Category Archives: Motherhood

10.16.14
by

Field trip!

First graders descend the stairs to the bus.

First graders descend the stairs to the bus.

The last time I remember riding a yellow school bus was coming home from a fraternity party in college. Fifteen or so years ago. Me, hazy and giggly, wearing a skimpy fake fur dress my date had made for me; feet muddy from dancing barefoot; hair wet and curling from beer rain; trying to shake from my memory the dirty-dirty song the girls had been instructed to memorize while pre-partying together before the guys arrived. (Thanks, men of DU. I still know all the words). And, of course, my date, who had turned the dance floor into a slip-n-slide an hour earlier and was still wearing his Viking helmet, probably passing out on my shoulder. Aside: Hard to tell from this story, but that guy was—and is—so great. One of my faves.

Today I rode a yellow school bus again. Aaaand, it was a bit different. This was my date, and I was chaperoning his class field trip:

Pulling up to the Chicago History Musuem.

Charlie looks on as we arrive at the Chicago History Museum.

Incidentally, it’d been even longer since I’d been on a field trip. I was excited. We went to the Chicago History Museum and I had five kids in my stead. We called ourselves Team Awesome. Some highlights:

This is most of Team Awesome. They could not stop hugging each other. First graders heap themselves in piles like puppies every chance they get.

This is most of Team Awesome. They could not stop hugging each other. The affection is constant and so sweet. First graders heap themselves in piles like puppies every chance they get. With no awkwardness between them–when does that change?

-Riding on the bus next to Charlie, both of us radiating joy that we were having this experience together. We sat so, so close and smiled the whole way there. We had some fun conversations, and then we didn’t…

Him: What else do you want to talk about, Mommy?”

Me: I don’t really feel the need to talk. I’m just enjoying being with you right now.

Him: (smiling) Me, too, Mommy.

-Six children clobbering me with hugs at once. I almost fell over. So much love. My heart smiled.

This girl always makes my day. Today she offered up that she likes hanging around me because I'm loving and nice and fun. I mean, come on. How can you have a bad day after hearing that? Hugs all around!

This girl always makes my day. Today she offered up that she likes hanging around me because I’m loving and nice and fun. I mean, come on. How can you have a bad day after hearing that? Hugs all around!

-One of my best girls shared her peanut butter sandwich with me.

This little missy just glows. No wonder Charlie likes lunching with her. First-grade friendship is so pure and so smiley.

This little missy just glows. No wonder Charlie likes lunching with her. First-grade friendship is so pure and so smiley.

-I noticed one of the kids in my group had been in the bathroom a long time. When I went in to check on her, I found her dabbing her soaking wet hair with a paper towel. “I like having wet hair,” she told me. “It’s easier to comb and it looks so pretty.”

-A couple other moms were as excited as I was to be on the field trip, so we took a selfie.

-When faced with a giant, empty ballroom, some kids will dance and other kids will race. Both groups will be loud and probably get yelled at by a docent or security guard. I lost all control over them after about 1.5 hours.

-Charlie surprised me by staying close to me, listening exceptionally well and keeping his hands to himself almost all day. Until the fiddle music started and he kicked his buddy’s shin doing an exuberant jig.

-In the sensory room of the museum, there’s a kid-sized hot dog bun in which the kids can lie down, be the hotdog and have their friends put Chicago-style toppings on them. It’s only a matter of time before the boys spike onion pieces on their friends’ faces and the girls whack boys with the pickle spear.

Bosom buddies in a bun, Chicago-style. (Moments later, three girls jumped on top of them, to a chorus of boy-voiced groans.)

Bosom buddies in a bun, Chicago-style. (Moments later, three girls jumped on top of them, to a chorus of boy-voiced groans.)

It may be a while before I get to chaperone a field trip again, which is probably all right because today was every bit as exhausting as it was energizing. Ready for a long nap…much like I was after the last school-bus ride I remember.

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10.07.14
by

Impulse control is for everybody

You can be anyone and still face temptation to knock down the Jenga tower.

Impulses take many forms and have varying degrees of consequence, but you can be anyone and still face temptation to knock down the Jenga tower.

The start of another school year—a massive transition period in our family—inevitably marks the start of my six-year-old sensory kid’s battle with impulse control.

If you’re not familiar with the term “impulse control” as it relates to children with Sensory Processing Disorder (oh, and to everyone else on the planet) allow me to explain with a haiku:

I want to do this.

But I probably shouldn’t.

