleep. I sat up in bed and cried deep, heaving sobs knowing that she was really gone.

I sometimes wonder what, if anything, the socks meant. Sometimes I imagine that the socks represented all of the foster-kids she took in, myself included, and how she “put us through the wash” instead of letting us be “tossed in the bin.”

I also wonder how much valuable time is lost to being frustrated with one another over things as silly as miss-matched socks. It would be a gift and a curse alike to be cognitive of how short our time with one another really is, so we could get up above all the drama and get on with the business of living. Of loving.

Often I think about the things I would do with mom if I had just one day more: take her out for the perfect meal; sit in the coffee shop on a Sunday afternoon drinking in raspberry mocha's and easy conversation, or maybe a walk on the beach not talking, but just being together. Any one of these things would be spectacular, a blessing, but the truth is, I would do something as simple as sorting socks with her, if given the chance to see her for just a few moments more.

An Actual Rant: Who Moved My Country?

2009-01-04T07:45:00.000-08:00

Why? Why must the Big American Puppet (any media outlet in this country) keep broadcasting the so-called "doomed" state of America's financial health; thus doing nothing more than perpetuating that state?
I know how it works: The Government controls The Media, The Media controls The People, and The People control the finances of the country... Wait! "The People control the finances"?
First of all, don't be offended by how much we allow the media to control us; who else has a cupboard full of rice because of the supposed "rice-shortage" a few months ago? (A shortage that, by the way, never seemed to transpire, and seems vaguely familiar to the butter-fat-shortage a decade or so ago which drove the cost of milk, butter, and ice cream to levels that never quite came down again... Hmmm... Perhaps The Dairy Farmers will be the subject of my next go-round.)
What would happen, I wonder, if "we the People" stood up and made financial decisions on our own; smart financial decisions, that is. What would it look like if we stopped buying the bull***t that we are far too ignorant to make these decisions on our own?
There would be plenty of people that would not be responsible, but isn't that the beauty of allowing independent thought and actions: The freedom to experience the natural consequences of choices. From the time we are tiny little Americans, it is the responsibility of our parents/caregivers to hold us responsible by allowing us to reap the natural consequences of our actions, both good and bad. It is how we learn.
It's how we learn; learning is power.
Learning is power.
I get it. If learning is power, and the "powers that be" want to keep the power for themselves, mayhaps we are not meant to learn. Should we stand for this blatant attempt to keep us, "the people" uneducated, poor, and, in light of the fuel situation, immobile?
We do not have to stand for it! Look at what is happening around you, and where you can, affect some change for the better!
Talk to an elderly person, and then listen to them! Teach your children the importance of saving, and take that damn cell phone away! There have been generations and generations of children that have *gasp!* survived without a cell phone; teach them how to conduct face to face communication with respect, and eye-contact!
Let's give our children the gift of hard work, hand-me-down clothes, and community volunteering. Do not give your children an education; give your children the desire for an education that they have to work hard for!
Pick up a book; and for the love of God, shut off the noise of CNN or MSNBC, or whatever media outlet we are allowing at the moment to tell us how much to spend, where to spend it, what to drive, where to go, what to fight for. We are a more intelligent people than that!
The only way to pull this Country out of the state that it is in, is by becoming a country again! Our Country is what we decide it is!
What do you want your country to look like; what are you willing to do to make it so?

Live Victoriously!

2009-01-02T12:33:00.000-08:00

Isn't it empowering to realize that the choice to be victorious is up to us? God wants us to succeed; He has given us the desire and ability to pursue it, and it is up to us whether or not to do so.
When my husband and I were at [big-box-books] the other day, I saw a book titled: "You are poor because you choose to be!"
I was offended by that! Why was I offended by a book title? We are usually offended by things that are either abhorrent, or things that speak truths about us that we would rather not face up to.
It is really easy to (excuse the cliche) chalk things up to: Bad luck, the actions of others, being in the wrong place at the wrong time, etc., etc., etc.. However, it is really (really, really!) difficult to accept responsibility for our own failures and short-comings, to admit that: I am here because I chose (blank) over (blank).
Like I said to my husband yesterday: "If I were truly dedicated to finishing my books, I would be up every morning at 4am before the house got up." It is horribly uncomfortable truth for me!
I am finding that the truth behind our circumstances lies within our efforts, or lack thereof.
I am tired of being weak, bitter, and quick to blame others around me for my circumstances. I teach my son that we choose to be angry; people cannot "make" us angry. Good lesson, perhaps I should listen to myself!
I want to be victorious in my efforts: I choose to live victoriously!

