Our Parenting Roots

Often we develop our manner of raising children by way of the example set by our own parents, whether that be to mimic their style, decide to take a different approach altogether, or something in between. In identifying our personal and family values, and how these came to be shaped by our ancestry and upbringing, we become better prepared to make conscious decisions about our own approach to parenting.

You can learn so much about how you have come to be the person you are, by considering the basis for your parents' child-rearing practices. What was going on in the world in the way of current events, media (music, television, movies),and the economy, when they were young and as you were growing up? What social issues were being addressed? What was their religious upbringing and how has that affected your spirituality? What interests and ways of life have you acquired as a result of your upbringing (Sports? Politics? Environment? Social action? Career goals? Dietary habits? Communication style? Discipline? Behavioral expectations?)

      From whence I come

• I come from stock of the Depression era, with resultant parental frugality; and my childhood sense of deprivation in the midst of the well-off and ritzy suburb of Boston in which I spent my first 13 years.

• I come from the fifties… Ozzie and Harriet, Leave it to Beaver, and Father Knows Best sense of strong family values and clear division of labor, martinis and cigarettes, the middle of five children- three sisters and a brother

• I come from the sixties… Flower children, the Vietnam War, peace mongers, Kennedy assassinations, Martin Luther King and civil rights;

• I come from a safe neighborhood, unstructured time, freedom to play and roam, to a time fraught with stranger anxiety and relative isolation.

• I come from The seventies… the Woman’s Movement and Environmental Awareness.

• I come from Christian upbringing, Sunday School, parental pillars of the church, church fairs, pageants, youth group, Sunday School, potential seminarian...to become a “rejector” of Religion and an avid spiritualist with deep faith in a power greater than myself.

• I come from generations of book lovers and word smiths; trips to the library and bookstores a weekly occurrence. Love of good books and writing is in our genes!

• I come from a house filled with classical music; show tunes, Mitch Miller and Benny Goodman. I am a wannabe musician, former Student of clarinet. Today I connect and attend to other cultures through world music…

• My mother was a leader, a mover and shaker in the Girl Scouts as I grew up, hence my active involvement in scouts throughout childhood. That and family camping initiated my love and concern for nature and the environment.

• I come from the anti-bureaucrat (my father)… resisting becoming controlled by state regulation and refusing to be categorized and limited by guidelines deemed necessary by the powers that be...

• I come from a long line of alcoholics: family secrets, roles, and messages concerning worth and potential. I come from Violation by presumed friends of family and upstanding community members.  

My Father

Dad was the working man, breadwinner, fearsome, fun loving Boss who fixed things, painted and wallpapered, did the yard work, shoveled us out after a blizzard, and took us to the museum, the library, the park, historic sites, sailing, camping, and comet chasing at 3am.

He had a strong work ethic and high expectations. He was strict, and we were afraid of him. He was bull headed and “never wrong”.

Having grown up during the great Depression, he was a frugal man, always pinching pennies, and insisting upon a clean plate at dinnertime (“take all you want but eat all you take”). Never one to waste anything that may be of use someday, he recycled long before recycling was in vogue.

Ever the consummate engineer, he did his own plumbing and electrical repairs amidst oil can, baby food jars filled with old screws and nuts and bolts, TV and radio tube tester heaped around him on the dining table. I have a vivid recollection of him sitting on the edge of the bathtub shaking the commode in his lap and cursing as he tried to remove the Ban deodorant bottle that had been flushed down the toilet and lodged in the trap.

He considered the impact of his employment situation on our family, uprooting us from what he considered to be a pretentious community and the unreasonable demands of his work in a large corporation. We relocated to a small town in Maine which offered easy access to what he considered to be the finer things in life.

For you see, my father truly was a Renaissance Man. He was a wildlife enthusiast and taught me to be a grateful witness of natural beauty through all of my senses. A loyal patron of the arts, he sought opportunities to expose us to the humanities, passing along his deep appreciation of good music and art .

