My youngest and her equally young friend pick raspberries in the autumn wind and sun, bundled in their jackets, their hands turning red.  Of course, on their return inside, there’s a heap of jackets, socks and shoes near the rocking chair/climbing gym.

My boys and their friend huddle around their DSes, plotting, sharing and exclaiming together as new levels are achieved.  A day home from school means anything can happen.  Today I’ll witness them conquer new worlds.

My oldest retreats to her room.  A house full of young ones is not her ideal.  Weeks can be stressful, especially when one has to balance living in the world with an old soul in a young body.  I should know.  She asked almost pleadingly if she could play on her DS today, too . . . after chores, of course.  I agreed.

Tonight we jump-start the Halloween celebration by dressing in costume and going to a classical concert of “spooky” music.  Tomorrow we celebrate a birthday, All Hallow’s Eve and our friendships at a couple of Halloween parties.  But as my husband remarked, we should celebrate the kids, with the kids, this weekend.  After he attended the three parent-teacher conferences, he was reminded (and thus reminded me) how wonderful our children are, how blinded we can be by being with them so much and getting muddled in the day-to-day routines.  This weekend, we celebrate.

And as their mother, I should never forget how holy each day is that I see the joy in their eyes, the fragility of their person,  the Light in their lives.  Whether we  birth our children in body or heart, whether they are with us in body or spirit, these things among many are what a mother should never forget.

With a heart full of Love, I give thanks.

“I See You”

It’s okay, Man in the brown tweed jacket.
I’ll not look into your dark eyes
    or watch the rain fall into your
    salt and pepper hair.

Your feet jump over the running water as
You stride purposefully to your vehicle
    at 5:30 p.m., carrying your dark baggage.
But with your slightly hunched shoulders
    and hands at your sides poised for a snap,
You return to your workplace with your
    magic keycode, empty-handed.

Forget something?

How could we miss this?

You come passing my way again but
Now carrying your neon orange lunch cooler.
Don’t worry.
I’ll not look into your dark eyes,
Which dare not even look my way
Lest I bear witness to your
    momentary lapse of planning.
Let’s not make tomorrow any more difficult
    than it need be.

You walk alone to your vehicle,
And others will follow.
But it is you whom I see right now.

I found myself getting off the familiar interstate exit, the one that led to the college.  I needed a coffee and gas before I headed home.  (Okay, I didn’t need the coffee, but it sounded good.)  In my way of charting errands, trying to make sure I had as few left turns as possible, I went for the coffee first.  Maybe I’d even take a trip around the college campus to see how the construction was going.

Focusing again on the road before me, I saw him.  Sun-bleached messy hair.  Eyes squinting from the sun, though clouds covered the sky.  Maybe they winced in pain.  The cardboard sign said “hungry” and something else — homeless? jobless?  Did I just imagine the vest he was wearing looked like a combat vest?

The stoplight was still red.  I had eaten most of the strawberries from the container of fruit I brought with me for my little trip, but there was still plenty of grapes, some orange wedges.  Fumbling, I yanked off the lid and put the whole apple and orange into the container.  Of course the light turned green then.  Of course my window made a horrible buzzing noise in protest before it decided to go down.  I managed to pull forward with traffic, but I paused for a moment.

“Here, you can have this,” was all I managed to say, holding the container out the window, trying to get his attention.  He was probably used to being ignored.  Maybe he was used to ignoring our ignorance.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he replied after a quick double-glance, with a voice that conveyed more experience than I will ever have.

Through the intersection, I looked down and realized I hadn’t given him the lid to my recycled cottage cheese container that held his fruit.  Would he need the lid?  Could he use it for something else?  Perhaps, but I knew more likely than not that I would never see him again.  I knew for certain that he needed that fruit more than I did.  I knew I had more at home in my fridge, waiting for me to feel like I might be hungry or seeking or wanting.

I felt the pain in my chest and the swell in my eyes that didn’t spill over.  I drove around the campus and through downtown, making my way to the coffee shop and gas station before getting back on the interstate.  I felt quiet, like the still character in the middle of constant motion.

I won’t know if the man ate the fruit, dumped it or gave it away.  I can hope it nourished him in more ways than one.  I wish I had said something better, given him blessings, told him I loved him, too, as a brother in this f***ed up world.

I had an individual-size bag of SunChips in my bag I had forgotten about, but I was glad I didn’t give him those.  We who have to budget know that the processed food can be so much cheaper, easier.  It’s not as healthy, though, not nearly as nourishing and nurturing.  Later, as I munched on a few, I realized they didn’t taste all that great, either. No, it was better just to give the fruit.

