When she pulled into the hotel parking lot I hopped up and down like a bunny and she jumped out of the car to hug me, checking out my big pregnant belly.  As soon as we checked in and checked our mattresses for bed bugs, she started talking about God.

This is not really unusual for us, though it is quite funny each time it happens.  Neither of us are very religious. She is happy to be Catholic, went to Catholic school her whole life, and goes to church when she can. I was baptized in the Syrian Orthodox church, with its blue onion shaped roof, and that was the end of the spiritual education given to me by my parents.

The conversation began with her talking about sleep deprivation. Her four month old has been doing his thing with night time wakings and she could not get back to sleep at 3 am the night before our meeting.  She said she started praying a continuous prayer about sleep and was thinking of trying to bargain with God, though she knew she wouldn’t be able to keep up her end of the agreement. A very realistic perspective, as she is a mom of two young kids!

She joked that she would be talking about God and prayer our whole trip, and though this was a little poke at me and my non-believer status, our conversations over the next day were indeed about the spiritual side of life. We talked about Jesus and his existence or non-existence, his mental health status (we are both college counselors), the mental health of the saints. I told her about a meditation I recently did at a Waldorf education meeting and confessed that I listen to Christian radio stations when there is static during my long drives to and from work.  At the Ithaca farmer’s market, when my friend and the guy at the blueberry stand accidentally exchanged two long glances into each other’s blue eyes, she said, “Who knows about all that soul stuff flying around, right?”

As we walked by a few churches she showed me the American sign language sign for Episcopalian.  You form a cross on your forehead with your thumb and follow that with the sign for “lite.” As we walked past hippie mamas and long haired two year olds, I told her that nearly every mom I know is trying to get more in touch with their spiritual self.  This ache is deep and leaves many of us wondering how to cope with the daily demands of life, our own anxieties, and the absurdity of existence.

While we talked, I recognized that my quest for more Waldorf in my life is not just about education and my kids, but rather a quest for more spirituality infused into my life.  My wise friend reflected that she fits everything else in (really?) like exercise, work, reading, and wondered why she couldn’t figure out how to fit in the spiritual side of things.

We guessed that people like her sisters and my colleague from work keep their spiritual side lit by going to church on Sunday, but what about those of us who aren’t church or temple goers?

My best ideas about how to integrate the spiritual into the earthly have come from my friends.  They pass along their spiritual wisdom quietly.  Read this book, listen to this podcast, try this meditation, check out the eclipse, change your perspective, celebrate this pagan holiday.

I remembered a moment, driving to class in grad school, when I came up over a hill and saw the green fields out my windshield while singing loudly from a mixed tape my brother made me. That moment still feels connected and spiritual to me.  That was pre-children.  Since then, I try to notice the trees on my long drive home from work. I try to turn off NPR and turn on classical music. I try to listen to Tara Brach and read Anne Lamott. But none of it seems to permeate my life in the deep and pervasive way I would like it to.  I want it to be the thought I go to first any time I am conflicted or in awe or saddened.  The first place for my brain and heart to rest, not the afterthought.

My brother, an anthroposophist, recently told me that instead of asking, “How are you?” he now asks, “What have you been thinking about lately?” and with that question he gets much more interesting answers.  For me the answer is typically related to my spiritual life, or my need to get one. What I’d like to ask is, “How’s your spiritual self?”

I yearn for sangha, a spiritual community, to have these discussions with weekly.  But when, I wonder? Do I have to pay a babysitter so I can talk about this? I might. We Mamas, Papas, Humans, could all use a little peek at the Jesus Buddha Mohammad Universal Love Train as it roars by,  silent and invisible to so many of us.

My suspicion is that it is right here, across the street in my neighbor’s kitchen, at our Friday potlucks, embedded in my emails with friends.  Right under the surface, just waiting for me to say hello, ask questions, and open up.

If you’d like to tell me where, when, how or from whom you get your spiritual fix, reply here and share. Links, books, blogs all welcome. Much love, my friends.

My mantra has been helpful.  I’ve avoided a few unnecessary apologies, a bunch of lingering doubts and some black moods.  I say it to myself when a bit of fear about my path creeps in and closes up my chest.  I force myself to say it when people ask me what I do, when they ask me about Mamas Make It Happen.  When I meet other hip mamas and I start to think, “Oh shit. They will see right through me. They are way cool and I’m, well just look at this outfit!” I chant it to myself.

Perhaps this seems like a lot of time spent wondering about my worth and power and place in the world. It is way too much time.  And all this bullshit makes my heart race and my hair turn gray. And this mama does not need anything that makes me look or feel badly.

I’ll share it with you, but you must promise not to laugh. Or laugh. Go ahead.  Because I’m so over caring.

The mantra is, “I’m the real deal.” And what it means is love me or leave me.  This is it.

I have been quite sick of the lovely Canadian “Sorry,” (Sounds like “surrey” if you say it properly) that I’ve been spouting for the past, well, three decades or so.  This “sorry” reflex comes right along with frivolous guilt. Not guilt about hurting someone or stealing something, not REAL and useful guilt, but guilt about ridiculous things.

