Living as Art

Freedom

Freedom is like cancer.  It clarifies cloudy priorities and reveals the tremendous treasures buried beneath the depths of want and desire.
In our attempt to cover too much in life - to know too much, do too much, to have too much - We often live like oscillating fans – unable to stay fixed on a singular target. Freedom and cancer expose both the fragility and fullness of every human life. 

I sat in a custody hearing recently.  The silence in the room crawled under my skin and infected me.  I wondered if the severe quiet would permanently suppress my ability to speak ever again.  The once married couple sat at separate tables.  I could see the back of their heads, which they never turned in the direction of each other – even once.  They sorted through documents in front of them.  The room seemed to even swallow the sound of shuffling papers. 

Finally the dark, heavy wooden door opened, and an equally heavy man wearing black flowing robes walked through it.  His entering jolted us from our soundless stupor.  We quickly stood in reverence.  The lawyers called witnesses, cross examined them, and objected regularly to stretching attempts from each other to ask or say too much.  Both the previous husband and the prior wife took the stand and attempted to prove they were the best suited to raise their shared children.  Even personal letters of affection from the times that were good were offered as evidence against the other one.  They had already lost so much – stood to lose so much more, and right in front of everyone – even the good moments and the better days were being torn apart and devoured, as they became weapons used against each other.   

I provided pre-marriage counseling for this couple; I participated in years of efforts to make the marriage work.  Their marriage became repressive to both of them – and both wanted freedom.  As lawyers shredded their most sacred memories in front of us all – I knew freedom was not what they felt.  As I watched more pieces break apart in their life I dreamed of some magical kind of superglue to help them somehow put the pieces back together.

I first used superglue when I was eight. I wanted fake nails.  I loved how my teachers tapped the books when they read them to us in class.  My aunt gave me a package of fake nails while clearing out her house for a garage sale.  I pulled the tube of super glue from the package - missing the directions about puncturing the end with a straight pin - I chose the biggest, sharpest kitchen knife for the job.  Unable to sustain the pressure – the glue exploded furiously all over my face – specifically targeting my left eye.  With her pants around her ankles, my mother ran like a hobbled horse or chained criminal into the kitchen as I began to voraciously belt out one scream on top of the other.  My mother saw me holding a massive knife and doubling over in pain.  She began to search my body for a bloody wound and eventually saw the assault of superglue on my face.  Sometime after pulling her pants up, calling my aunt and grandmother and putting my two small brothers into the car – maybe not in that order – we drove back to my aunt’s house who ran out to our 1979 white ____ cougar with her shirt twisted and turned around her flailing arms.  By the time she arrived at the ER to meet us, my grandmother had already fainted three times.  My family certainly didn’t need my help in accentuating the situation so I quickly quieted down.  Relief rushed over as the doctor wheeled me behind the swinging doors, strapped me on the cold metal table and painfully pried my eye open.  The worry about my family distracted me from the doctor sliding a tube attached to a suction cup twice as large as my eyeball under my eyelid.  All I could think about was made for TV movie about Helen Keller and I wondered if I could learn to read Braille.  I haven’t been to the ER since and it took me 29 years to want fake nails again. 

I lived for three weeks with one eye as the damaged one healed beneath patches and bandages.  My depth perception with one working eye left me insecure while doing any physical activity for those few weeks.  I remember constantly feeling like I would trip and fall – nothing was really as close or as far away as it looked from my one eye.   I remember the day the patch came off, I asked, “Has the world always been this bright?”  Freedom gives us two good eyes.  It guarantees confidence that our steps can be sure and our perception is accurate.  We see more around us when we are free.

Not long after my superglue saga, while visiting my Nana, I captured a butterfly and put it in one of her old canning jars.  Nana warned me, “Sugar, butterflies were not created to live in jars”.  I heard her, but I could not bear to release the wings I carefully pinched between my fingers.  I carried the Mason jar around for hours, until I realized the yellow and orange wings no longer flickered and flew within the glass prison.  Nana and I buried that butterfly in a shallow red clay grave.  She sang, I prayed.  Freedom cannot be captured, caged or controlled. 

