Connections and Your Tribe



We are a culture fascinated by celebrity and very voyeuristic in some of our behaviours.  We love a good story--about someone else.  We will spend hours listening to gossip about people we may or may not know about, because we crave that kind of connection.  We are pack animals and we need our pack or our tribe.  We need the interconnected feeling that stories provide us and we need it for our very being, if not our well-being. 

I love other people's stories because it does provide a chance to see another side of others, better understand their perspectives and priorities and, sometimes, hearing these stories brings you closer and/or makes you feel more connected.  It also makes me realize how much I have and how rich my life is.  When people open their lives, hearts and stories to you it is a gift.  For whatever reason, these people trust you (although, sometimes some may just need someone, anyone--but that's a different story).  Many of us are losing our connection with the people around us and not realizing it--sometimes because we are too busy checking our emails, texts and Facebook which allows us to pretend we are connected.  Being up on someone's business isn't necessarily being connected. 

I have my family who entertain me to no end, although they can aggravate just as well!  At the core of it, I'm very lucky to have made such a good choice in my spouse.  While I do spend a lot of time without Chief--he works so very much--he always has time to connect with us.  He spends his days dealing with life and death issues, office politics and he's the go-to man when drama hits--he has an even-keeled nature and is a good listener even when others are frantic, emotional and sometimes irrational.  He can cut to the chase without being too harsh, but he'll also give you a rash when you least expect it.  Despite doing this all day long with others, for long days and days on end, he still manages to come home and talk and interact with his family.  It really is a true gift that few of us choose to exercise.  (Don't start thinking he's a saint, because he's just as connected to his iphone as the next guy but when when we talk he looks us in the eye, listens and responds.)  Actual, focused interaction makes you feel loved, alive and part of something bigger than yourself.  I am a lucky and blessed woman.

This is my immediate tribe but my tribe consists of so many others.  Who are part of your tribe and how do they bless and enrich you?  What stories do you share with others and why?

Comfort

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It's funny when I hear other people talk about how hard it is with little children--babies and toddlers--because I found those the easier years for so many reasons.  One of the most selfish reasons is that problems were easier to solve.  Giving hugs, swaddling, rocking, feeding, comforting--you name it, it was easier for me.  I could deal with the constant sleep interruptions, unfinished meals and hauling gear everywhere I had to go.  Easy Peasy, Lemon Squeezey.  Those years made me feel like a rock star compared to some of the haggling and negotiating that goes on these days.  I shouldn't speak so soon, because right now everyone is charming and getting along--life is rolling along.  But, I just read a post about being kind to yourself when things aren't going your way and how the blogger isn't going to ignore the crankiness in her life or try to sugar-coat it (she's dealing with molasses-slow construction issues, which I kind of feel like--"isn't that always the case?"  Not that I'm diminishing her issues, those are harsh realities.  I'm just very jaded about construction and contractors because of our very painful home addition a couple of years back.).  This blogger mentioned how someone sent her a "magic potion."  The arrival of this potion and the kind gesture of her friend made her reframe her thinking.  She provided a link to the magic potion--it was some sort of "comfort" essential oil blend.  The description states how we all want comfort, especially these days, but we don't know how to ask for it or get it.  Interesting.  The rusty gears in my mind started to squawk and it made me realize that comfort was one of the keys to my wistfulness. 

The baby years of my motherhood were filled with comfort and coziness, of the kind that only babies and very small children can provide because it exists in a bubble.  The comfort and coziness are the physical closeness, the nonverbal communication and that mother-child bond that runs so deep you don't realize, until you really stop to think about it.  Not that these things don't continue into adulthood, but when your children are babies and toddlers these attributes are the core of your relationship--their "person" is still developing and has a long way to go (plus, many of the needs are physical which are usually easily manageable), but the few existing and emerging characteristics are so prominent.  When I was pregnant with Big Monkey people kept telling me that babies are just blobs who don't do anything, but they are so much more fun when they get older.  Really?  I found that to be false--healthy babies are alert and engaging, just on a much different level.  I wonder if these people ever gazed into the eyes of their newborns or watched their newborns see new things as they developed better eyesight?  I never thought that I'd be wistful for those years--don't get me wrong, I don't want to return because that ship has sailed.  But, I sometimes think it would be nice to recapture some of that essence.  I never thought I'd enjoy babies and toddlers as much as I did.  My mom always told me and my brother that we weren't good with babies and children (when we were teens).  Guess I bought into way too many of the stories my mom told me, but I managed to block that out during the baby years.  The problem is during recent years my mom's stories have come back to haunt me.  I was able to keep them at bay for a long time and now that I have more time to think I am plagued.  Which returns me to wistful.  I'm longing for those days of comfort and being the rock star mom who could solve problems with a hug and a kiss.  Clearly, it's time to reframe and I suppose I need to find a new "comfort" for this different phase of motherhood and self.  The odd thing is, I don't really remember what comforted me before I had children...