This guilt pops up when I can’t keep chatting on Facebook with a buddy, when I don’t call my friends or aunts for a week or two, when I forget to send the thank you note or call on a birthday.  I tell myself I should be more attentive, like my lovely and amazing sister-in-law.  I tell myself it FEELS better to make little gifts, to bring homemade food to the potluck instead of the ever delicious spinach pies from Somaya’s Middle Eastern bakery.

I beat myself up the most (with no apology to my poor psyche) for being the yelling mommy, the impatient mommy, the mommy who puts on a DVD for the kids at 10 am just so I can read three pages of a novel while munching on pita bread.

Here’s the thing about me, world. I’m late to work. Late for friends. My period is even late. (Oh, wait. I’m pregnant. Hah!) I start jobs. I leave jobs. I createideas. I abandon ideas.  I love something.  Shortly thereafter I decide I shouldn’t have loved it so fiercely and told everyone about it.  I’m pushy. I’m gentle. I’m fun. I’m a grinch. I’m inconsiderate, grouchy, selfish, on-time, excited, sincere, and generous.

And you know what, those characteristics are probably, most likely, in fact, let’s just say definitely, going to be part of me FOREVER, and if you (meaning ME, really, because who needs to accept this person? I DO…), can’t deal with it, then that’s fine.

I love you. And I’m the real deal. Now that’s that.

I think I was in shock when we entered the mall.  Initially, I was able to hold my spiritual self intact as the young guy with the lovely accent tried to sell my four-year-old a hummingbird wind chime.  I was able to believe that the hummingbird was beautiful, though plastic, and a gift to us upon stepping into this multi-level hell. But the lights, busyness, and scowling patrons got to me.  I rebelled as quietly as I could, trying not to harm my husband’s shopping joy. (He loves to browse.  You can borrow him if you’d like.) But at the 15 minute mark, on my way out of BonTon’s crowded aisles I loudly exclaimed, “I am NEVER EVER DOING THIS AGAIN! I am making you miserable, making the kids miserable. I am TOTALLY miserable.” He sweetly began rubbing my back.  This human contact amidst the florescent craziness brought me back into my feet for about ten minutes.  And then I flew away again, out of my body into the rafters.

One week later my Waldorf Goddess friend visited.  She entered our home carrying her needle-felted fairies, her homemade bread, wearing her beautiful vintage peasant shirt. We were changing her little guy’s diaper, when I noticed a Littlest Pet Shop figure sticking out from under my daughter’s bed.  I asked my friend, “So, what do you think when you see plastic toys?”   She said, so beautifully, with Rudolf Steiner  gentleness, “I’m just not attracted to that type of toy. I never have been, really.”

And there it was. I was trying to figure myself out a bit more before the New Year began, and I was “attracted” to what she said. Her words had no judgment. They spoke of her own likes and dislikes, not values that separate people.  She was attracted to something different, and how can you judge attraction?

I am NOT attracted to the mall. Ever.  In the end, I was able to comfort myself with a cup of sorbet from Cold Stone as we exited, and I made a vow to never shop again without a treat, like an Orange Julius shake. Yet I believe my first instinct was right. Do Not Enter.

Where would I rather be shopping?

1. In my kitchen cupboard. A friend recently told me his family hand-made all their gifts for each other this year. This sounds heavenly to me.

2. In nature.  Pine cones are my current obsession and I think they make lovely presents.

3. In my craft box.  Let me watercolor you a bookmark with a quote on it.

4. In my heart. Let’s do a ritual together. Stand in a circle, hold hands, bring in the energy of love this season carries.

As I flew out of my body, taking comfort somewhere in my psyche while my children tried to glimpse Santa, I knew this was part of a greater problem.

Where did I lose my “attraction” radar and how could I get it back? I think it may have disappeared sometime between all the belly dancing I did on the living room table at age four and all the social rejection in middle school.  By grade ten I was figuring out how to make friends and it had nothing to do with being myself.

I remember the first decision that showed me something was amiss with my own ability to move towards things I love.  I was in 11th grade, hanging out with all those gorgeous skateboarder boys.  I bought a bathing suit I planned to wear all summer on the half-pipe skate ramp in one of their backyards. It was a shiny metallic thing that I thought would finally gain me a kiss from the skater I adored most.  (Side note: At one point or another I adored each and every one of these skater gods and tried my best to “date” them. Another symptom of all of this? I’m sure.)

When I got to the half-pipe, Niki, the beautiful girl, pulled off her shirt to reveal the cutest yellow beaded hippie bikini top I’d ever seen.  The shame I felt at my shiny choice began creeping about like millions of beetles under my skin.  I chose my bikini because I thought a certain boy would be attracted to it, not because I was. If I had any inner compass left, I would have chosen something sweet, not sexy.

And there was the problem. What I dug, thought was beautiful, was covered by an idea that what others liked was better, truer.

There is a gift in this.  I can usually tune in to any vibe anywhere with any number of people. In minutes, I figure out how to flow with the emotional energy around me.  But I’m realizing now my new task is to see and feel the flow, but to do my own thing.  To understand that my truth is the best and most beautiful thing I can do for myself and others.  If I look like a dork doing it, so be it.  Doing so gives others permission to be their best and highest dork selves as well.