I have often felt like that butterfly – suffocating in a glass jar.  I wondered if this broken couple felt the glass jar around them as well. 

As the judge left to deliberate the fate of this family – The silence swept in once again.  I sat staring at the United States flag in the room – the ultimate symbol of freedom.

My hometown was adjacent to a large military base.  Besides having all new classmates every two to three years, and camo fatigues smattering every scenario I can recall, practice bombs thundered through each night and slightly shook my bed as I slept.  I lived with a raw realization of the price paid for my freedom.  My friends and their parents offered their lives for it.  Freedom rewards us with more than it requires.  But freedom isn’t free.  Someone has to pay for it. 

Fifteen minutes later, the same wooden door opened for the same heavy man. With a bland expression and toneless voice he executed his judgment. Nobody was devastated.  Nobody was delighted.  I am not sure anyone won.  Where do they go from here?  I could almost hear them both screaming from the pain of the moment – but maybe – like my mother – I was mistaken about the source of the pain.  Maybe the wound was more about wanting something they never found than losing something they once had.

Maybe freedom is more about finding than escaping.  Maybe it is more about seeing something different than having something more.  Maybe it is actually more about the one paying for the freedom than the one living in it. 

Freedom, like cancer, consumes.  Their similarities end here, and the most striking difference lies in their purpose … one attempts to give life – one to take it.  Freedom, unlike cancer, is incurable and it is contagious.  Real freedom’s boundaries are not around one nation, nor is it symbolized by one flag. Freedom, though not definable by mankind, is intended for it.  And cancer, glass jars, and courtrooms cannot kill it.

Red Buds

Relationships are like red buds.  Just as you become almost bored to death of the barren branches, flowers break open from them almost overnight.  My husband I met at twelve, began a relationship at 14 and married by 20.  The night before our wedding, I lay in my twin sized, floral comforter covered bed and briefly mourned the end of the before- marriage-part of our relationship.  I had no doubts, no worries, and I welcomed the unknown but certain changes we’d face in the covenant committed part of our relationship; but what we’d had up to that point had been remarkable, wonderful…and a little part of me hated to leave it behind.  But I knew it was time. 

Our new marriage made us feel like we had won the jackpot with each other, except for occasionally when we felt more like we were washed up gamblers who kept putting all they had on the table but walked away broke.  Overall – the wins outnumbered the losses, but I found myself needing more - needing a new dimension to our relationship.  Mashed potatoes are good – but gravy makes them better.  We were good – but I wanted better.  I wanted a new challenge, I wanted a new level of sharing life with him, I wanted to commit even more deeply to each other. I wanted a baby. 

It took longer than we thought.  So long we doubted it would ever happen.  I knew a baby would stretch our relationship, but I didn’t know that the possibility of never having a baby would sieve through our marriage like a giant colander.  Our future without children looked to me a lot like a red bud tree before March.

Years passed and just when we thought the barren branches would never bloom –two pink little lines on a pregnancy test ushered in a new season for us - one filled of growth, exploding with beauty, and smelling fresh and new.  The news of our coming twins eclipsed everything for us.  The universe had a new rotation and although the transition jolted us a bit, we loved the shift. 

But the night before the twins were born, I lay in my queen sized Navajo comforter covered bed I grabbed my husband’s hand and briefly mourned the end of the before kids part of our marriage.  I had no doubts, no worries, and I welcomed the unknown but certain changes we’d face in the parenting part of our relationship; but what we’d had up to that point had been remarkable, wonderful…and a little part of me hated to leave it behind.  But I knew it was time.

As I cared non-stop for two tiny beings whose sole dependency fell on me, I had a revelation.  Maybe it was more of a realization. I realized I had been a baby.  A baby who woke my mother night after night needing comforted and fed.  A baby who needed burped and changed.  A baby whose mother starred at me with that love drunk look on her face while rubbing my fuzzy head until I fell asleep in her arms.

My children wouldn’t remember those first days of unceasing attention or care, nor will they understand the pleasure and agony of my love for them until the day their own red bud bursts with blooms.  Then they will know.  Then they will see. Then they will understand.