Don't Blink

2008-12-08T11:17:00.000-08:00

I blinked. I blinked, and suddenly my newborn was five! I have no idea where the time went, and I have to struggle to remember all the details that I must have missed somewhere!
I remember the tiny face with the big, brown eyes looking at me while he was nursing. We had the best talks then; when his tummy was full he would look up and coo his secrets to me, and I would tell him mine.
Suddenly, he was crawling, there was a whirlwind of baby-proofing everything below knee-level. Weaning to a cup, zwieback toast crumbs in the carpets (and everywhere else), and nothing can be compared to the first "spaghetti experience!"
And then... Suddenly he's walking; he's saying actual words... Wait! What was that word, oh my goodness! Did he just tell me "No!"
Honestly, each stage has been like a camera; each click of the high-speed shutter another milestone.
When my tiny Grover was just a wee little bug of a baby, I used to get so annoyed with all of the well-meaning comments about how I should, "be sure to enjoy and cherish every moment; they grow so fast!" I can tell you that I have said that very same phrase at least three times in the last week.
Where once a cooing, wiggly baby lay on a blanket on the floor, a little person was toddling around the house with the contents of my purse strewn in a trail behind him. A little person with a personality, a strong will, and a temper! He learned what he liked, and didn't like at the table, and is no longer content to just ride along in the stroller while we peruse the shopping mall.
My baby changed to my toddler, to my preschooler, and is now on the cusp of just being my boy. Do all mothers grieve and rejoice at the passage of one stage and the beginning of another?
As I look at these last shutter-clicks that I have alone with Grove before he starts Kindergarten next Fall, I am faced with a whole new set of fears: Will his teacher love him like I do (of course not). Will his classmates like him? Will he make friends? Will he keep up with the work? And most unrealistically; will he like his teacher more than me?
Will he miss me?
Why is it so easy to get so wrapped up in who you are as a mom, instead of who you are? I used to have big ideas about many aspects of my life, and now everything seems to center around parenthood.
I think I see what the "Empty Nest" syndrome is about; the question is, will I be able to change before it happens to me?
I better get a hobby, a life, even!
The best thing you can teach your children is to be independent. Can you really teach independence if you are dependent on them to fulfill who you are as a person: Probably not.
One sure thing is that Grover will continue to grow.
He will continue to change and become a young boy, then a young man, and I will have to continue to make steps to let him.
To let him go.
I suppose the best way is to let go in the little ways every day, giving him the small independence's now will prepare us both for the bigger ones down the road; the road, I am learning, is not nearly as long as I first thought it was!

Buggers, Poop, and Sunday School

2008-02-14T07:44:00.000-08:00

Okay, so I was known to occasionally pop a thick, sticky wad of bubble gum into my mouth after scraping it off the underside of the table at Burger King when I was a kid. Gum, candy, and fun cereal was always off the menu, so that's my excuse! I cringe to realize that my son (at 4-years-old) is getting ever closer to the booger-eating-gum-scraping-anti-bathing ages. Heaven help me! He is in the bathroom humor stage already (everything is "poop," and "pee," and just last weekend, "nose-drip").

Riding in the car last Sunday on the way to church, Grover was chatting away in the back seat about all of his favorite bodily fluids and functions, when my husband, James says:

"Okay, Grove, no more poop talk; Mommies wants to hear about nice things, like flowers and rainbows." (Boy, he's got me nailed down.)