Despite the overwhelming financial obligations of starting a business partnership, raising his family, providing medical care for a desperately ill child, and putting his daughters through college, he persevered day after day. This is an amazing feat that is so often taken for granted. But his business sense was extraordinary and after many years of diligently paying off his debt, my father entered into a position of financial security.

For all of his hard work and the pressures of day to day life, Dad had a tremendous sense of humor and took great pleasure in shocking people. He loved a good practical joke and was so much like a big kid in so many ways.

Between his loathing for bureaucracy and disdain for taxes, he made a practice of giving much of his wealth to organizations he deemed worthy by virtue of their impact on his community and the world.

His curiosity and enthusiasm for life carried him through to the end of his days. When he was 75, he learned the art of Chinese cooking. At the age of 80, Dad started piano lessons, and taught weather classes to senior citizens. His death in 2004 left a gaping void in the presence he held in the lives of so many.

My Mother

I once came across my mother's old girl scout book (c.1929), an explicit account of how each room in the house should be cleaned, beds made, table set, how to do laundry, how to cook, how to take care of minor injuries, and most importantly, how to catch and keep a husband.

As I grew up, there was a strict division of labor within our household. Mom stayed home with the five children, taught us right from wrong (deferring to Dad as necessary), took care of us when we were sick, and made a full course sit- down dinner seven days a week. She cleaned the house (Monday: bathroom and kitchen; Tuesday: dust and vacuum downstairs; Wednesday: dust and vacuum upstairs; Thursday: wash and hang laundry; Friday: iron (no permanent press back then!); Saturday: change beds, go shopping for groceries and make Saturday/Sunday dinners. She was given a meager weekly allowance, which she carefully eked out to cover groceries, dry cleaning, house keeping necessities, and cigarettes. She had to ask for extra money to get her hair cut. Discretionary funds were out of the question. It was her job to care for her sick, incontinent and demented father-in-law who despised her. In fact the huge house she was responsible for was not her house but her in-laws, complete with hideous décor and furnishings, which she abhorred and was powerless to alter in any way.

At age 45, Mom was uprooted as she approached menopause, and hit the bottle, had to contend with a gravely ill daughter and a marriage in which she was miserable. It was not until she was 54 that she got “out of the house” and into the workforce. The transformation in her sense of self was astounding to behold. Her resolve for independence and self expression allowed her to break out of the subservient role that had defined her and the women in our family for so many generations.

My mother had a determination and gift for turning the most earth shattering experiences to the advantage of others. She was highly respected as a leader and mentor for youth and young adults, inspiring me and other women following in her footsteps to create a better world for ourselves and our children. She was mother not only to her own children but to others in the absence of their mothers, teaching me that motherhood must extend beyond our own children to any child in need of mother spirit.

My parents shared a strong sense of community and dedicated themselves to the betterment of society through their involvement with our church and its youth, the Girl Scouts, and the local hospital. They never hesitated to give someone a helping hand, a ride to church or the Synagog or doctor, making dinner or repairs for an elderly neighbor, footing the electric bill for someone in danger of having the power turned off.

While my parents had a difficult and at times stormy union, they remained committed to their 48 year marriage, joking that it cost too much to divorce, until my mother's death of lung cancer in 1996.

*****

Once you have a clear picture of where you have come from and how you have come to be the person you are, you can begin to identify the values you wish to carry into the future, as well as those better left behind.

This is a fantastic opportunity to set, or reset, the compass for future generations. As you determine how your own background will influence your parenting style, you must realize that you will be the primary example for your children. You are their most significant role model and they are likely to follow your lead:

• If you show respect for them and the other people in your lives, they will learn to be respectful.
• If you are environmentally conscious, spend time in nature, and feed the birds, they will learn to appreciate and care for the natural world.
• If your children see that you find great pleasure in books, they are more likely to become avid readers themselves.

On the other hand:

•  If there is swearing in their presence at home, they will curse in public.

•  Physical and verbal abuse encourages bullying.
• Children raised in a racist or sexist home find it difficult to see others as equals.