Our parents all took turns coming to see our life in full bloom, much like the spring season that served as the stage for our new family.  My Nana came too.  She flew for her very first and only time to visit us. My husband amazed her with his agile, speedy, diapering techniques.  One brow lifted and her eyes brightened as she told me …  “When your daddy was just a baby, I had to take the laundry in once a week to the wash.”  Then she began to refer to herself in the third person. I knew the memory provoked her …”Corene took the baby and the laundry, and your Papa Bob went to the barbershop and had a cut and a coke.  Well, if Corene had it to do it over again, she would hand Bob that wiggly baby to watch while he enjoyed his coke.” She finished with an assertive head nod.   As I watched my husband wrangle both babies at once – pride infused my love for my diapers and wipes superhero to terrifying levels. 

The same Papa who’s fathering prowess came into question, would drive for an hour to fix my car, pick me up, or bring me chips and cheese dip throughout my teenage years.  Though I cannot speak for him as a father, as a grandfather he gallantly redefined the role.  We’d often drive with the widows down.  He loved smelling the different seasons.  I remember his face fashioning into the most pleasurable expression as he inhaled spring’s ethereal perfume, summer’s verdant aroma, fall’s tangy fragrance, and winter’s crisp scent.  He loved it when the seasons changed.  He loved the coming and going of them all.  He knew how to both accept and let go.  The day after my wedding, I had to start learning the lesson he’d worked to teach me.  He died suddenly.  Unexpected.

I like the red bud only when it’s blooming. If I were the designer of trees, I would have the tree wear the color all year.  I can accept change – but I don’t like letting go.  I have a cedar box full of worthless trinkets.  Broken jewelry, plastic and wooden rings, watches that don’t work, and a lapel pin in the shape of a Viking.  They represent more than a memory – they remind me of people – none of which I want to take out of my cedar box. One of the watches that doesn’t work was a gift my husband gave me on my birthday in 9th grade. I keep it to remember my husband at 14.  To remember how he changed my life so long ago.  We’ve shared many birthdays since then, but this last one was especially fabulous.  It was the kind of day I wish I had the ability to Zip-lock and freeze so I could dethaw it and enjoy later - my children’s voices singing to me, my husband’s arms holding me.   I know someday it would taste even better than it did the first time.

Much like that spring week I spent with Nana.  During her stay a tornado launched newscasters into ceaseless coverage of the weather as sirens sounded.  We left her with a baby in each arm, in front of a video camera we failed to turn off in the excitement as we went outside to evaluate for ourselves.  Later watching her attempt at comforting the infants while terror hijacked her nerves remains one of the funniest things I have seen in my life.  She’s gone now – and I didn’t know how high those memories would appreciate. 

The red bud was a gift to my family – in honor of Nana when she passed.  Today the blooms cover her tree.  Papa would appreciate the display – but would understand when the vivid pinks and purples gave way to the rich green leaves.  He would tell me to not be anxious when the leaves cannot hold their places any longer and leave the tree bare, naked, and vulnerable.  It’s the accepting and letting go of the seasons that makes the red bud thrive. Spring always gives way to summer, summer eventually submits to fall, and fall never fails to relinquish its stay for winter to weigh in with its heavy pause on all life.  But winter, like a gentleman brings spring in on his arm.  And she - she dresses and drapes everything in her rich textures and vivid designs. I love her work – but know I cannot zip-lock or freeze it, nor can I hide it away in my little cedar box. 

Each night I tuck my kids in their beds:  the blue comforter one, the sports themed one, the Bohemian colored one, and the white tiger themed one.  Each night – for just a moment – I mourn the passing of a day I will never have with them again. I have no doubts, no worries, and I welcome the unknown but certain changes we’ll face in the many coming seasons of our relationship as a family; but what we’ve had up to this point has been remarkable, wonderful…and a little part of me hates to leave each passing season behind.  But one of my most important jobs as their mom is to know when it is time.   

Risk and Responsibility

I drive my kids around for millions of hours per week. While in transit a couple of days ago I stopped next to a young girl in a small white two-door car. She looked fourteen. Not only did her youth disturb me but she was on the phone, filing her nails, and had one foot in her seat, leaving only one out of four limbs apparently in control of her driving skills. I looked at my youngest sons face in my rear view mirror. I work constantly at protecting my children – at maintaining their physical, emotional and mental well-being. Yet I had strapped him into my car and drove him onto the same highway with potentially irresponsible, deadly drivers.