I think this is especially true with spirituality.  My friend Pana just finished writing an 800 page novel.  The entire book is about the power of love over fear.  On each page she tunes in to her intuition as she hitchhikes with no money in Europe and has adventures in the Middle East.  Her book (I must do a whole blog on it!), gave me permission to talk about my spiritual side again.  It allowed me to say, “Today, I rolled through two stop signs and got pulled over and guess what? I think that was a SIGN from the universe that I should slow down, stop, think things through.”

If you see me quit my job, start dancing spontaneously, or mention anthroposophy in every breath, I’m just taking a little truthful risk to say that this is who I am.  One inspired action begets another inspired action.  And the more we all vibrate on that level, the better this place is going to be.

]Our new more honest conversations might go like this.

You: “Do you like tomatoes?”

Me: “Um, wait…let me think. (Three second pause.)  In the past I would have said, yes, but here’s the truth. Little tiny summer ones off the vine? Yes! Old imported ones from Giant? No! Not an easy answer to come up with when I just want to find out what YOU think about tomatoes.”

Here I am New Year, trying to stay true to my crunchy, spiritual highest self.  I’m saying hello to 2011 while my eyes watch the outlines of winter trees, while my heart opens to angels and the beauty of the earth. Listen to my prayer of thanks to my friends and the Lehigh Valley mall.

I can’t remember when Tacky began, but I know it came from the deep well of humor that my mother’s family holds.  Each year we descend on a little town outside of Gettysburg in our finest tacky outfits. Each year we try to top each other.  Funky and obnoxious hats (think bright purple with plastic flowers and netting), polyester jump suits in sea foam green, ties with horrendous decorations (think condoms of every color.)

Tacky means different things to each member of our tribe. For some it is about mismatching, for others it is about 80s wear. About five years ago, my cousin Marni wore her wedding dress just after separating from her now ex-husband. Beautifully tacky.

The day before the drive down, I wondered what to dress my kids in this year, our first year at Tacky since they were born.  We ended up with a family Christmas theme. Matching white Christmas turtlenecks for Christopher and I, a shirt with a big plastic Rudolph on it that used to light up for Ren, and some horrible Christmas leggings and a Mickey Mouse Christmas sweatshirt a size too small for Marcello. Whether any of our relatives thought we were tacky is questionable.

Seeing my family in their finest pants, ties, snake skin pattern dresses with American flag print (yes this dress exists) takes all day to absorb.  Hours after our 3 pm meal, I might notice the socks or the necklace my cousin-in law is wearing.  I might see the tiny hand scribbled note attached to the ill-fitting nearly plastic fabric my cousin is wearing that says, “Alterations by Gail. Cheap.”  I might realize what comment they are making by wearing doctor’s scrubs. My Aunt Elaine’s outfit showed two inches of cleavage created with much pushing and taping. For me this was the winner on many many levels.

As I put the kids to sleep next door at my cousin’s house (they are growing a family compound!), I forced myself to walk back to the main house and play the post-dinner game that is mandatory for all Lynches. I walked in to see a game of Oh Hell, and was shocked.

My husband’s family has a serious Pinochle addiction that I avoid (at my own social and familial expense), but cards were never played in my family.  Any game the Lynch clan plays must involve drawing or acting or serious self-disclosure. Oh Hell was not that. As I picked at the pecan pie, I saw Marni fidgeting.  Waiting anxiously, I would discover, to introduce”Existentialist Pictionary.” This game is sort of like Whisper Down the Alley or Telephone, but with writing and drawing.

A deck of paper and a pen were distributed to all. Each person wrote a catchy phrase like “Love is all we need,” or “A stitch in time saves nine.”  The deck of paper was then passed to the next person who DREW the saying.  It was then passed again to the next person who wrote what they thought the drawing was depicting. By then end the phrase and the picture were as disparate as the north and south poles.  What started out on my paper as, “Can I buy a vowel?” transformed to my Aunt Gail’s written interpretation, “If you are a high-fisted money grabber, then go to hell” into, “Money is the devil’s work.”  I CRIED and CRIED in laughter, taking at least a full 30 seconds to return to an appropriate affect for speaking as I showed the eleven family members around the table the results.

Traditions are what anchor us to the rhythm of the year. Decorating the tree, eating latkes, Easter egg hunts in the ‘hood. These are the things we count on.  If they are let go of or never established, our families, our cultures, begin to drift out into space, disconnected from the rhythm of the earth, the seasons.

Tell me about your traditions, friends, so that I might share with others. Do you decorate your tree with sanitary pads and tampons as my friends in college did two years in a row? Do you make cookies that turn out badly? Do you go caroling? Do you snuggle together in bed on Valentine’s Day morning?  Or are you trying to create traditions of your own?

Click here and share: http://www.surveymonkey.com/s/CXVYC5J

Once on a car ride she requested a song and we could not figure out what she was saying.  She cried and cried as she tried to form the title with her little two year old mouth.  I finally figured it out one morning, after days of trying to decipher what she said.  “Sunny days! Sweeping the clouds away!” I ran to her and asked her to forgive me. “I’m so sorry, Ren! Now I understand!” She smiled back at the tears in my eyes, delighted that I had figured it out.

Since having two, my joy in being with my kids has changed.These lovely days of focus on one person are seldom seen, as is their peaceful contentment.

Marcello throws himself on the floor in a tantrum as he struggles to communicate.  It seems I don’t have a minute to slow down and focus on the syllables and sounds he is making.  We scoop him up and move on  to the next thing, or pop his “babu” (pacifier) in his mouth to stop the sobs and tears. These days I seem to rush the kids out and nod at their observations about the moon or the trees without noticing they are beautiful.