Our Parenting Roots

Often we develop our manner of raising children by way of the example set by our own parents, whether that be to mimic their style, decide to take a different approach altogether, or something in between. In identifying our personal and family values, and how these came to be shaped by our ancestry and upbringing, we become better prepared to make conscious decisions about our own approach to parenting.

Living with Alcoholism

I was thirteen when I realized my mother had a drinking problem. I watched in horror as she spiraled deeper into the bottle. Her growing instability and mood swings were pretty terrifying in light of the mother I had known to that point. 

I kept constant vigil, secretly trying to smell her breath, searching through the cabinets and basement trying to find her stash, tearing through the village in panic to find my Dad and let him know that it was happening again.

The humiliation as our secret became public; the confusion as to why this was happening and what I needed to do (it was all my fault, after all); the strong sense of guilt that my epilepsy was the reason for it; the fear for her safety when she would disappear; anger and disgust in the face of her drunkenness; and the helplessness in making it go away largely defined my adolescence.

Approximately one in four people is affected by alcoholism during their lifetime, but the stigma is so great that many remain unaware of what goes on in the homes of some of their friends and neighbors.
Alcoholism is a family disease. Not only does it tend to run through the generations of a family (grandfather, mother, uncle, brother, daughter...), it also negatively impacts those who are closest to the one with the drinking problem (parents, spouse, children).

Often there is a change in the behavior of spouse and children as a means for dealing with addiction in their home lives. The family members develop coping mechanisms in handling the pain involved with having an alcoholic parent:

• 
  The Hero is a high achiever, trying desperately to compensate for the family's distress by being extremely “good”. She never breaks the rules, and performs exceedingly well in school and all of her activities. She constantly seeks approval, but no matter how hard she tries, in her mind it is never enough. Her sense of inadequacy is tremendous.
   
• The Clown draws attention away from the pain and dysfunction at home by entertaining others, by being “cute” or funny. This behavior provides a good cover to the supreme sense of insecurity that this child feels.
  
  
• The Scapegoat attracts negative attention by acting out, getting into trouble, hanging out with the “unsavory” crowd, often making extreme fashion choices (body piercings, tattoos, spiked hair, or perhaps a Gothic style). Feelings of anger and helplessness and being misunderstood abound.
  
  
• The Lost Child tries to make himself invisible, keeping to oneself, attracting little attention, or leaving to hang out with friends outside the home as much as possible. This child feels lonely and unimportant.
  
  
• The Enabler is usually the child (or spouse) closest to the addict emotionally. S/he tries to protect the alcoholic by making excuses for her behavior, picking up the slack around the house, bailing her out of jail. This allows the drinker to continue without suffering the natural consequences of her drinking: social ostracism, financial effects...

While sibling rivalry is normal and necessary in children, becomes a huge problem when childhood competitions are carried into adulthood. On-going sibling conflict may be in response to family dysfunction, such as alcoholism, the mistreatment of others in a way that is detrimental to a child's well being, or the catastrophic illness of a family member.

The result is a struggle of negative, childish feeling and supreme sense of inadequacy and even betrayal which has followed us into maturity. At family gatherings old conflicts reduce these adults to the childish response played out as youngsters. It is likely to cast a dark shadow over our relationships with our partner, children, professional relationships, and friendships. We are setting the example our children are likely to follow if the cycle is not broken. Guidance by a professional may be what is required to break these destructive patterns of communication. 

I have heard it said that one of the most valuable gifts you can bequeath to your children, is to work out or come to terms with unresolved quarrels with your family of origin.

Recently, most of my siblings and I gathered for the funeral of a beloved aunt. As usual, I was filled with fear and trepidation at the prospect of reuniting with my family of origin. I cannot stand the “games”, the secrets, the competition, the dishonesty; the pitting of one against another, and the tremendous sense of being so judged and completely misunderstood.

The opportunity presented itself to work through these lifelong rivalries that had escalated upon the event of our father's passing, tearing us apart in ways that seemed beyond the scope of reconciliation.

After once again rehashing old wounds, we agreed to make a pact:

• We will let go of past grudges once and for all.
  