I’m doing it now!!!!

Most of us can admit to having issues around impulse control from time to time—we all have our triggers and weaknesses—and transitions are Charlie’s kryptonite.

Autumn, when we remove our toes from the sand and plant them in school shoes, generally brings the crazy. For all of us, yes, but my sensory kid feels it bigger and harder. When settling into a new routine, something happens in his brain that seems to wear down his nerves, making him just a little more raw than normal, a little unhinged.

Fall is a big departure from this. We go from dirt, sweat, sand and sun on our skin to covering up with lace-up shoes and school uniforms. Summer girl that I am, I come a little unhinged at the thought, too, so I can't fault Charlie for doing the same.

Fall is a big departure from this. We go from dirt, sweat, sand and sun on our skin to covering up with lace-up shoes and school uniforms. Summer girl that I am, I come a little unhinged at the thought, too, so I can’t fault Charlie for doing the same.

Sometimes transition behaviors surface predictably—flying off the handle at home when he doesn’t get his way. And other times, they are a wild card. Take, for example, the following tale.

“Mommy, Mrs. G says she needs to have a conversation with you,” a macabre Charlie informed me after school a few weeks ago.

I soon learned he had snapped the erasers off of a whole lot of classroom pencils.

“I kept finding all these erasers all over the place,” Mrs. G. explained. “And, finally, I realized what was going on. He wasn’t alone—there were others involved—but it appears Charlie was the main one. I already talked with him about it, I could tell he felt bad and he had a great day otherwise, so I don’t want him to get in trouble, but sometimes it helps to let the parents know so we can nip certain behavior in the bud.”

If only I knew how. My kid loves to break stuff. Even on a good day, he’s a destructobot. Charlie lives for the snap of a twig, the dismantling of a prized toy, the rip of paper, the cracking of plastic, the feel of his brother’s skin pinching between his fingertips, the energy released when one thing is made into two, the power of breaking something unbreakable with his own bare hands….

He knows it’s wrong, but he has a hell of a time stopping himself. It’s a daily challenge at home and, while he usually can keep himself together at school, during times of transition, he struggles with impulse control outside of home as well.

“Um, Andy inspired me to do it,” Charlie explains when I question him on the ride home. “But he just did one pencil. …And then I just sorta did a whole bunch more.”

“Hmm…I think I can see how that happened,” I say. “But you knew it was destructive, right? So why do you think you did it anyway?”

“I don’t know…I thought it was funny at first. And then I just couldn’t stop myself,” he says, the words tumbling rapidly from his mouth like boiling water.

“You know, Charlie, Mommy knows what that’s like. I’ve had this same problem before,” I say, trying to soothe him. “Sometimes there are things Mommy reeeeeally wants to do, but they’re not a very good idea, so I have to stop myself.”

Thankfully, I walked away from this vintage romper. But, don't worry, I sure did get the one-piece pantsuit in the background. I think I might be Zool for Halloween. (Aside: I snapped this special selfie for Kellie, who encouraged me in my hunt for an age-appropriate romper this summer. Unfortunately, I never found one and am yet uncertain of their existence.)

Thankfully, I stopped myself from this vintage romper. But, don’t worry, I now own the plum silk jumpsuit in the background. I might be Zool for Halloween. (Aside: I snapped this special selfie for Kellie, who steadfastly encouraged me in my hunt for an age-appropriate romper this summer and courageously gave me the thumbs down on more than one dressing room snapshot.) Unfortunately, I never found my mythical romper and am unconvinced of its existence.

“What do you mean? Why are they not a good idea?” he asks. (Also not a good idea: speaking about myself in the third person. He’s six. It’s time for pronouns.)

“Wellllll,” I draw out a pause long enough to gather the right words. “Sometimes I realize that things I want to do may have consequences that aren’t good for me or for people I care about. So I’ve had to try to stop myself from doing them.”

“Was it hard for you, Mommy?” he asks.

“Sometimes, yeah. Sometimes, no,” I say. “It depends on what it is. Sometimes, it’s easy. But other times, it’s reeeeeeally hard to stop myself.”

He regards me quizzically.

“This drive to do stuff and learning to decide when you need to stop yourself is something you may face your entire life,” I admit.

“My whole life?!” He’s incredulous, like, this simply cannot be. It can’t be.

“Yep. That’s why I want us to come up with tools for you to start learning how to do it while you’re young,” I say, deeply wishing I could tell him from experience that it would get easier.

