Toss the Peeps!

Sometimes I think that, if our house had a name, it would most likely be Camp Chaos. I want to be clear that this has more to do with living with three gigantic house bears than it does with the index cards and quilt scraps and seed packets and canning jars that seem to be taking over, despite my somewhat feeble attempts at getting organized.

My Lenten plan for releasing a bag of stuff every day, for donation or recycling or even trash, has resulted in a lot less stuff, and a somewhat smaller version of Stone Mountain, composed of too- large clothes still on their way to new homes. Progress, indeed. Not so much less chaos.

Recently, I opened my door to a client and, with great determination, did not appologize for the dog hair gathered around the perimeter of every room. I live with Newfoundlands. The new kid is blowing coat and not yet up to a spa day.

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Do you do windows?

My mom had a thing about washing windows. I can still see her on an overcast Florida day, in Bermuda shorts, clinging to the step stool with her toes, paper towels caught randomly in the bushes.  She swore she hated doing it but was always so proud when it was done. Everybody had to come look. And “ooh” and “ahh”. (Noticing smudges was not considered helpful!)

Perhaps this is a particularly active pollen season in Georgia. The flourescent pea green pollen is fading to more of a yellow-beige but it just keeps falling. And swirling. And drifting. It’s everywhere.

I sit and look out the front window to my garden and I feel like I’m looking at the world through a paste of pollen. Long experience suggests that there’s no sense washing windows yet. You just have to wait until it’s done. Though, while it’s here, it’s reminding me of all the things I’ve learned about the filters through which we see the world.

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Hallelujah Anyway!

Yesterday, I went on a pilgrimage. The magnificent author, Anne Lamott, was reading from her new book, Hallelujah Anyway: Rediscovering Mercy, at Central Presbyterian Church in Atlanta.

As is the case with most pilgrimages, I really had to want it. Central is just across from the state capitol, smack in the middle of downtown Atlanta. The building is gorgeous. My favorite part, though, was the sign hanging outside that read, “Immigrants and Refugees Welcome.” While I have lots of fond memories of being there in the past, it’s definitely outside my perceived neighborhood. It also involved a Saturday night after dark. And navigational challenges. And parking challenges.

Bill came along. It’s nice to have other pilgrims along the way!

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On the Other Side of Silence

Have you ever noticed how a book you’d never heard of pops up suddenly with exactly what you need to make progress on whatever puzzle you’re trying to solve? The first time I remember it happening was about 20 years ago when, despite years of research, I was missing a transition I desperately needed for my dissertation.

I was wandering in a used book store when a particular volume called Women’s Ways of Knowing seemed to hop up and down on the shelf in front of me. Obligingly, I flipped through the pages, though, frankly, I wasn’t immediately attracted by the small heard of sociologists listed as authors.

Then I saw it.

Along with the discovery of personal authority arises a sense of voice–in its earliest form, a “still small voice” to which a woman begins to attend rather than the long-familiar external voices that have directed her life. This interior voice has become…the hallmark of women’s emergent sense of self and sense of agency and control (p. 68).

On the surface, not much to do with my topic of pre-marital counseling and the church. Yet, somehow, long before I discovered glitter pens, there it was. Almost glowing on the page.

The next step was obvious. Buy the book and head home as quickly as possible to read.

The authors were clear about their goals.

In this book we examine women’s ways of knowing and describe five different perspectives from which women view reality and draw conclusions about truth, knowledge, and authority. We show how women’s self-concepts and ways of knowing are intertwined. We describe how women struggle to claim the power of their own minds… (pp. 3-4).

All of which sounded useful, but not necessarily game changing. Until I read a bit further.

We listened as women told us their life stories and described the people and events that were catalytic in shaping the way they viewed themselves and their minds. Not all of the women’s stories were happy ones. This is as much a book about pain and anger and static lives as it is about hope and lives in blossom. It is also a book about the “roar which lies on the other side of silence” when ordinary women find their voice and use it to gain control over their lives (p. 4).

Exciting but still, seemingly, not much to do with my topic.

And then the lightbulb came on. The message was not about my topic. It was about me.

I was stuck between all the sources of authority in my life and me. My sense of authority. My sense of meaning. And there, among all the stories of other women, armed with a wholly new perspective, I decided to be less stuck. I decided to write my work.

Yes. It was scary. And, just between us, it almost backfired. At the last minute, though, it worked. (Though I had already learned a great many things which, we might suppose, should be the object of such an academic exercise in the first place!)

Yes, I said it. Should be. (A phrase I generally try to avoid.)

Fortunately, that book is still around. We may need it now, more than ever.

Here’s what I know now that I didn’t know even in the midst of knowing new things.

I do not want my girls to live in silence. I do not want them to discount their own experience and live in others’ notions of truth. I don’t want your girls to live in silence, discounting their experience, either. Nor, for that matter, do I want our boys to do that.

Well ok, I do want mine to listen to their parents and stay off social media and limit tv until they’re a bit older. I’m also glad they’re already claiming their own opinions about all those things, and many more.

And I’m committed to helping them be ready with the tools and strategies they will need to give more and more weight to their own voices. To question everything. To be wildly, passionately who they are. And to be open to the books and surprises that jump out for them in moments when they are wandering.

It’s kind of amazing, actually, to realize that I’ve spent most of my life getting ready to do just this!

Grandmothers Are In Charge Of Hope

Women’s Ways of Knowing

All Of The Above

Years and years ago, when I was finishing my bachelor’s degree at Eckerd College, I was deep in a required class called Psychology of Consciousness. Commonly known to students as “Kooks, Nuts, and Weirdos”!

I suppose it should have been something of a warning that I began to find a sense of myself there.

Our professor was a guy who had a Ph.D. in Ericksonian hypnosis. I had lots of interesting experiences in that class!

One of the most mind-boggling was his assertion that our bodily experience of the thing we call excitement and the thing we call anxiety are the same. It’s all a matter of interpretation.

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It Really Is All Of Us!

Ok. We’re going to try something new today.

More and more of you have shared with me that you have grandkids (Or kids or maybe even yourselves!) who need more help or different help than you imagined they might.

And some of you–old friends and new–have shared some thoughts about that.

So, today I want to share an article by a writing friend of mine. Lauren is an artist and author whose book, Studio Stories, Illuminating Our Lives through Art, is inspiring and comforting in just the ways I hope my quilts are.

This is a powerful story that was recently published in Autism Parenting Magazine.

Wait!

Before you say, “That’s not me,” I hope you’ll check it out. It really is all of us.

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Door Number Three

One of the big things that has changed in our high-tech virtual world is that we no longer need to wait for September to climb on a bus and go back to school. We can go at the push of a button.

I’ve pushed that particular button several times recently. (Which is no huge surprise to lots of you!)

Many students of brain function and human development hold that the most difficult thing people learn to do is to read. A large number of neuro “switches” are all required to click on before we are ready to read, no matter how eager we, or those around us, may be.

I was eager. Never having been to kindergarten, I clung to the promise that, in first grade, I would learn to read. Truthfully, I somehow supposed that meant on the first day of first grade!

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Sue Boardman, Certified Intentional Creativity®
Color of Woman Teacher & Coach