  
• We will say what we mean and mean what we say. 
   
• We will talk to each other, not about each other. We will keep our relationship and issues with each other between ourselves; and not pull the others into disagreements that have nothing to do with them.

Our eldest sister, the “Queen Bee”, who was burdened with way too much responsibility at too young an age, and continued to think that she must step in on behalf of her grown siblings, is hereby dethroned! We will now stand as equals.

Living with Alcoholism

I was thirteen when I realized my mother had a drinking problem. I watched in horror as she spiraled deeper into the bottle. Her growing instability and mood swings were pretty terrifying in light of the mother I had known to that point. 

I kept constant vigil, secretly trying to smell her breath, searching through the cabinets and basement trying to find her stash, tearing through the village in panic to find my Dad and let him know that it was happening again.

The humiliation as our secret became public; the confusion as to why this was happening and what I needed to do (it was all my fault, after all); the strong sense of guilt that my epilepsy was the reason for it; the fear for her safety when she would disappear; anger and disgust in the face of her drunkenness; and the helplessness in making it go away largely defined my adolescence.

Autumn: A Bountiful Season for Thanksgiving

As the children play about the neighborhood, I drink in the glory of autumn as though I am seeing it through their eyes. The day is fairly bursting with joy! The wind kicks up, tugging and coaxing the leaves to take the plunge from their perch above, and they skitter down the street blanketing the neighborhood in a wash of gold. The musty, earthy smell of the damp garden wafts through the house riffling the pages of my book. Melodic wind chimes on the porch work themselves into a frenzy of crashing crescendo. Just as suddenly, the only sounds are the chipping sparrow in the flaming bush outside my window, the rustling breeze, the sweet tinkle of chimes whispering, conversing in a way that seems to make perfect sense. A flock of kids swishes through the leaves in a gale of laughter, and the cats sit mesmerized in the window.

       

Experience the wonder of this magnificent season through the eyes of a child.

• Rake leaves into a giant pile and dive into them! 
   
• Take a nature walk.  Notice the seasonal changes: bird migrations, the critters getting ready for hibernation. Collect chestnuts, acorns, pine cones, beautiful leaves... Take note of the beauty even as the dismal weather sets in : flowers gone to seed, the many shades of brown and gold...
   
• Describe the cycle of seasons as you put the garden to bed: divide and replant bulbs, tucking each in for its long winter nap. Pull out dead annuals, cut back perennials, mulch, etc. 
   
• Get out the bird feeders. Remember to keep them filled through winter. Once the birds find your feeder, they count on you to keep them fed and will die if there is not another source of food nearby. Don't forget to put a bell on your cat as a warning to these feathered friends. Keep a bird book nearby for identifying the visitors to your feeder
   
• Distract the squirrels from your bird feeder with those acorns and chestnuts the kids have been collecting. Point out the squirrel you see burying a nut in the garden and wonder that it is able to find it even through a blanket of snow. Ask what happens to the nuts that are buried and not found. Search the treetops for squirrels' nests.
   
• Collect beautiful leaves to press
   
•  Find an apple tree or farm market and get as many apples as you need to
   
• Cut an apple in half horizontally and discover a surprise inside
  
  
• Arrange apple slices around a dish of peanut butter "dip" for a healthy snack
  
  
• Make applesauce, or freeze pies for the holidays. Children don't always realize that the things we buy at the store come from somewhere else first
   
• Peal an apple, carve facial features into it, allow it to dry out and create a puppet from the wizened head

In the years to come, you will reflect back on these days with joy as your growing children reminisce the priceless gift of childhood you have given to them.  (RDW 10-19-12)

Autumn: A Bountiful Season for Thanksgiving

As the children play about the neighborhood, I drink in the glory of autumn as though I am seeing it through their eyes. The day is fairly bursting with joy! The wind kicks up, tugging and coaxing the leaves to take the plunge from their perch above, and they skitter down the street blanketing the neighborhood in a wash of gold. The musty, earthy smell of the damp garden wafts through the house riffling the pages of my book. Melodic wind chimes on the porch work themselves into a frenzy of crashing crescendo. Just as suddenly, the only sounds are the chipping sparrow in the flaming bush outside my window, the rustling breeze, the sweet tinkle of chimes whispering, conversing in a way that seems to make perfect sense. A flock of kids swishes through the leaves in a gale of laughter, and the cats sit mesmerized in the window.