Yesterday at 4:45 am I felt something different than my normal fatigue and aggravation. I heard my son calling for me and I wanted to be with him. I wanted to play with some figures on the floor, recreate the pool I made with Ren all those years ago.  I wasn’t playing with him as an obligation, I was playing with him for fun.  It wasn’t about trying to enrich his little brain or get him occupied so I could do the dishes. It was about the two of us, a little wooden doll and a container.

This is the Goddess. The one who becomes less self-absorbed. Who plays for fun, not to teach or occupy or fulfill an obligation. Who does not hurry.  Who allows her daughter to finish her sentence as she talks about asteroids and milk weed wishies. Who breathes love.

I think we all have these struggles, but opening up about them is time consuming and embarrassing. One mom told me she avoided answering this survey because it was too much to think about, too much to feel. I definitely get that.  I avoided it myself until I wrote this blog! Thank you to those of you who did write, and much love to those of you who didn’t.  We are all helping each other out on this journey, through our candor and reflection, whether it is face to face or on the page.

Here are our answers to Goddess vs. Witch.

What brings the evil monkeys to your house? What turns you into the Wicked Witch of the West?

Poor sleep topped the list, with too many demands being right next to it. These two came together as one of you observed, “Too many competing demands….mixed with fatigue and low blood sugar= that chick from The Exorcist.”

With lack of sleep (please let me go to bed at 9:30 tonight!), comes increased anxiety, comes self-absorption, comes guilt for not being “present”, comes self-loathing, comes flagellation. My witch has whip reserved just me for me when I am over-tired.

One of you wrote, “The Evil Monkeys usually descend around the time I realize that everything I want to get done is not going to get done….Um, in short, guilt and unmet expectations do the trick.”

Here’s the cycle. You have a list of things to get done.  You ignore (just a little) your children for bits of time to get it done. Because of this they get nutty.  Then you get overwhelmed because you can’t finish what you are doing and you have to attend to them. Then you feel guilty for feeling this way about them and you have to attend to the guilt. How’s that for an infinite circle of witchyness?

Daily demands like paying the bills (student loans-ugh!), breaking up arguments between the babes, small kitchens and noisy neighbors were cited. The “Spilling cold water down my shirt” comment seems to have happened just as that mama was typing her response! Spilling beer pisses me off even further.

A messy house is enough to bring out talons and fangs.  This one in particular makes us feel overwhelmed, ineffective, and guilty.  And if you are the only one cleaning the bathrooms, floors, and fridge, someone will definitely get turned into a toad.

When it comes to our bodies, “a string of unhealthy eating choices paired with lack of exercise” and a change in numbers on the scale makes the witch warts pop out. Health concerns whether real or imagined, stress us out.  Finally, PMS. Need I say more? (I do need to say more. I think an entire blog entry would suffice.)

Problems with the good ol’ MIL and siblings make the witch hop on her broom.  To me, this one is particularly sneaky and draining. It usually begins with good intentions of openness and happy times and ends with aggravation, resentment, and yes, fatigue.  Which goes back to the sleep issue.

What do you do, say and think when you are overpowered by the monkeys or the witch?

I know that I like to yell. Some of us curse, throw empty tupperware, and emotionally beat ourselves up.  We beat up on our partners, too.

I’ve definitely threatened to leave my children behind in the house, and some of us have said, “I. HAVE. HAD. IT!” or “If you hurt your brother one more time, I will hurt you!” (Ooh…I like that one. Gonna try it tomorrow.)

There’s a bit of shame attached to each of these, a wish for water to melt us. But instead, let us focus on transformation.

What turns you back into your God or Goddess self? A person? An action? A reminder? A belief?

A Goddess mantra, in fact.  “The days are long, but the years are short.” A thought from a nice mother-in-law about not beating oneself up, trying to be kinder to oneself.

A deep belief in god, a heartfelt belief in our love for our children.

Listening to Buddhist podcasts, and deep breaths help, as well as walking away.  Dinner, laughs, and phone calls with friends (not to be underestimated, Goddesses) are a cure all. Talking with an open-hearted partner helps, especially when they talk about their monkeys, too.

Do you have, or have you ever had an hourly, daily, weekly, monthly practice that keeps you on track?

It’s back to the body for us. Yoga yoga yoga connects us to the Goddess within.  Nia does it for me. Walking for others. We pray, chat with friends, take “mom timeouts.”

Nature cures.  I talk to trees and I’m proud of it.  I’m trying to figure out how to work it into my career.

We’d like to have more daily practices in place, but it seems that other things feel more urgent.

What helps you sustain this practice?

We’re not sure, but it seems that experience helps, as does self respect and love. A supportive partner makes it easier.  Conjuring the Goddess inside, with some white magic in the form of positive self talk helps. As one of you wrote so beautifully, “My Goddess gives me the benefit of the doubt and is a lot easier on me than those damn monkeys.  I try to pay attention to her quiet reassurance- listening for that helps me block out the noise of the monkeys.”