Lookie here. It's a gelato party! Tip of the iceberg as far as my impulses are concerned.

Lookie here. It’s a gelato party! Tip of the iceberg as far as my impulses are concerned.

We immediately begin workshopping ideas for how he can stop himself from acting on potentially negative impulses. It’s not a perfect list, but if you’re looking for tools—for your sensory kid, or for your perfectly grown-up self—here’s what we came up with:

Sensory Kid tricks for interrupting an impulse

  • Get a cup of ice from the freezer and throw ice cubes off the back steps. Hard.
  • Thrash around on your bed punching the pillow till you get it all out.
  • Sing a song…an actual song, or a made-up song about the feelings you’re having.
  • Count to 10 and then think again about what it is you want to do.
  • Grab some sticks outside and break them into pieces.
  • Listen to heavy metal on Pandora and headbang till you feel better.
  • Tell the person you’re with how you’re feeling. Give the feeling words. (i.e., “I am so frustrated! I am really mad at you! I don’t like this at all! I reeeeeally want that! I feel impatient!” etc.)
  • Ask Archangel Michael to help. (Charlie’s selection. You could personally ask for any kind of divine intervention. Some ideas: your higher self, God, the Universe, your angels, Jesus, Mary, Goddess, Allah, your guides, your guru, a deceased grandma, the spirit of your favorite dead pet, etc. Whatever works!)
  • Take three deep, slow breaths.
  • Step outside and listen. Pick out as many sounds as you can.
  • Go stand next to a tree. Hug it, even.
  • Pet the dogs.
  • Ask for more divine intervention.
  • Rub some salt between your hands, take an Epsom salt bath or get in the tub and rub salt scrub on your feet (grainy textures sometimes help to take you out of the impulse and into the present moment.)
  • Go for hugs. The big, lingering, strong, don’t-let-go-till-you-feel-better variety.
09.22.14
by

Sensory kid wisdom: Healing the body

As we lay in his bed by the glow of a nightlight, my arms wrapped around his body and his head resting in the curve of my shoulder, I had this conversation with my sweet, soul-wise sensory kid tonight.

Him: Mommy, my tongue is feeling so much better. I just bit it yesterday—remember how bad it was?—and now it’s almost all gone. It doesn’t hurt at all.

Me: Oh good! I hoped it would heal really fast.

Him: Yeah, my body does heal extra fast.

Aside: It’s true. He gets a cut and it’s all better the next day. He slams his back hard against marble stairs in the rain and is doubled over in pain, but totally fine the next day. He bites his tongue at the playground such that blood gushes from his mouth and a black-and-blue lump swells, but hours later it’s as if nothing ever happened.

Me: I think it’s because you’re aware of God living in your cells. So your body heals itself superfast.

Him: I think that is why, Mommy. (pause.) But I think everyone has God living in their cells.

Me: I agree. But so many of us don’t know it. I mean, I technically know it, but I don’t really feel it all throughout my body like you do. I don’t live in the consciousness of knowing God is in me as much as I would like to. This seems to come a lot easier for you and most of your friends. You kids being born today get this way more than people my age do. We have to work to understand it. That’s why I meditate, I guess.

Him: Yeah. It can be really hard for some people. It can take a lot of work, but it’s so important you and they know God really is in all of us. Sometimes I wish I could just tell them.

Me: It’s so cool you see God in people, buddy. Thank you for reminding me of this in your amazing way.

Him: I wish it weren’t so hard for some people to feel God inside of them. But it’s just really difficult for certain cells of certain people to understand it sometimes. For some people, it can be tricky for them to know God is in their heart, and for others to know He’s their brains. Or, like, other people can’t remember God is in their intestines. But God is there and they can heal fast if they remember. … Wait, Mommy, what are intestines?

Bathed in his spiritshine, I felt relieved that I can serve a purpose other than just to feed him, clothe him and send him to school–I can explain what intestines are. Soulwise sensory kids + earthwise parents = match made in heaven.

And, by the way, Charlie wanted me to tell you that God is in your cells, too.

Looking for Charlie this weekend, I came across him perched on the bathroom sink decorating his face with a magic marker.

He marches to the beat of his own drum, for sure. This weekend, after a little too much time had passed without a peep from Charlie, I came across him perched on the bathroom sink decorating his face with a magic marker.

He thought he was going to get in trouble, but he looked legitimately cool, so we let him wear his marker mask until it dyed the bathwater green later that evening.