       

Experience the wonder of this magnificent season through the eyes of a child.

Ruminations on Being a Parent

Twenty-five years ago I stood on the rocky coast of Maine, lost in the rhythm of waves crashing along the shoreline and contemplating the imminent birth of my first child.

I could not have imagined that this day would arrive in the blink of a cosmic eye.

My pregnancy had been filled with thrilling, scary, idealistic anticipation; the awe of being in love with the child unfolding within my body; the fantasy of fulfilling my dream of motherhood; the satisfaction of believing that all of my experience to date had helped to prepare me to be a “good mother”.

There is nothing more magical than giving birth to a first child. Those first nights gazing into your newborn's very soul, feeling that you are the only ones on the planet while the rest of your world slumbers and the constellations circle the night sky.

Having children gave me an opportunity to reconstruct my own childhood experience; to learn forgiveness and humility as I realized and learned to live with the imperfections in my parents and in myself; the priceless gift of once again seeing the world through the eyes of a child; the opportunity to experience that sweet innocence minus the judgment, distorted perceptions and cynicism that are the inevitable by-products of growing up.

As the years have passed, every moment has been a whole rainbow of feelings; the immensity of the task of being a parent playing itself out day after day after day, with all of its joy and fear and protectiveness and inadequacy and guilt and triumph and frustration and satisfaction and doubt and resentment and pride and enormous indescribable Love.

In being a mother, I have found myself constantly defining and redefining who I am, and who I hope to be, as an individual, a life partner, a parent; persevering through tough times that, had I not had my children to consider, may have turned out very differently.

Parenthood has forced me to come to terms with my own fears and shortcomings; to open myself up to the reality that I am not my children, and they are not me; to learn the arts of negotiation and compromise and letting go.

The miracle continues to blossom forth every day before my very eyes- that tiny bundle of wonder and joy and utter vulnerability evolving into the kind, sensitive, confident, funny, smart, talented men that my children have come to be a quarter of a century later.

Motherhood has enriched my life and taught me in ways that I couldn't have imagined, and I am so very grateful for the experience. My sons are, without doubt, my greatest teachers. RDW (2-24-11)

Ruminations on Being a Parent

Twenty-five years ago I stood on the rocky coast of Maine, lost in the rhythm of waves crashing along the shoreline and contemplating the imminent birth of my first child.

I could not have imagined that this day would arrive in the blink of a cosmic eye.

My pregnancy had been filled with thrilling, scary, idealistic anticipation; the awe of being in love with the child unfolding within my body; the fantasy of fulfilling my dream of motherhood; the satisfaction of believing that all of my experience to date had helped to prepare me to be a “good mother”.

There is nothing more magical than giving birth to a first child. Those first nights gazing into your newborn's very soul, feeling that you are the only ones on the planet while the rest of your world slumbers and the constellations circle the night sky.

Having children gave me an opportunity to reconstruct my own childhood experience; to learn forgiveness and humility as I realized and learned to live with the imperfections in my parents and in myself; the priceless gift of once again seeing the world through the eyes of a child; the opportunity to experience that sweet innocence minus the judgment, distorted perceptions and cynicism that are the inevitable by-products of growing up.

As the years have passed, every moment has been a whole rainbow of feelings; the immensity of the task of being a parent playing itself out day after day after day, with all of its joy and fear and protectiveness and inadequacy and guilt and triumph and frustration and satisfaction and doubt and resentment and pride and enormous indescribable Love.

In being a mother, I have found myself constantly defining and redefining who I am, and who I hope to be, as an individual, a life partner, a parent; persevering through tough times that, had I not had my children to consider, may have turned out very differently.