My daily practice as of late is to turn to love and gratitude.  This is thanks to a Goddess Guide whom I’ve recently met. I say the words in my mind and look for what to love, who to send love to, what to be grateful for. Though it was harder this week with day 14 of my cycle being my PEAK anxiety time (who knew?), I am working on getting back on track.  I was able to wake this morning and be grateful for early light and a walk in the isolated development we live in that I typically curse.  “We have a home! My children crack me up! I might be able to help someone!” I though.  Gratitude gratitude gratitude.

For one whole week I woke up hearing my inner voice, it firmly and quietly said the following:

“Enjoy the Day.”

“Open your heart.”

“Be grateful.”

“Be kind.”

Mercy me.  These messages were so clear.  It made it much harder to turn to anxiety, yell at the kids, be judgmental.

Every morning it tells me something new. In those few moments before getting out of bed, while Marcello calls, “Mama! Poo poo!” from his bed, I hear my guide telling me,”Forgive.” “Be peace.” “Relax.” “Enjoy your body.”

Listen and comply, I tell myself. Listen and comply and be the Goddess within.

Watch for another Tell Me More Mama Survey on Family Traditions….

Soccer. I think I was about six years old.  I wanted to play because my brother, ten years older whom I told everyone I was going to marry, played in high school.  I cried to my parents after the first practice. “You have to stick with things, Laura!” they said on the ride home. Maybe they saw the pattern beginning to unfold.

Cheering. In 11th grade, I  started and quit cheering within three months. I loved the skirts, but the practices? What a drag!

My potato picking job.  Are you imagining a cute organic farm? No no no. I thought I would be down on the earth, peasant style, with my little shovel. Instead I drove out to the farm and encountered some weathered men wearing dusty sweatshirts. They led me to an enormous tractor with wheels the size of a wood shed where I was jostled about for six hours sorting rocks from potatoes as quickly as a I could. We did break for lunch where I ate my turkey sandwich on wheat while no one spoke. I didn’t come back the next day.

The highest paid job I ever had and may ever have.  I was pregnant and tired.  My midwife said, “I don’t think pregnant women should have to work.” I agreed and promptly left.

I leave all my jars open just a bit unless I bring full attention to the lid I am shutting.  I rarely put my clothing fully in the hamper.  I fill my cups, and everyone’s, halfway. I can’t seem to find a city and stay in it, or an apartment, or a job. Commitment issues, perhaps?

Maybe I am a “trier” not a “doer.” Or I’m the spark, but not the fire.  And yes, I guess it could be a fear of failure. But does potato picking fall into that category?

As we went around the Goddess circle, naming our children and our current balancing acts, I was happy to hear of the many career shifts the goddesses had experienced.  Stay at home moms for ten years re-entering the work world, historic preservation majors running  human resource offices, writers who are painters who are writers.

Just as I would make lists of lovers, trying to count them up, forgetting a name or two, I ran through my list of endeavors and had to settle on just one to talk about. I mentioned Mamas Make It Happen, but felt strange leaving my other lovers behind. My deep affection for many people, many ideas, many place and those four crazy years of college, make me a bit of a whore.

The things I choose to stick with, the things I am faithful to in my life have become my good friends, as my maiden name, Khalil, refers to. My marriage. My children. My love of writing. My friendships. Books. Waldorf. Trees. Gardening. Connection. Growth. Dance. Beauty. My love of nature and absolute need to be outside experiencing it everyday.

Too much? A Sacred Whore, then.  A Whore on High.  Submerging her body quickly, her whole self into her desires, stepping out wet and shining to submerge herself once again.

To my critics, to the cynics, to the picky voice in my head, I say, “See you on the street corner, if you’re lucky.”

A few weeks ago I dreamed about a job posting at a local university. It wasn’t the exact job I was searching for, but it was a way back to the school and community I know. When I woke up I promised I would check their job site.  A few days later, as a joke, I clicked on their human resources page and the job was RIGHT THERE in real life.  I applied. Now I’m waiting to see what the dream was telling me. Was it a literal nudge toward the the job or was it a pinch from my subconscious telling me to pay attention to the psychic world that is all around me, unseen unless brought into focus?

As I try to excavate my spiritual self from the rubble of grief topped with a thick layer of anxiety, I find that seeing signs, listening to dreams, and being open is my best path. This world of wonder is a ridge of glowing honey, waist level, flowing out around me, around all of us.  If I want, I can dip my fingers into it anytime, taste it, pull it up over my eyes and see the world through its glorious tint.

Right now, our kitchen and our downstairs bathroom (bizarrely) are filled with fruit flies. Typically I just kill the suckers, but lately I can’t bring myself to smush anything, not even the silverfish I saw last night on the kitchen floor. I very carefully picked it up in a tissue and threw it outside.  I’ve noticed that when I try to slap a fruit fly between my hands to kill it, they all go crazy, flying around as if they KNOW I am coming after them.  I imagine they are hollering to each other, “Take cover! The MONSTER hands are coming!”

In Seven Years in Tibet the monks that Brad Pitt lives with begin to dig in the earth to build a road.  They come upon a worm and have to stop digging, moving the worm to safety.  This is the only scene I remember from the movie.  Last night as the fruit flies buzzed around my toothbrush I caught myself slapping in mid-air then reminded myself of my resolution, of the guilt I’d feel if I took a little life.  Even an annoying life.