"Hmmm... Okay Daddy!" And without missing a beat, Grover makes up a song on the spot (budding musician that he is)

"Flowers, and raiiiinbows, and (dramatic pause) poooooooop!" Perhaps laughing hard enough to make my vision blur sent the wrong message just then, because he continued to sing us all the way to church.

When we finally reached the church parking lot and prepared to enter God's house, we informed Grover that there would be absolutely, positively NO poopy-talk in church. He agreed, but I wondered how soon it would be before he shared his newly composed ditty with his Sunday school teacher, Miss Deborah.

I began to have hope though, as after church he informed me in the parking lot:"Mommy, I did not say poop in Sunday School!" My heart soared!

"That's terrific, Grove! Mommy is SO proud of..."

"But I eat-ed my buggers." He said, with the excitement of someone announcing that I had won the sweepstakes. Sigh.

Remember when they giggled, gurgled, and cooed, and smelled like baby powder?

Funeral Salad

2008-01-31T00:44:00.000-08:00

My mom, Jan and me at my wedding, 1997

It has been just over two years since the sudden death of my mom, Jan. Lung cancer took her at the young age of 61; and unfortunately, she didn't even have the time after the diagnosis to tell anyone that she was sick. She died just five days after learning that she had less than a year to live.
Over the 14 years that she was my mom, I learned a lot from her about life. From the importance of going to school dances, to the responsibilities of living on my own, and finally, the day to day rigors, and joy, of parenting my own child. I took lessons from her on growing beans, and on growing children (both of which are usually pretty healthy!); I wish her final lesson to me would have been about growing old.
While I lived with her as a teen, she and I had our differences, and our camaraderic times; all the while she was teaching us girls how to be, well, girls. I hated being on her bad side, but I would never go into one of life's battles with anyone other than her on my side!
One of the things that I tend to carry with me from events in my life, is the foods that nourish my journey. Staples of my early childhood were whatever foods came in falling-apart banana boxes from the Food Bank every Saturday; thick, tasteless peanut butter in white cans with black print, and heavy blocks of government cheese plagued my young pallet.
Later, instant potatoes, beans and franks, and dark, overcooked broccoli graced my plate at the temporary girls home. Once I came to life with my new mom, homemade spaghetti with meat sauce, (her special touch to the sauce was a generous helping of hand-sliced black olives) and baked macaroni and cheese were my favorites of the meals she prepared six nights a week. But sometimes, there are foods from our past that come forward with us, and meet us later with a friendly "hello, remember when..." For me, it was "funeral salad."
**********************
I was about seven when I went to my first funeral. An elderly lady in our church died and we, our family, went to her funeral. I remembered how after church on Sundays, she would—without our mother’s knowledge—give my me and my brother small packets of "Sixlets," little chocolate flavored candy balls that would leave a greasy coating in my mouth to remind me of the guilt that I should have felt over taking the candy, and how she would smile, and all of the wrinkles in her face would straighten out for the smallest second and show her beauty beneath her skin.
I didn’t cry at the funeral; I don’t think that I really knew what was happening, or that she was gone and not coming back. I was wearing itchy, too-small white tights under a black, pleated skirt, and white gloves on my hands. I sat fidgeting on the hard wooden pew sandwiched between my brother and my mother, and scratched at my knees during the service, wishing for it to be over quickly so I could get out of my tights.
After the service there was a reception in the church basement. It was dark, and smelled like old coffee and old ladies perfume down there. There was a long table with things to eat on it, and people stood around it pretending that they were too sad to eat, picking up paper plates and napkins like it was a duty. All the while though, their eyes had been greedily surveying the contents of the table, hoping to get a bit of everything before it was gone.
I was in line at the food table behind a great big fat man who smelled like sweat and had white dog hair that stuck to his brown pants. I eyed the bounty on the table for myself and when I was in front of it, I picked out a dinner roll and three tiny ears of corn, and then scooped a blob of creamy, green goo onto my plate. I retreated to a metal folding chair next to my brother to eat; he wasn’t eating anything; he really was too sad to eat. I ate the green stuff with a plastic fork—there weren’t any spoons—and my brother wrinkled his nose at me.
“That looks gross,” he said.
“You’re gross,” I said.
************************