Parenthood has forced me to come to terms with my own fears and shortcomings; to open myself up to the reality that I am not my children, and they are not me; to learn the arts of negotiation and compromise and letting go.

The miracle continues to blossom forth every day before my very eyes- that tiny bundle of wonder and joy and utter vulnerability evolving into the kind, sensitive, confident, funny, smart, talented men that my children have come to be a quarter of a century later.

Motherhood has enriched my life and taught me in ways that I couldn't have imagined, and I am so very grateful for the experience. My sons are, without doubt, my greatest teachers. RDW (2-24-11)

My Perfect Day

I stumble through my days in a perpetual state of discombobulation and oblivion, sifting through my thoughts for my current intention, wading through chaos for the object I seek. I long for clarity. Repeatedly, it occurs to me that my mind is a reflection of the clutter that smothers me at home and at work. Approaching my day is like walking through a sand storm. 

I try to convince myself and others that my approach enhances my life through the flexibility it offers. By winging it through my days, I remain open to the flashes of inspiration that occur so suddenly, and fleetingly. Still, how much more fulfilling my life could be if my mind were not a swarm of gnats, filled with distraction that so interferes with the perfectibility of my days. Ah... to create a perfect day would require more hours than we are given. Would that I had the wherewithal to construct my days just so...

I awaken before anyone else in time to take advantage of my mind in it's relaxed state and without distraction. It is still and dark, the sky just beginning to lighten in the east. I enter the kitchen which remains in the clean and tidy state of the previous evening. I savor the aroma of coffee as it culminates in gurgle and whoosh. The kitties wrap themselves around my ankles in purring contentment as I prepare their morning meal. I pour my coffee, settle comfortably in the living room, warm laptop alleviating the slight chill I feel. My eyes sweep the artful rugs, books lined neatly on the shelves, tasteful knickknacks and paintings, stained glass lamps that provide a warm glow to the woodwork. The scent of freshly mowed grass and lilacs wafts in on the morning breeze. Strains of George Winston play quietly in the background, filling me with the memory of young love. 
     

I am ready to begin my work: developing curriculum, writing an inspiring newsletter, planning for the coming season. Today I do the final draft of a piece of writing in preparation for Writers and Friends. The next hour is spent completely absorbed in the task at hand, and I am surprised when I hear the first wake up call upstairs, provided by the morning news. I slip back into our room for a warm snuggle with my beloved. We laugh and talk and listen to the stirrings of our sons.

I return to the living room to spend the next hour with my journal, dreaming, writing about the hilarious or invigorating or disturbing events of the previous day, taking inventory, making lists... This is perhaps the most important thing that I can do for myself, for when I am neglectful of this task, I become unhappy, irritable and discontent. Golden sunshine suddenly floods the living room as the sun makes it's way over the hills in the east.

The shower is running constantly as the boys begin their synchronized morning ablutions. The slightest delay on the part of one leads to a squabble, but thankfully they are old enough to work these things out among themselves. They crash down the stairs to begin the kitchen dance in which they move about each other in relative silence, making their lunches and preparing breakfast among themselves. The house is a flurry of activity and swift goodbyes, abruptly silenced as they rush out into their day.

I close my journal, relieved that I have started the day off on the right foot. I descend to the basement to put a load of laundry in. Then clattering about the kitchen, singing along to Simon and Garfunkel or Cat Stevens, or the Moody Blues, I load the dishwasher, put things away, clean the counter, sweep the floor, and think about what to make for tomorrow evening's meal. Gathering the ingredients, I start a pot of soup and pull a container of spaghetti sauce from the freezer. Once the soup is on, I head up stairs to make my bed, collect laundry, and shower. I luxuriate under the hot water with my favorite scented soap and shampoo. I further pamper myself with lotion and fresh, crisp, clean clothes. As I step into the hall, the fragrance of the soup prolongs my sensual delight. But now I need to step up my pace as I throw the laundry into the dryer, eat my own breakfast, and walk briskly to work. The day is perfect: clear, green, kissed with dew and the scent of new spring.