As we sat 5 yards away from one of them I briefly contemplated what to do. Should I get out of my car and rap on her window and explain driving safety to her? I would call her mother if I knew her. That is usually the best guarantee to resolve any issue I have found. Since her number wasn’t anywhere on her daughter’s car I continued my deliberation. I considered getting her license number and calling the police. Then I saw myself in that car 20 years ago and a little mercy lightened my judgment of her. Should I pull in to the nearest gas station and wait for her to clear our path before we continued? But who is to say the driver in the van behind me isn’t texting someone, or the one in the semi in front of me isn’t driving on little or no sleep? I had never considered the risk I took everyday just driving my children around to their schools and practices.

I suddenly became acutely aware of my responsibility on the road, not only for my precious cargo – but for the family in the car behind the multi-tasking driving nightmare, and for her as well – she had a mother somewhere – I just wish I knew her number. Relationships are just as risky – and it’s vital to assume responsibility for our part in them. Whether we accept our responsibility or deny it impacts everyone around us. It is terrifying as a parent to see how much our children are influenced by our relationships. I could see my son’s eyes growing heavy.

Those same eyes set and turn to steel anytime he hears “Eye of the Tiger”. My five year old loves Rocky – and he loves to box. For his birthday, grandparents decked the kid out in all kinds of boxing equipment – complete with the shorts and robe. For fun, we put the gloves on both him and our twelve-year-old son and put them in the middle of the living room. We have a few basic rules…the 12 year old has to box on his knees and he has to remember his brother is only 5. We turn the “Eye of the Tiger” on as loud as we can and let them go at it. It’s humorous and a little painful to watch the youngest one waylay the older one who works really hard to not hurt him. Watching, we all know the older one isn’t going to do anything to hurt his little brother. We know if he wanted to, he could hit him hard enough to make him never want to box again. But we trust him. He’s proven he cares about his sibling, and that he is responsible enough to take the risk of being hurt in order to be an equal opponent for him to box. The goal for him is not to prove anything to his little brother or to us, but to participate in a relationship with him. He knows that if he wants to box with him, he must not exert his own power to dominate him.

It’s easy to forget that the goal in a relationship is not proving anything to anyone, and its not exerting our own power and control over another just because we can. It’s a risk – and it means laying down our own rights in order to protect the relationship. But that the only way a healthy relationship can occur is when we accept our responsibility in it. In some relationships, like the one between these two brothers, one might have to accept much more responsibility than the other – because they can, because they are able to.

I don’t know any relationship that works in the 50 to 50 ratio. In every relationship I know (whether its spouses, siblings, friends, cousins etc.), one partner usually always gives more than the other. In my marriage – although we both really do give our all, my husband is the one who gives more to our relationship. In my relationship with my children – I take the majority of the responsibility – because I can, and because I should. Taking responsibility in a relationship is based on what you are able to give and what you should give just because it is right. It means laying down our rights to do what is right, and respecting the rights of another even at the sake of your own – much like my oldest son, laying down his right to stand and hit many times harder than he does. He takes responsibility – he lays down his rights to do what is right by his little brother and to respect the rights of his 5 year old need to be safe and confident that he is loved.

That’s all I really want for him. To be safe and confident that he is loved. What parent wouldn’t want that for their child? And because of that I lay down my rights every day and take up the responsibility of doing what is right for him, respecting his rights as a child, and offering my most valuable possession on his behalf – my heart. It’s a risk. He might forget everything I give him, and might not understand or appreciate it – ever. He might disappoint me, he might not be there for me when I want or need him to be someday.

Either way – if there is any hope for us to have a great relationship in our future – it means right now – I take the risk – and the responsibility because he can’t, and I can. I let the blond driving hazard pass me. My phone rings on the armrest between the seats. I decide to not answer. I checked my hands – 10 and 2. I turned my stereo down. I couldn’t just lock myself away at home with my kids to avoid the potential damage of those who do not take their driving responsibility seriously. It just means I have to take more responsibility for my driving choices.