What comforts or has comforted you?

Coffee From a Stranger

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When I pulled up to the window at Starbucks this afternoon, the barista leaned out, looking very apologetic, and began with, "OK, about your coffee..." and all I could think of was "they are out of caramel brulee" and "Wow, he doesn't have to be that sorry about it--he's being so nice!"  Instead, he surprised me with "the car ahead of you paid for your coffee."  What a nice thing for them to do!  I was so surprised that I almost forgot to wave a "thank you" to them.  They were almost gone by the time the barista was done "surprising" me; fortunately, the passenger looked back just as I turned to look at them in the driveway & I waved in time.  I didn't even think to honk my horn in thanks, because I'm not a horn honker anymore--emergencies only (not a big fan of getting shot or yelled at).  At any rate, I've always wanted to buy someone their coffee and now I totally am going to--no more thinking about it!  Thank you, kind couple!  I plan on passing on your kindness.

PS: The cynic in me says, "It beats the hell out of getting the door slammed in your face as you walk in a store behind someone!"  The grateful person in me says that I shouldn't write that previous comment because I am grateful for their kindness and don't want to ruin it with being funny but truthful...Then, there's odd third voice that says, write it because no matter what, this trumps all the times when people have behaved rudely.  Why?  Because I won't stoop to the letting a door go in someone's face, that's just rude, but I will mimic kindness with kindness.  Won't you?

Tales of Thanksgiving

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Here is one of my all-time favorite Thanksgiving tales, which many of you have already heard multiple times:

Our good friends (when they were still together), Alex & Maima, used to visit us every Thanksgiving--for about 9 or so years.  Maima went to culinary school to become a chef and chose not to pursue that career but has a real love of food, preparation and presentation.  She's also pretty highbrow about it, but SSSHHHH!  She is a great chef and we love the food she makes.  They had to come down close to Thanksgiving for business once and so they stayed a little longer to feast with us.  We enjoyed cooking together so much that we declared Thanksgiving "our" holiday and it was a big deal.  Maima would visit armed with a slew of recipes--some for voting on and others were not up for voting, but essentially came with an entire planned meal in hand.  They all were exotic or different in some way.  One year we had a celery root and crab salad, which came at the end of the meal-not the at the beginning.  All good and fine if you eat with restraint and save room (or are "Continental" as one guest declared), but after turkey, stuffing and whatever else is served, there really isn't room in my mind for a salad.  But, I digress.  That isn't the funny part but an aside--if you know me, you know how I feel about salads in general and those who think a lone salad is a meal. 

Acquiring the items we needed for this salad--mind you, we are in the desert looking for crab in November--was epic.  It's not an easy thing to find.  I could understand Maima forgetting that we no longer were in Seattle (where crab is easily procured) and I could understand Chief and Alex's dismay at hunting down the elusive desert crab--but they weren't the ones driving around after work searching for it, I was; I was also a non-contributor to the menu.  I'd be happy with a bowl of old-fashioned bread stuffing and gravy.  It's interesting that I was the most sympathetic to Maima's intrinsic need for culinary uniqueness, despite the fact that at the time my palate did not like unique.  I've evolved, but (again) I digress.

While waiting for Maima to get ready for yet another shopping expedition, Alex, Chief and I were standing in the kitchen kvetching about the salad.  In my defense, we are now on day 4 or so of the hunt and it's nearing the big day.  The men began huffing and joking, "Why isn't K-R-A-B good enough?  Why does it have to be C-R-A-B?"  I responded, "Because it's Maima and she has decided."  If you don't submit suggestions or requests the meal defaults to her--not a fast or written rule, but something I realized along the way and was o.k. with: i.e., not worth the fight. I went on, "You better just let her get it out of her system and have it this year.  If we don't have it this year we'll never hear the end of it and will probably have to do it next year.  A waste of many grocery runs.  Besides--I am the one driving, not you, and I say let her be."

Alex may have flat-out refused to drive her around for the crab--I can't remember exactly.  Fortunately, we found a crab at the 4th store we went to, which wasn't close to the house but oh, well.  Sadly, I had to put the live things in the boiling water and handle it afterwards.  Of course this is after the many trips in search of the at-the-time exotic celery root and other forgotten miscellaneous items.  Our cabinets used to be filled with odd spices, oils and foods that had a one-time purpose in our kitchen.  This was before the Food Network and the stuff she liked to cook was "out there," at least in terms of the local Phoenix grocery stores.  We also had to buy the food as close to the cooking date as possible...at any rate, we succeeded in making the exotic celery root and crab salad; Maima got it out of her system; it was tasty, but not the best salad; it was the most expensive salad I've ever had --over $80 to make; and we've laughed about it ever since. 