The phone is ringing when I enter the building and one of my closest friends is wanting to make a date for lunch. It has been some time since we have seen one another and my heart soars. I take a moment to return phone calls before the children arrive and thank heavens that I have mended my ways and left the building in readiness for today's class. There is a plan, and everything that I will be needing for the day is ready in a place where it will be easily accessible. The children arrive happy and expectant, playing together while I speak briefly with parents. When the parents have left, I check in with each child. One presents a masterpiece that she has created for me.

The day goes smoothly, there are no tussles between children, everyone likes the snack I have chosen for the day, we have created works of art that make us proud, learned of something new, loved a story that had not been heard, and danced the wiggles out. The children depart, leaving me once again in silence.

My friend arrives for our lunch date and we go to a new place we have just discovered. We become so immediately absorbed in deep conversation that we lose ourselves and have forgotten to look at the menu. When lunch arrives, it so hits the spot that I swoon with pleasure. The world once again recedes as we resume our heart to heart, feeling completely at peace with one another as we divulge our innermost thoughts and concerns. Neither of us is in a big hurry, so we stop to browse our favorite garden center and come across a plant once seen, and since coveted. Not only that, there is a perfect spot for it in the garden. On the way back to my house, we burst into side splitting laughter that hurts, brings tears to our eyes and leads both of us to dribble a tiny bit. We acknowledge to one another the amazing, incredible gift that is our friendship.

Traces of eau de soup greet me as I enter the house looking forward to a well deserved nap. I'm exhausted and have no trouble drifting into that state of total relaxation in which I am at the surface of deep slumber, thoughts wandering about non sensibly between the strains of music penetrating my consciousness. I awaken feeling refreshed and rested to the sounds of boys horsing around down stairs and to the scent of fresh coffee. We banter over music that rather jars my senses and I feel intense gratitude for their presence in my life. I wish I could stay home with them, but have places to go and people to see.

My writing partner pulls up out front as I gather the things I need for the rest of the afternoon. I am filled with anticipation as we greet one another and pull out of the driveway. I heave the accustomed sigh of contentment as we enter the building and then settle in the garden for a bit of catch up before we turn our attention to the matter at hand. I marvel that spirit has brought the two of us together in our writing pursuits, because we make an awesome sounding board for one another, providing one another with support and encouragement and inspiration. The allotted time flies by and we part with a sense of magnetism toward our next writing endeavor.

I reluctantly turn to matters of business: phone calls, bills, classroom preparation for the following day. By now, I must summon my reserves, and thankfully get a second wind and so accomplish the necessary tasks before going home.

As I enter the house, I am greeted with the mouth watering aroma of spaghetti and warm bread, my timing perfect. The table is set, and my dear husband greets me with a warm hug and kiss. The boys clamber in the kitchen as I serve up dinner. I am so tired that I eat in comfortable silence as I drink in the circle of love and appreciation and respect that flows between the six of us. The table is cleared and kitchen cleaned up by the boys while my husband and I relax in the living room reviewing the day together.

I move into the evening by planting the garden treasure acquired earlier in the day, enlivening my soul nurturing gardens as my spirit becomes one with the running water, the birdsong, children's laughter, and the warm breeze rustling in the leaves. The phone rings. It is my Robin calling to discuss plans for our next visit. - RDW (6-23-08)

My Perfect Day

I stumble through my days in a perpetual state of discombobulation and oblivion, sifting through my thoughts for my current intention, wading through chaos for the object I seek. I long for clarity. Repeatedly, it occurs to me that my mind is a reflection of the clutter that smothers me at home and at work. Approaching my day is like walking through a sand storm. 

I try to convince myself and others that my approach enhances my life through the flexibility it offers. By winging it through my days, I remain open to the flashes of inspiration that occur so suddenly, and fleetingly. Still, how much more fulfilling my life could be if my mind were not a swarm of gnats, filled with distraction that so interferes with the perfectibility of my days. Ah... to create a perfect day would require more hours than we are given. Would that I had the wherewithal to construct my days just so...