He thought he was going to get in trouble, but I legitimately appreciated the intricate face art, so we let him wear his marker mask until it dyed the bathwater green later that evening.

09.04.14
by

Lost and found: My kid

Here we are in Baja, just off Isla Espiritu Santo, and I'm teaching Kip how to snorkel for the first time.

Here we are in Baja, bobbing around in the Sea of Cortez near Isla Espiritu Santo, and I’m teaching Kip how to snorkel for the first time.

I lost track of my youngest son Sunday afternoon. At a crowded beach on Chicago’s North Side, I looked around and discovered Kip, my soft-cheeked, sweet-spirited, strong-willed, face-caressing, twinkly eyed, soulful, viking-metal-loving, sun-bleached blond of a four year old was missing. “Where is Kip?” I asked his buddies, my husband, my friends. “Have you seen Kip?” He was completely out of range. Friends scooped up babies, grabbed tiny hands and, all together, combed the shoreline both directions in search of him.

He wasn’t by the kayak. He wasn’t by his other little friend, who’d wandered a ways south as well. He wasn’t up in the grasses. He wasn’t on the sidewalk. He wasn’t on the wall from which he’d asked to jump earlier. He wasn’t on the playground. He wasn’t anywhere. I tried to still my worry so I could feel his energy, wherever he was. I figured maybe I could detect on the woo-woo waves whether he was in danger, and where he might be. My gut told me he was ok, but I prayed. And prayed. And prayed some more nonetheless. He couldn’t swim very well, and yet he had a lifejacket on, so after a cursory search, I ruled out drowning and my mind jumped almost immediately to “someone took him.”

I stopped a lifeguard. “Hi. I’ve lost my son. Is there protocol in place for when this happens? Anything you can do to help?” She very calmly led me to another lifeguard, who asked me what Kip looked like and what he was wearing. I told them in detail. Someone radioed someone else. My surrounding friends looked at me with concern. They hadn’t found him, either.

Charlie, my oldest, who has beautiful intuitive gifts, looked shaken. He had been running down the beach yelling, “Kip!” I grabbed his hand, knelt down, looked into his eyes and placed my hands on his heart. “Charlie. I need to ask you to do something really huge. If it feels ok to you, drop down into your heart, close your eyes, look in the center of your forehead and see if you can see Kip. See if you can see where he might be.” He nodded his head once and closed his eyes, then opened them almost immediately and turned around. My gaze followed his. One of our friends, with a baby strapped to her chest, was rushing toward me with Kip’s hand in hers.

IMG_0501

Kip’s hands. Oh, his sweet hands. They hold delicate things so softly and grip cameras just so to snap photos like this one, on the Ambar III last April.

I promptly lost all composure.

I ran to my amazing little boy, scooped him up and wrapped my arms so tightly around his damp lifejacket, hand on the back of his head as though he were a newborn. He sobbed into my neck. I sobbed into his cheek. We both held each other and heaved.

“I was so scared, Mommy,” he bawled. “I couldn’t find you anywhere.”

“I’m so sorry you were scared, my Kippy. You’re ok now. I was so worried about you,” I cried and cried. “I am so happy you’re ok. I am so, so happy you’re here in my arms. We are going to do a better job of keeping our eyes on each other from now on, ok?”

“I just wanted to give Maya these stones I found,” he sobbed even harder. As we suspected, it seemed he’d gone on a mission for his favorite girl. “I was trying to find sea glass to give her, but I didn’t find anything good. I kept looking, but could only find these ones. And they’re not even that good!” He opened his cool little hand to reveal two stones, which were warm from his careful guarding.

“Oh, buddy. She’s coming back from the paddleboard with her daddy right now. Would it make you feel better if you could see her and give them to her?”

“Yeeeeesssssss!” he cried. “I want to give her these rocks I found for her.”

I don’t know how that amazing little six-year-old girl knew to be thrilled with the nondescript rocks he brought her, but when she approached moments later, he presented the two smallish stones and her face completely lit up.

She said something like, “Wow, Kip! Thank you so much! I love them!” Right then, his face cracked into a big smile and everything we’d just experienced seemingly washed away from his being.

My recovery wasn’t as quick. It felt as though I’d aged a year in however many minutes it was I thought he might be gone. My eyes hurt. My heart felt tender. Brian couldn’t fall asleep that night. But hours after we returned home, I was able to go into Kip’s room and curl up next to his sleeping body, safe and sound. And that felt absolutely euphoric.

He gave her a couple unremarkable stones, she gave him this hug. His heart is full.