When I was fifteen, I spent my first Christmas in foster care. On the table next to the turkey gravy was a large bowl of green goo.
“Wow, funeral salad!” I said.
My foster mom, Jan, looked at me funny, and a couple of the other foster girls laughed. I was embarrassed. But Jan smiled then.
“I think I have seen this at more than one funeral,” Jan said.
Easter that year, Jan handed me a recipe card. “You should know how to make this,” she said.
The recipe had “green salad” written across the top in faded blue ink. Every year after, at all of the holiday dinners, I would go back to my old foster home to share in a meal; the recipe title on the card was replaced with, “Becky's Funeral Salad,” and the green goo was always on the menu.

How I Lost My Mother to Cancer, and Found Her through My Garden

2008-01-28T13:44:00.000-08:00

Bush Beans, Summer 2006

I didn't start gardening until I was 29. To be truthful, my husband started gardening when I was 29; I became "gardening support." It started with one sad and wilted tomato plant last spring, and ended with a freezer full of garden-fresh tomatoes, zucchini, and beans that fall.
"Look!" My husband, James said. He had just come in from work, he was holding up a black, plastic pot with a wilted tomato plant that hung limply to the side. He was smiling like a twelve-year-old boy with a huge toad bulging out of his fist. I eyed the tomato plant with far less enthusiasm than he, and didn't say anything.
"It's a tomato plant!" He said, thrusting it toward me. I reached out to take it, and then changed my mind, dropping my hand back down to my side. Our two-year old son, Ben, plowed into my husband's legs at that moment, and the sad tomato plant flopped from side to side.
"I can see that it's a tomato plant," I said. "What is it doing here?"
"We're gonna plant it! We'll get more, and we'll have a vegetable garden this year," he said. He knelt down on the floor to show Ben the plant, "look, Ben, tomato plant," he said to the toddler, who promptly grabbed at the limp greens.
"'Mato pants,” said Ben. "'Mato pants... Mato pants!" He chanted, dancing a jig around my husband.
That was the beginning of our garden. Plots were dug, the soil was prepared, gardening books of all kinds started showing up around the house; books piled up on the bathroom counter, in the office, and in the kitchen. Nearly every day brought James home from work with some new plant, or more seed packets. More and more vegetables, fruits and herbs were planted, and started to grow in our back yard garden.
James was thrilled with each new sprout, and I was indifferent. It wasn’t that I disliked gardening so much, I had not been enthusiastic about anything then; my mother had died suddenly and unexpectedly from a ruptured tumor in her lung a few months before, and nothing I did held much pleasure for me. Gardening just seemed like another chore to do, something to be “gotten to,” during the day. I kept Ben out of the garden, watered it when it was hot, and just continued to muddle through my days, reminding myself to get up each morning and breathe.
It was a Tuesday evening when James brought home a packet of bush beans, and I began to garden.
**************