Sweet.  Fresh.  Prepared.  Available.   I hope it gives him hope.

He may think I’m a crazy lady who carries fruit in her van.  He might have thought I brought it just for him.  Maybe I did and just didn’t know it.

The anticipation in my oldest child leading up to the first day of school nearly pushed me over the edge.  I was ready to trash the school supplies and send her to school with a piece of paper and a pencil.

The second child got stung by a wasp the night before school started and still has residual swimmer’s ear (which will probably lead to a doctor’s appointment soon).  This probably attributed toward his emotional instability before and after his first day at school.

Our third and wild child who started kindegarten this year seems to be doing the best of all — at least outside the classroom.  Could it be that our seemingly most troublesome child is actually the healthiest?  He has consistent behavior and seems to be going with the flow.

Our fourth child informed me she wanted to go to school, too, yesterday.   However, this morning, after being awakened at 7am, she’s not so keen on the early morning school thing.  She’s still in her jammies after 9.

I share all this not only to document my children’s first day of school but also to comment on the different perspectives we take in life.  I remember the excitement, the anxiety, the anticipation not only of first days but of first kisses, first love, first home, first birth.  I hope to experience many more firsts.

Onward now in my spiritual journey and life in general, I realize that part of living life to the fullest is to experience every moment as a first, to bring the childlike enthusiasm to the moment — a beginner’s mind.  I am so quick to make things routine, anxious to make it a habit so that I don’t have to think about it.  There’s nothing wrong with making something healthy a habit, but only if I can do so with awareness and an open mind.

So now I get to practice.  Bring the enthusiasm of the first day of school (that helped me get up at 5:40 am) into every morning.  To make breakfast and help prepare lunches with a happy heart, blessing the food that it might nourish my beautiful, brilliant children.  And then I can move onto practicing in other moments, as if they were the first or might be the last.

“Today is the first rainy day” at my new school, my daughter told us this morning.  Oh, that I might appreciate this day as such.

photo: everystockphoto.com by bies — no, not my child because the only picture i took was on my phone!

It’s about that time.  The school supplies are purchased.  The laundry is clean.  Summer vacation is wrapped up in memories as early bedtime has resumed.   The kids are sleeping soundly, though I’m sure the anxiety for the first day of school (coming on Wednesday) is coursing through their veins.

I am quite certain I’m not the only mom feeling frazzled.   These last couple of weeks of vacation, I did put my best foot forward to give the kids some last hurrahs to go back to school with some stories.  (How many third grade boys jumped from a bluff into the river last week?)  But the concentrated effort has taken its toll, and my to-do list has grown so long that I dare not look at it all at once.  Talking with a friend, we realize how family-focused we’ve been.

As good as it is to put the family first, there are some of us who receive boosts of energy when we are tapped into a higher power, a greater source of creative energy.  How else would we be able to do all that we do?  I wondered why people thought I was a supermom, but now I’ve realized that I take for granted the strength, the seeming reserve of energy, that comes from doing what we are truly called to do.  When we tap into our “vein of gold,” we are energized to continue our good works, and this inevitably spills into other areas of our life.  When we focus on all of our practical responsibilities that come with daily life without tapping into this wellspring of creative energy, we quickly realize that it is quite impossible to do it all on our own.  At least, that’s how I feel, and after doing too much too long alone, we usually get physically struck down.  (Cue migraine.)

So, as routines change up again and we all find ourselves settling into new fall rhythms, I hope to keep the door to creative outlets open and pass through often enough to be invigorated with that Divine creative energy, bringing it into other areas of my life as well.  Lord knows the only limits are those I impose upon myself, and it’s fully within my means to get my life back in order, trying as ever to restore a sense of balance.

We spend so much of our time planning ahead.  Our calendars fill up.  Money is spent before it’s received.  Our vacation is gone before it’s even begun.  Or, we spend much of our time living in the past.  We should’ve/could’ve done this or that.  Did we make the right decision?  I didn’t mean what I did or said.

Then we get those moments where we can be fully present.  We hold the child in our lap, singing her softly to sleep.  We hold the hand of our dying grandpa.  We feel the cool water running over our feet.  We listen.  We feel.  And deep in our hearts we know there’s no other place to be, nothing else we should be doing.  This moment is worth being in now, and we will have no regrets.

Is it the Tibetan monks who have the practice or mantra about dying every morning?  If we all awoke daily with an acceptance of death, would we live differently?  Life happens, often despite our better plans, and truthfully, death happens, too.  We do have a beautiful cycle.  We just also have a tendency to muck it up.