So.  Many.  Trips.  To.  The.  Store...I was near tears by the time it was all said and done, but if  I had to do it all over again, I'd drive her to the store to get it out of her system--it's what the situation called for.  Lolling about the grocery store during the Thanksgiving rush is not my idea of fun.  Each trip brought us closer and closer to the dreaded date.  Longer and longer lines.  Less fruitful trips.  More exasperation.  Two very sad crabs eventually coming home with us.  But we finally found the main ingredients, which were also the most difficult, the Tuesday before Thanskgiving which is such a bonus in my book.  Of course that didn't mean we didn't have to go back to the store on Wednesday...that time I didn't drive.

Here's hoping that you did not have to make any last minute grocery runs today (or tomorrow)!

Happy Thanksgiving!  Enjoy!

Lick or Bite?

If you offer a dog an ice cream cone (you hold one under his nose or in front of his face) will he bite if off or lick it?  It was one of those nagging questions that I finally had to settle for myself (years ago).

We had a little bet as to whether or not the dogs would lick the ice cream cone or bite it.  We all guessed differently, with variations of the simple answers.  So, on that same hike (see "Buddy's Pack") we had stopped at McDonalds and bought the dogs an ice cream cone to share.  I know, it sounds crazy & we don't feed them like that, normally.  I held the ice cream cone between the two of them & they took turns licking it.  Buddy first, then Trigger--lick, lick, lick, lick and then...chomp!  Much to Trigger's dismay, Buddy had decided he had enough of the gentle licking and sharing that was going on and he bit the top off the cone.  It then became a free for all. 

I guess we were all correct, on some level.

Mom Makes the Best Water

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I don't know why, but my entire family drinks out of my water glass.  Everyone else could have a full glass or cup of their own, but somehow everyone reaches for mine.  It never used to bother me so much but now it does.  Perhaps, because the boys are at a gross age where they leave a film or floaty "things" in my glass.  Perhaps, because Chief drains it before I've had a chance to drink out of it.  Perhaps, it's because I get tired of the ice running out when I go to fill my glass after it's been assaulted by another family member.  I cry out to them, "Why do you all drink my water?"  Their universal response, "Your water tastes better."  Really?  Yes, is their earnest reply.  I guess I'll leave it at that, but do I try to beat them to the punch and hand them their cups and glasses first.

Keeping It Real

Writing letters is one of the activities in Little Man's class during the school day.  They are usually very sweet and this last one was not only sweet, but a great reminder of what a kind, young man he is.  The past couple of weeks have been Thanksgiving Sharing at his school and families are asked to bring in extra items for families in need, if at all possible.  The weeks were themed (household/personal items, non-perishable, Thanksgiving dinner, with frozens on the final day).  This is the second letter asking me for a frozen turkey to donate--the first letter he wrote "frozn turky," this time he called it a "chikin."  "Chikin" is his fall-back meat--he calls everything chicken: pork, beef, turkey and chicken.

In his first letter to me, he wrote that he was sorry that my coffee mug broke.  He had nothing to do with it breaking--I accidentally broke it and he just happened to see it all go down.



These are the times you recall--like a mantra--when your last nerve is twitching and you find your children jumping rope with it...then take a deep breath and let it all out.  It will be alright.

A Hug for a Stranger



I was going to meet someone for coffee this morning, when I saw a much older man who was very similar in carriage and build as this friend I was meeting.  As we walked towards each other, I couldn't resist telling him that I was holding back frantic waving, because he looked like someone I knew.  He asked me if I liked this person and I said yes.  He asked me, "Do you like him enough to give him a hug?"  I said, "Yes" and gave him a big hug and happily continued on my way.  The little old guy was too cute in his beret and looked so similar to Taylor, who, after all that, forgot to meet me.  (He's prone to that.)  I enjoyed the sunshine and the birds in the tree above me, who were singing and vying for my muffin crumbs.  I also enjoyed the impromptu hug with a stranger because everyone else wandering around the Biltmore late this morning were too good to be bothered with a simple smile.  Too bad for them--they probably think a dinner salad is meant to be an entire meal and don't use salad dressing, either!

Keep it moving

So, that funk that I'd been in made me rethink some things that I've wanted to do as well as my relationship to my people and surroundings.  It's so easy to let your thoughts circle the drain and once you go there it's a slippery climb back out.  So, I reframed that thinking--don't ask how, this time I just decided--and I noticed a lot of synchronicity happening in my life.  A LOT.