“Mom!” I shout, running into the house from the school bus. “Mom, where are you?” I hear here answer from her room so I toss my book bag on the sofa and hurry down the hall to her door.
“Becky, what are you shouting about?” She said. She looks at what I am holding in my hand and furrows her brow. “You’re getting dirt all over the carpet! Get that thing outside!” She walks toward me and shoos me down the hall and out the back patio door. The plastic baggie in my hand had sprung a leak sometime between school and my front door, and I leave a trail through the house.
“Sorry mom, but look, can I plant them in the back?” I hold up the baggie with its treasure inside; three small bean plants peek out of the top of the leaking bag.
“What are they?” Mom asks, her brow is still furrowed.
“Beans!” I say.
“You’re a sophomore in high school and you are growing beans in a baggie? What are you learning, kindergarten botany?” Mom says.
“I don’t know, I do what Mr. Thomas says. Anyways, can I plant them in the yard?” I say. I am still excited, even though I know I will eventually have to clean the dirt from the carpet, I have visions of Jack and his beanstalk running through my thoughts. Mom likes to have flowers in the yard, but we never grow anything edible, and I want to try.
“Fine, that’s fine I guess. You’ll need to make a place,” mom says. She reaches for the caddy that holds her gardening trowels and gloves, and ushers me down the deck steps toward the back of the yard. “Near the fence will be best, there,” she points to a spot by the fence, far from the tall tree that sits in the corner of the yard.
“Why not over there, by the tree?” I ask her, gesturing with my baggie of bean plants.
“They need sun,” she says. “I had better give you a hand or they will be dead by the weekend.” She kneels on the ground next to the spot she had pointed out, and begins to instruct me to pull out various weeds and stones. Less than an hour later, we have prepared a place, planted, and watered the beans. She explains how to care for them, and we go inside together to clean up the dirt, which I do, while she makes dinner.
For the few weeks that passed and ended school for the summer, mom and I would go out to see “Becky’s Beans,” as she had named them, and we watched them grow together. With three other sisters in the house, there never seems to be enough time alone with mom, this is something that brings mom and I together; we share conversations, not just about growing beans, but about other things, some things important, and some things not, but everything just mine and mom’s.
When the beans are finally big enough to pick and eat, mom sends me out with a colander and tells me to gather beans for dinner. I do, and when we eat that night, she brags about what good beans they are, and tells all of us girls that we should plant a garden together next time. We don’t, though, and I am glad. That year, mom and I didn’t grow a garden together, we grew together.
***********************

I planted my patch of bush beans in the sun last year, and I watched them sprout and grow. When I tended to them, I would remember “Becky’s Beans” from all those years ago, and recall the conversations we had together over my little plot of garden. She would encourage me when I was down about something, and laugh with me about something else. I weeded the rows of beans with the sun on my back and remembered mom’s laughter and wisdom.

When we harvested our crop last year, and ate fresh beans for dinner the day we picked them, I remembered mom at the table going on about “Becky’s Beans,” and I was glad that I had finally taken her advice about growing another garden. I didn’t just find a love for gardening; instead, I remembered my love for my mother and found her in the rich soil that, like her life, and then her passing, fostered new growth.

The List

2008-01-28T13:02:00.000-08:00

The List

I get annoyed with the regularity that I get surveys in my email, or on MySpace, and rarely do I take any time to read them, much less fill them out. However, this time I thought that perhaps I could take the opportunity to turn a meaningless survey into something that not only says something about me, but also reveals things to myself as well.
~Rebecca Reece

Here is my list…

1. I love: Spending early Sunday mornings curled up warm in our bed with my husband and our son, sipping coffee and talking about superheroes.

2. Right now I want: To have arrived in my new business venture, and in writing.

3. I feel like: The best parts of my life move too fast to enjoy, and the crappy parts just drag on like a rainy Monday. The worst part is that often it’s the dragging days that turn out to be the great ones, but I miss out on the best moments with selfish complaining.

4. I hate it when: There are things in the world that are so horrible, yet so big that I can't do anything about them; and that there are some things in the world that are horrible, but I don't do anything about them.

5. I fear: Something happening to me and leaving my son without a mother. I also fear something happening to James and being without his tenderness and joyful encouragement.

6. I'm lonely without: All of my family near me.

7. I need: To relax and treasure every moment instead of always trying to control the moments.

8. Today I: Will enjoy my family, and not stress the messes!

9. Tomorrow I'm: Back on task to make considerable forward motion in my new business because I know that it will bring my husband home from work more often.

10. I just: Put a Spiderman puzzle together with Grover and was amazed at his wicked fast puzzling abilities!

11. I want to meet: Someone who listens to my ideas about the important things in this country: Hunger, Medical Care, Unfair Taxes, and Immorality.

12. I'm hungry for: Halibut fillet with lemon and butter, and steamed vegetables and a creamy artichoke risotto accompanied by a dry chardonnay.