He gave her a couple unremarkable stones, she gave him this hug. His heart is full.

To be clear, this is not a cautionary tale

I don’t need to tell you to learn from my mistake and make sure you watch your kids closely at the beach. Because, if you have kids, or even friends, or cats, you all probably do that already. That’s why I’ve omitted the details of the moments before we noticed he was missing—they’re inconsequential because we obviously weren’t en pointe, and mistakes happen. To everyone. It’s really obvious that if we’d been keeping a closer eye on the little guy, this wouldn’t have happened, and any amount of ridiculing you could throw down would pale in comparison to what’s already been unfurled in my own head. (you’ve met my inner mean girl, yes?)

But I do want to drop a tiny piece of preaching

I was surprised by the response of passersby once I had Kip safely in my arms. When Laura found him, the countenance of the lifeguards and the surrounding people who’d worn masks of concern moments earlier shifted completely. They glared at her as she ushered Kip back to our spot on the sand. As I hugged my baby and cried, the lifeguards looked me up and down, cocked their heads and darn near rolled their eyes at me. On the way toward me with Kip in hand, one woman even snarled at my friend: “Happens fast, doesn’t it?”

Ouch, bitches.

Unfortunately, this was a bad thing that happened. We effed up, and it could’ve gone much worse. Thank God, our beach companions and the pack of concerned little kids who searched for Kip, everything turned out ok and I was supremely supported in the emotional aftermath despite the weirdness of strangers.

Next time it turns out ok for someone—anyone—would it be possible for all of humanity to hide their disgust, pretty please? Like, maybe try tapping into a loving or compassionate place and saying something to the tune of, “I’m so happy you found him,” or “Oh, wow. We were concerned. Glad he’s ok.”

As the cropped t-shirt of one woman strutting down the beach an hour or so later read in huge block print, “Shit happens.” It sure does, I can attest. To everyone, I might add. (Even to generally type-A, hypervigilant parents.) And, when it does, an outstretched hand and little compassion goes a long way.

Kip parties on. And now understands a bit more about the importance of staying with his grown ups.

Kip parties on. And now understands a bit more about the importance of staying with his grown ups. Note: This was second his costume change at our block party this summer–he washed off *most* of his face paint and threw on this Hawaiian get up from Aunt Andrea so he could really tear it up. And, of course, by “tear it up,” I mean stub his bare foot on the curb and rip his pinkie toenail off. This kid has given me too many a fright this summer…

 

08.07.14
by

Paving the transition from summer to school year

Today, we made s'mores. Summer yum.

Today, we made s’mores. Summer yum.

His energy is out to here, he’s frazzle dazzle beyond the norm and he cannot stop his renegade fists from hurtling toward his little brother, who’s taunting him, yes, but the rising anger doesn’t seem commensurate with the four-year-old’s na-na-na-na-na-s. His own body hurls him one direction as if to pull him away, to help him stop himself, but his hands reach farther and make contact before his core can carry him out of striking distance.

This is happening a lot lately. I was mystified for a few days of this until I remembered that a sudden surge of quick frustration and lack of impulse control signals one thing: It’s transition time.

School starts in about two weeks, and Charlie isn’t sure what to do about it. Neither am I, frankly. He’s flailing around in the dark waters of his unknown first-grade future and it’s doing a number on his sensory system. His radar is up, he’s looking for clues as to what it’ll be like going back to school, everything looks murky and he’s not sure how to feel about it all. On one hand, he’s excited for first grade. He can’t wait to see his friends everyday again, particularly his beloved Rosie. On the other hand, he knows he’ll be learning to read—for real—this year, and he’s daunted. He’s reluctant to recite his popcorn words, to read aloud, to practice handwriting. “I just want to play and have fun,” he whines.

“Reading is fun, Charlie,” I console him.

“To you,” he says, mastering snark way too early in life.

The next moment, we’re wrestling on the floor in a mock fight to prove who’s tougher, me or him. He’s grunting. I’m growling. We’re loud. We’re rolling around in a giant hug of doom. After a couple minutes, we both forfeit the match and lie on our backs, giggling.

Me: Bud, do you remember that time I cut your ear off when I was trying to cut your hair?

No joke, when he was nearly three, I snipped a piece of his everloving ear. I called my doctor’s office bawling, the nurse laughed and told me this happens all the time. It’ll grow back, she said, but you can bring him in tomorrow if you want. I did and, sure enough, he healed.