I don’t really know what this means, but I think this change in behavior is me tuning in to something greater.  Saying, “Thank you for coming yellow jackets, but we don’t need you here, ” seems much nicer than getting freaked out and swatting at them.  “Thanks for coming to see us finch,” seems like a better way to say hello to the bird that landed just a foot away. It’s playful and fun and it implies a reverence and respect for all things living.   It also makes me sound like some crazy hippie witch woman who casts spells using eye of newt.  But that’s OK with me. If this crazy talk gets me back to trusting myself and the universe, I’ll accept some warts on my nose.

When my brother visited a few weeks ago he told me a story about a book shop he went to in London.  There was a chair in the book store that a famous occultist, Aleister Crowley, sat in quite a bit.  My bro sat in the chair and felt energy surge through his body.  He sat and sat, not wanting to get up. Upon going to the counter to leave he chatted with the bookstore owner. “Some chair you’ve got there, heh?” my brother said. “Yes,” she said. “People think that Aleister Crowley used to sit in that chair.  It is actually from my grandmother’s house.” Hah! Perhaps life is not about what is true or real or what exists, but rather what we see and feel when we open ourselves up.

Though I don’t expect to meet and make-out with Brad Pitt this week, a bit of trust in the magic around me might lead me to see a path I wouldn’t have taken.  It may also make my friends think I’m going bananas, as they will tell you I did when I lived at the Omega Institute for a summer.  But to me there is no difference in this than in crossing my fingers, knocking on wood, or making a wish on birthday candle.  Wonder is there, buzzing and flapping and irritating the hell out me if I just tune in.

Comments Please! Where do you see wonder? Where do you see signs?

I am learning to temper my passion, balance it with thought, but diving into things full force is part of my digestion process.  My love is always love at first site.

Simplicity Parenting is my new paramour.

Here’s the thing. I dig this work because it speaks to my sense of what is true for my family.  Maybe we’ve moved too many times, or lived in Canada where things seem simpler. Maybe I just don’t like Sponge Bob. (Sorry.) But this work gets me in the gut.

Let’s keep it real, though.

Our house is a mess. I am TRYING to simplify, but damn, the toys sneak in the door, the books pile up. Every single freaking night I search for the matches to light our candle at dinner time. EVERY NIGHT! My house is NOT simplified and rhythm is a work in progress here.

My husband believes that we are all a little too obsessed with parenting.  We’re never going to get it just right, he’ll say.  It’s good to be aware, reflect on our own childhood and trust our intuition, but we just have to do our best.

For me, the quiet life that the Simplicity path lays out before me, with no “screen time” at home, simple toys, and rhythm throughout the day is something I can aspire to.  It speaks to the introvert inside my extroverted self.  It speaks to the child in me that believes in the magic of a fairy ring, the personality of a climbing tree, the earnestness in a wish on a rainbow.

Here are a few highlights from Payne’s talk at River Valley Waldorf school this past weekend. Almost as good as the quinoa salad (and cupcakes) they offered for lunch.

1. Anyone who says they are a parenting expert should have a WARNING label on their shirt. Yes, Payne sees the irony in this.

2.  Simplicity Parenting asks us to tune into what we intuitively feel as parents, what we know about our children and ourselves. Payne knows he is not offering the answers, but he’s sharing the concepts that he’s seen other families use effectively.  He gives us a simple path to walk on in a busy world.

3. Our children have sooooo much more to cope with than we did. More things, more people, more media, more to do.

4. Some key indicators of PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) that Payne observed in refugee camp children were seen again in his work with upper middle class kids in England. The had not experienced any true trauma.  They were just living in our modern hectic times. The indicators are explosive/implosive anger, moderate to hyper-vigilance, trouble understanding cause and effect, over controlling one’s environment, rejection of anything new, being impervious to heat and cold, under or over animated expressions.

5.  Quirk + Cumulative Stress = Disorder.  All kids are quirky by nature, but stress accumulated over time pushes them down the continuum to disorder.  Hence, on the extreme side, your quirky dreamy child becomes inattentive, leaning toward ADHD.

6. Each quirk has a gift with it. The gift of your child’s quirk becomes noticeable when one simplifies.  The dreamer becomes the keen observer who gives their accurate and insightful impressions of situations at just the right moment.

7. “Soul Fever” has become the new normal.  Payne told a story of  five-year old twins attending the “best” private school in their area.  Both had stomach ulcers. Eek! Their dad was in knots about it, but unsure what to do.  This is where tuning into your kids becomes especially valuable. Simplifying makes this easier.

8.  Buckets and Towels. These were put down the middle of the classrooms rows in one school district during state testing so children could vomit and not lose time.

9. Our children have hopes and dreams, just as we do. But the child’s inner world that creates these hopes and dreams is being compressed by the outside world pressing in on it.

10. Our children rely on us to shut the door to the sensory tsunami in the world.  We are able to do it for ourselves in our cars and our offices.  They are not.  They have no haven except the one we provide for them. We are their elders, their village.

11. The average child in North America has 150 toys.  The 300 piece Lego kit is ONE of those.

12.  Too many choices too young (“What do you want to do after school? What do you want for breakfast? Do you want to go here, go there, do this, do that?”) make our children think no one is in charge. No one in charge means their world is not safe.  Instruction = Inner Structure.  Tell more, ask less. Especially when kids are young. (As a side note, when they are 14 they may be expecting just the same amount of choices and they may not understand why you are now setting limits and giving more direction.)