13. I love it when: James gets an unexpected day off and we just hang around the house in pajamas all day playing with Grove, and cooking new recipes (though not always good ones!), and enjoying one another.

14. I'm afraid of: Terrorism and the wrong president; there can't be a more scary combination.

15. I'm listening to: "Amazing Grace," Chris Tomlin's rendition.

16. I'm wearing: Thin in my resolve to be a Republican.

17. I wish I was in: France, dining where Hemingway dined and penning successful prose.

18. I'm craving: Success for the struggling, and humbling for the arrogant.

19. I want to get: Published with great earnings... Soon.

20. I can: And will, walk the 60 mile Breast Cancer 3-day this year.

21. I can't: Continue to be apathetic to my callings.

22. I have: Overcome enough in my life to be a better person than I am.

23. I haven't: Realized my full potential, but know that I will.

24. I'm nervous to: Find out what my full potential is, and what responsibilities it will surely carry with it.

25. My Mom thinks I'm: My mom died two years ago, and I know that she was more proud of me than I deserved; I hope that I would make her proud of me still.

26. My Dad thinks I: Don't exist; he never knew me.

27. I think: I have been blessed more than one person ever should be, and I think I could do much better at appreciating it!

28. I'm happy when: I am with my family.

29. I'm sad when: I think about how much I still need my Mom’s advice; sometimes I reach for the phone to call her, but then remember that she isn't there.

30. I like eating: Hmmmm... That is an entire sentence in itself, isn't it? :o)

31. I hate eating: Cooked carrots.

32. I love watching: My son learning new things.

33. I love listening to: My husband playing his guitar.

34. I like playing: The drums. (Though I am sure the neighbors could really do without!)

35. I hate waking up to: The heartache of others on the news.

36. I can see: Myself enjoying the challenges that will come, and that have already come this year!

37. I'm glad that: I am alive.

38. I'm disappointed that: I haven't quite accomplished the goal I had set for my life right now, but have enjoyed the detours!

39. I look like: A perfect creation to God; a superhero to my son, a beautiful woman to my husband, and a control-freak to myself!
40. I wish I looked like: The woman of strength, integrity, and success that I know I am meant to be.

Integrity

2008-01-07T17:55:00.000-08:00

Often, it is believed that integrity is simply living life by the rules; Whose rules, I have to wonder. For arguments sake, we will just concede that the rules consist of all of the rules about life (put forth by those who we will just call society) that are innately good, and when seen living by them, people are considered (by society) to be good people. We will even go one step further to include the unwritten rules, as well as the common sense rules; that should cover them all, and therefore, live by all of those, and there you have it, folks: Integrity!
No, I don't think so.
Integrity as society sees it is nothing more than trite garbage. Societal integrity allows for corruption of the most evil kind; a corruption that encompasses stealing, and lying, and hurtful deceit. It is supportive of suffering and social negligence. Societal integrity holds up insufferable monopolies in the name of success. Places like Wal-Mart and Barnes & Noble can peddle wares harvested and pieced together by the hands of children, just to bring a necessary savings to the hands of consumers, in this great land of America, who haven't cared to learn how to live within reasonable means, and therefore cry out for lower prices and more with less effort. Right, there is integrity for you; the kind of integrity that bids you quit working with any real effort, and just put your hand out. If you wait long enough, someone will eventually hand you something.
There are more rules to life that those that society call the rules. Spiritual rules have all but been banned from the general population. Rules of strong ethical values have been buried under the truckloads of landfills that are piled deeply with foreign plastics and products that formed the junk that we Americans just had to have because it was On Sale! I cant wait to see the Antiques of this generation! Already there are antique malls filled with toys and gadgets from the eighties and nineties; it isnt because they are old enough to be antiques, it is because those things are so poorly made that they wont even be around fifty years from now.
Integrity is not about following rules and being good people; true integrity is about following the rules that no one else even know about. It isnt what you are doing when a crowd gathers to support a common cause; it is about the things you do when you are alone, and the things that you never tell about. True integrity doesnt have an audible voice.