Charlie: (laughing) Yeah, Mommy. I do remember when you cut my ear off. And that’s why we go to the Hair Cuttery now. Why on earth did you do that?

Me: (softly pinching the tippy top of his ear) It was an accident! I was just snip, snip, snipping, you moved your cute little head and—AAAH!—I cut off a tiny piece of your ear. Right here… I felt sooo terrible, Love. Do you have any sadness or madness about that happening? If so, you can tell me about it.

Charlie: (hugging me tightly) No way, Mommy. I know it was an accident. I know you wouldn’t cut my ear off on purpose. Wooooould you???

Me: No, I definitely would not cut your ear on purpose. What do you remember about that moment?

Charlie: Oh, gosh, Mommy. It was so funny. I remember right after it happened you yelled, “CROPS!!!”

Me: Crops?

Charlie: (giggling and clenching his fists, mocking me) Yeah. You were like, “CROPPPPPPSSSS!!!”

Me: (relieved he didn’t detect what was more likely an emphatic f-bomb) You mean I was like, “CORN! SOYBEANS! WHEAT!!!”?

And in this instant, the coolest thing happened. We both started laughing uncontrollably. Really, really hard. I wasn’t pretending to be tickled, as parents often do with their kids; and he wasn’t giving me any courtesy chuckle, either. Together, we disintegrated into deep, true, breathless laughter that went on for several minutes. As soon as our laughter slowed, he yelled out, “TOMATOES!!!” and we started laughing again. Next it was “CUCUMBERS!!!” and we laughed some more. It went on.

Afterward, we fell back into an all-consuming hug, so tight around my neck were his arms and his cheek pressed so hard into mine. I think we both felt heaps better about first grade.

I keep searching for the answer for how to bridge my boys’ transition from summertime to first grade and pre-K, respectively, and it’s actually so easy. What do most of us want when we’re facing the scary unknown? Hugs, laughter, love and time spent together. Here’s to lots of that for all of us.

07.02.14
by

R.I.P., Mommy

I’ve been getting some interest in posts about Sensory Kids lately, so here are some thoughts on aggressive play from a couple years ago. I just had to confiscate a light sabre this morning, so it remains germane…

emily en route

A 32-year-old north side woman was turned into a banana and eaten this morning. The only witnesses, her two- and three-year-old sons, were unable to recall exact details of the incident, but it appears it might have involved foul play.

An angry young chef chopped up a 32-year-old Chicago mom at 4 p.m. this afternoon. He then put her in a soup with carrots and cinnamon. Her husband and two sons are being questioned.

A mother, confused for wild game, died of fatal wounds from a bow and arrow this afternoon. Just before the incident occurred, neighbors say they heard a young voice yell, “You’re a turkey and I’m a Wampanoag. I’m gonna shoot you, turkey.”

Image Sharks? Guns? “Yes, please!” Charlie and Kip say. (Daddy is much more comfy with violent play than I.)

I die at least three times a day. Each time, it’s new, in a way I’d…

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05.02.14
by

Viking metal, preschool board games and the space between

ImageMy 4-year-old, with his delicious cheeks and Darth Vader t-shirt, set up a board game for us to play during lunch today. He still pronounces his “l” and “r” like a “w” so I couldn’t deny his request for me to find some “angwy wock and wohl music” on Pandora. We ended up blasting Viking Metal (it sounds just how you think) and playing Snail’s Pace Race, all while Kip sucked down a carrot-apple squeezie, hanging it from his teeth to free up his hands to move the colorful wooden snails across the board. Our favorite was a song called “Free Will Sacrifice.” The singer’s deep, scary voice made us giggle.

I’m walking in a world of contrast lately, some of it run-of-the-mill, some of it more complex. Whatever it’s all about, I’m getting plenty of chances to encounter my truth in whatever duality rears its head. (serenity/dissonance, clarity/confusion, lightness/heaviness, wisdom/ego, connection/distance, vitality/dormancy.) Ah, life. Even in the bumpy times, I have to look at it all and be amazed.

And also, laugh.

For all the uncomfortable contrasts, which really are kinda funny if you look at them just right, the universe also dishes out plenty of overt amusement. In a roundabout way, the moment at lunch today reminded me how enriching contrasts can be. Without them, everything would be in gray scale.

Image

Last week, I got to do one of my most favorite things ever: drift in the sea between the earth and the heavens. (this sort of being is infinitely more blissful literally than figuratively, I suppose, but perhaps all the same in the grand scheme.)