For example, after my doctor's appointment (a few weeks ago) I ran into a fellow yogini and we talked writing, life and yoga and it really energized me and kicked me back to where I was before.  I had spent so many weeks living in my mind and dwelling on things that needed to be let go that I couldn't write, work or do much of anything with real presence and awareness.  I let go of the ever-tightening grip I had on myself and just let myself be and things started to feel better and the world felt right, again.  It's so easy to forget that life is transitory.  The real trouble begins when you think you can keep things the same or perfect--the Wheel of Fortune has to keep spinning, otherwise life becomes stagnant and people stop trying.  Stagnant water really stinks.  It needs to move for there to be life.  The last thing you want is to be stinky, right? 

Returning to the back that I promised I wouldn't whine about--I have to keep it moving or that, too, will become stagnant.  The thing is that we are so preprogrammed to move towards a destination and some sort of end result or goal that the thought of moving becomes nearly paralyzing when you realize that you have no place or destination in mind.  I used to be such an ambler and now I have no idea how to do that, which is part of my current situation.  I'd say problem, but I'm trying to stay positive--it's something to investigate and not judge.  Wish me luck with that one, because while I love to investigate I do have a tendency to evaluate as well. 

Is there something in your life that you can reframe, synchronicities to be noticed or some movement you need to add?

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Buddy and the Hiking Pack



Buddy is our food-obsessed dog.  He loves a good snack, of any variety.  He's never rejected a dog treat and eats most people food, when given the chance.  So it was very surprising that he spit out a big cookie--I think he surprised even himself. 

Chief's older brother and his wife were visiting (quite a few years back, pre-children) when we decided to go on a hike, taking the dogs with us.  Since we were going a bit longer we decided to have Buddy (he had the sturdier build of the 2 dogs at the time) wear the pack.  However, that's not the only reason he was chosen.  Buddy and Trigger are fairly big dogs and would need quite a bit of water and we had to pack a collapsible bowl, treats and poop bags with us, along with our own stuff.  --Don't worry, we carried our own stuff!  It was the first time we tried a pack on either of the dogs.  These packs had bells on them, which infuriated Trigger (the first Christmas we had the dogs, Trigger pulled a Santa hat off of Buddy after scratching his off, because he hated the sound of the bell jingling around him--he practically stomped on the poor hat he was so annoyed) so we had to take the pack off and decided to outfit Buddy with it instead.  Trigger was usually the more cooperative of the two.  Now that Trigger has died, Buddy is a lot more cooperative.  At any rate, Buddy was bent out of shape that we strapped this thing on him.  He stood there looking at us with a disgusted look on his face and his ears back.  We kept oohing and awing over how cute he was with his pack and then offered him a treat because we managed to wrangle the darn thing on him.  He took it and then spit it out!  Can you believe that?  He quickly regretted his decision--remember Trigger is watching this all go down in the background--and scooped it back up, but he still wasn't any happier.  That is, until we arrived at the park. 
Pack off, in car, arrive at trail.  Start the wrangling process all over--again, not very happy, but he submitted.  I think he pretty much knew it was a losing battle as there were many hands to assist with the straps.  Trigger was pleased as punch, almost taunting Buddy that he was pack-free.  I think that dog had an extra spring in his step.  Buddy dawdled behind, at first.  But, as soon as we crossed other hikers' paths and he was showered with, "How cute!" and "Look at the good dog!" and loads of attention he was suddenly pleased that he "chose" to wear his pack.  Fortunes reversed, Buddy was now the one with the spring in his step.  Fickle dog!

Here they are back in 2005, captivated by someone holding food, I'm sure.



Oh, October! Where Did You Go?

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Christmas stuff is out in full force!  I'm still lingering with Halloween, because it seemed to come and go so quickly despite the fact that we started slowly setting up for it at the end of August. 

Good new is it finally feels like fall here--it's actually pretty chilly and damp today.  Gasp!  I love it but simultaneously don't know what to do with myself.  My thoughts swirl around in my head like the leaves falling to the ground, swirling in the wind.

The Double Digit Rule

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When Conner was in college, her friends created the Double Digit Rule--just for her.  No matter what was going on or how loud it got, she needed to go to bed during the early double digit hours--10.30-11.00pm.  Her friends partied until 2-3am.  She woke up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the early am hours whereas her friends wanted to sleep in, hence, the Double Digit Rule.  She was not allowed to bother anyone until at least 10am.  She couldn't crawl into bed with her friends.  She couldn't bang around in the kitchen.  She had to keep quiet, which she admits was a very difficult feat (Chatty Cathy, that one).  I love her to bits and I can totally image it was a struggle to keep quiet during those quiet, early morning hours...