13.  Out of the “We do” comes the “I am.” This is the journey from the family self to the individual self.  (In our family, we light a candle at dinner, we read before bedtime, we sing. Now that I am an adult, I….)

14.  1/3 activity, 1/3 deep creative play, 1/3 nothing.                                                                  The precursor to creativity is boredom.

15. A sense of anticipation is GREAT!  It’s OK to say, “No. You may not have that until you earn it, until you are 8, until next week, until next year… Without anticipation, nothing is special. A treat everyday can become a sense of entitlement.

16.  National Alliance for Sports reports that 75% of kids quit sports by the age of 13 and never play them again.  The same study shows that one-third of all kids participating in organized sports drop out each year, and about 80 percent drop out for good between the ages of 12 and 16. With this in mind, only 2 of the top 50 Canadian hockey players had formal training before age 12.  Start later and they’ll play longer.

17. In 2006 kids had an average of 5 hours of screen time a day.  Today they have 7.5 hours and this excludes phones and screen time at school.  Children need a digital oasis. The home is the only place it can be controlled.

18. TMAI. Too Much Adult Information. Before you speak in your home ask yourself, “Is it Kind? Is it Necessary? Is it True?” You can add, “Does it promote Wonder?” if you find that you are prone to giving lengthy academic explanations.

19.  Creating rhythm is a high yield, low investment strategy. Wherever there are “flash points” in your day, create more rhythm. (More on this in the next section of my book review.)

20. Look right at your children and have the time to listen. Create the pause that builds connection.

I’m off to bed with my new lover, reading blogs about it, peeking into the toy box to find something else I can toss.  Part-two of my book review should put me at my saturation point as I journey through the Simplicity Parenting Group Leader Training.  (Have no fear, blog readers!) But unlike Celtic Sea Salt, this obsession has already changed me and changed our family.  Even while I’m digging through the “junk drawer,” (as my mother called it) to find the matches, my children are sure that it is time for dinner and we will light a candle, sing a song, and share our favorite things.  Simple rhythm, simple ritual, and simple moment in the day.

You already know I’m a Waldorf fanatic, the philosophy this work is based in. For a true look at Waldorf education, visit a school in your area. You can also check out http://www.whywaldorfworks.org/02_W_Education/index.asp).

Comments please…..

Now with two children and a busy schedule, another book has come to me.  Kim John Payne’s Simplicity Parenting: Using the Extraordinary Power of Less to Raise Calmer, Happier and More Secure Kids.

Payne’s work asks parents to remember what they imagined their family lives would be like and then take the steps to create that reality.

I have this picture of myself outside with our children, walking in the garden, digging in the dirt to find worms.  I see meals with peace and laughter and songs all day long.  What I did not imagine was piles of toys that I hate cleaning up, hundreds of crayons, laundry laundry laundry, bad attitudes, and stressful meal times.  I did not anticipate having to fight so hard to keep TV and Disney and iPods out of our home.

Despite this battle, Payne is funny and self-effacing.  In one of his lectures he says something like, “There are five steps I’ll outline today for helping families move towards simplifying.  The first is easy.  The next few a bit more difficult. And the fifth step, well, it’s impossible.”

Payne is a parent of two girls. He gets it. He understands how our best intentions to not yell, not bring another toy into the house, and say no to Elmo are squashed the minute our exhausted selves walk into the kitchen and see the mess from last night and the piles of toys strewn across the floor. Yet he inspires me to be my best parenting self in each moment.

The book is broken into four levels of simplification: environment, rhythm, routine and information. This part of my book review will discuss the beginning of the book.  I’ll be as succinct as I can, because I know you have to feed someone or pee.

First, become reacquainted with the dreams you had for your family.  Some of them may be reality, and others may be lost under a busy schedule. Take them out, talk about them, think about them.

You know when something is off for your child.  They may be sulkier than usual, or louder and rammy.  Payne calls this “Soul Fever.”  All children have quirks, says Payne. Yet add stress to a quirky tendency and you have trouble.  This is true with little ones and teenagers (though teenagers often amplify their character, unlike little kids who are “acting out of character.”).

When a child has a physical fever you take them out of their typical day and help them retreat.  The same applies here. And your children are probably trying to pull themselves out of typical daily life anyway, by clinging and whining and melting down.  If you notice Soul Fever in your child, pull back and say to them or yourself, “In this family, we pull back, take some quiet time.  Let’s figure out how we can do that for you.” This ability to take a break will build their mastery of their own emotional and physical energy.

Payne notes that “Most children, no matter what their age, can reset their emotional clock given two or three quiet days.  One restful, simplified weekend is usually enough to make a difference, to break a soul fever.  It affords enough space and grace to loosen an emotional knot.”

Now we move on to the mess in your child’s playroom or bedroom or right on your living room floor. This step can be one of the biggest helps in simplifying the other levels. It’s also kind of fun.

Why simplify the environment? Less toys doesn’t just mean less clean-up at the end of the day, it also means that children can engage more deeply in their play. With two many choices, children move from one object to another, never getting to the deep level of play needed for intellectual and imaginative growth.  Give them the gift of less and they will grow more.  And trust me, they will BARELY notice, if at all.

Here are a few suggestions:

1. Clear it out while they are gone, leaving only their favorite items. Store it, trash it, donate it. It’s up to you, but put it away so it won’t creep back in.

2. Get rid of  toys that do too much (beep, light up, talk at you) and “fixed” toys, toys that can only be used for one thing, such as “detailed molded plastic characters.” With these, Kim asks, “Whose imagination is being celebrated: Hollywood’s or the child’s?”

3. Broken toys, multiple toys and toys you felt coerced into buying can  leave along with toys the break too easily and toys that annoy you.

4. Keep the toys that invite imagination, like wooden blocks, kitchen items, little brooms and cloths.  “Children need experience, not entertainment, in play,” says Kim.  “The more kids can do, see, feel, and experience for themselves in play, the more connected they will feel to the world and the less overwhelmed.” This means that toys are not the center of their world of play, but part of it.  That cardboard box in the back yard is also part of their world, as is the grass in the yard and tree and the puddles on the sidewalk.

5. We all love children’s books, but lots of books does not equal lots of reading!  (When I suggest fewer books people usually give me a nasty look! Please bear with me!) Payne tells a story of one child who told him he read seven books in the last two weeks in a juvenile superhero series.  Payne smiled and asked what they were about. The child replied, “Oh…I don’t know.”  A few books on the shelf are just fine. In fact, for kids under  eight or nine, a dozen or less books is appropriate.  Even as kids grow in their reading abilities they want to hear and read the same book again and again. They are building relationships with the characters and stories. We can honor this by having a limited number of books displayed and rotating through a stored library.

Finally, you know how your kids are always trying to grab a knife and cut with it, or steal the hammer and hit with it? Respect their effort to use real objects.  Their play with adult objects (within safety limits) is the work of the real world, the work of the family.

Remove the clutter to see your best parenting self.  Remove the clutter so you may tune in and connect with your kids, so they can tune in and connect with themselves and others.

This fall I am completing the Simplicity Parenting Group Leader training.  Click on the Simplicity Parenting link above to find out more about upcoming groups and events.

Coming next: Creating rhythm in a disjointed, hectic world.

I rarely speak about my mother or process the grief I have after losing her at 26.  But it not-so-subtly manifests in my health anxiety, the daily, hourly fear and monkey mind I feel around my health.  I decided I would try to put a stop to it this week. I had to make the obvious-to-others, but obtuse-to-me connection between her death and my worries about my health, my parenting, my power.

She died just as she was beginning to live her passion, just as her articles were being published and her workshops well-attended.  And I am lost now. No mother to ask about my four-year-old and being home versus working. No guide in this mess.

Just as I begin to take flight, I feel the gun of the hunter pointing at me from the ground, ready to take me down.  I remember reading in Edmund Bourne’s book, Healing Fear, that health anxiety is most often experienced by people who have lost someone to an illness. Knowing this in my brain and connecting it to who I am as a parent and a woman did not happen easily.  Yet I see the ripples now.  One drive in the car, one long drive, took me there.

I decided I would talk with my mom.  I told her that I missed her. I told her that my brother and I had just cried about her together, sitting outside on the curb at dinner time.  My grief, combined with my brother’s, shook the silver shield around my heart. Two lost children together, wishing for their mama.  On that curb, a moment later, a butterfly landed on my arm.

I am in my joy a lot lately.  Working hard on this blog, taking the Simplicity Parenting course, teaching Nia Nia Nia…how my heart and body love Nia.  Yet I am never at rest.  I fear my own power, my role in the world. I worry my connection with my children will be hurt by my own hopes. As I grow in my career and my joy, I imagine death tapping at my mind and body, as it did my mother’s.

The drive to the conference gave me the pause I needed to think about her, talk to her, process my jumbled thoughts and fears. I had the answers I was hoping would come from her. I spoke to myself, saying that I must be the one who decides upon and creates my connection with daughter, with both of my children. I am the one who creates my life, who creates the culture in my family, who shapes my body and health.  These things are my responsibility. I am the one in charge. Not my fear, not my loss.

Slowing down in the car let me see this. It let me see that the connection between Nia and Simplicity Parenting and counseling all have to with slowing down, with being present. That car ride showed me that I create who I am in the pauses between doing.  Mother. Wife. Writer. Teacher. Counselor. Goddess. And of course the woman who misses her mother.

During the wellness weekend I created a vision board.  My life coach friend Tracy took us through a visualization exercise  where I saw our family outside our home, smiling in the yard.  I imagined my office, my work with groups in the evening, my health body.  We cut out pictures from magazines, and when I found one of a woman lying on her back, eyes closed, knees and legs up on a wooden bench, I knew that this was the most important piece of my board.  Peace. A pause. A time to reflect.

It is not just the the hidden emotions of grief or sadness that show up when people slow down.  Their desires and hopes come through as well.

After a day of feeling like someone had shredded my being up into tiny pieces, wet them in the sink then put them in the dryer to spin around and around, my husband gave the kids a bath while I folded the laundry.  During that pause I gathered up the frayed bits of my soul fabric and stitched them together. In those few moments I processed what I could do to get back on track. Then I looked up and noticed my husband looked pretty damn good in the black button down shirt he was wearing. A few hours later he agreed that my folding the laundry was to his advantage, too.