To “go with the flow” sounds cliche these days, but I keep reminding my children to do just that.  Sometimes we have to do that which we don’t want to do.  Our responsibilities often take precedence over play time, but we can’t let them always spoil the fun.  We have to go with the flow, ride the rapids and sometimes shake things up a bit.

Ironically, after accepting death we realize that we can more fully live.

by Maggie Beason, wife, mother, student, Army gal, aikidoka, hair stylist, runner, woman-extraordinaire shares her latest adventure after the Hogeye Marathon.

It is hard to fall asleep when you’re flat on your back. It’s
especially hard to sleep when you have a pillow wedged between your
legs in a desperate attempt to keep your knees from either touching,
straightening or bending too much while still trying to maintain a
modicum of comfort. You wrap a blanket around you, tucking in the lose
ends around your aching body while carefully avoiding your toes; any
weight on your toes is almost unbearable and the thought of donning a
pair of socks is simply out of the question. You close your eyes and
will yourself to fall into the blissful slumber that continues to
eludes you–a side effect from having eaten five packets of Gu (Energy
in goo-form. Necessary, but rather unpleasant.) earlier in the day.

The five medals that hang on your bedpost make a jingling sound as
you fold your arm underneath your pillow to support your head as you
stare at the ceiling replaying the day’s events in your mind. Today you
added one more medal to your small, but growing, collection. It took
it’s place at the headboard with the other four medals, your goggles
and your Buddhist prayer beads. You’re not actually Buddhist, but you
are a runner. A slow one, but a runner nonetheless.

Distance runners are usually depicted as “crazy” or “nuts” and
people often say something to the effect of Willy Wonka’s famous line,
“If God had intended us to walk, he wouldn’t have invented Roller
Skates.” Silliness aside, there is something about running that gets
people in the way that shoes get Sarah Jessica Parker’s character in
Sex in the City: you just get addicted.

Once you get bit by that bug, you will run–by your own
choice–through the pre-dawn chill of a ten-degree January morning. You
will run through rain and snow for miles and miles with glee. You will
relax (or try to, anyways) in an ice-cold bath with a drink in your
hand, a smile on your lips and joy in your heart because you just ran
eighteen miles. “Uphill both ways. Man, that was a great workout,” as
you’ll later reminisce to whomever will listen. If the idea of
running for five hours over the hilly terrain, thirty-something mile an
hour head wind, freezing (or at least what feels like it) temperatures
seems like fun and you don’t mind that you are the last person to
arrive, you are a runner. If all of this seems like fun to you, well,
need I say it?

My latest addition to my collection of medals, is from the Hogeye
Marathon on April 5th, 2009, at the beautiful downtown square of
Fayetteville, AR. The race started out like any other: cold, windy and
in the company of old friends, new friends and friends I hadn’t met
yet. Two of my companions were running the half-marathon, and judging
by the hills that they had to run up on their return trip, I was
thankful that I was doing the full.

I stayed in the back of the pack for the majority of the race, and
once the half-marathoners broke away, it was safe to assume that only a
handful of runners were behind me. I was focused on taking in the
scenery and enjoying my first hometown marathon–plus, in a town
renowned for it’s outstanding University of Arkansas track and field
program, I knew that it would be a marathon composed entirely of elite
runners and myself, about as un-elite that you can get.

For the first thirteen miles the roads wound and wove their way
through subdivisions, back roads, and running trails. Spectators and
volunteers dotted the course and brought with them supplies,
refreshments and cheers (I must say, the aid stations and volunteers
were phenomenal. Well done, Fayetteville!).

Between miles thirteen and fourteen, some friends had set up a
celebration station of sorts. Bringing with them were gifts of
oranges, water, Gu and a surprise: a bratwurst and a beer for my return
visit at mile twenty.

The brat has been a dream of mine ever since I was denied one by
the vendor who had stationed himself inside the course at the
twenty-six mile mark at my very first marathon. He told me that I could
have whatever I wanted so long as I had the money for it, which of
course, I didn’t. Thus, effectively smothering my hopes of crossing the
finish line with a giant bratwurst in hand.

The next seven miles where spent with dropping temperatures, a
nasty headwind and having every single runner who was behind me, pass
me. I paused for a moment to celebrate the passing of my very favorite
mile, Mile seventeen. Mile seventeen is a huge deal for me as the
remaining miles are now in the single digits. Meaning: nine more miles
to go. However, the elation I experience when I realize this is often
diminished by the fact that there are still nine more miles to go!
Usually, by the time mile twenty rolls around I’m in pain, exhausted
and somewhat insane. But this time there was my tasty manna from
heaven, bratwurst and beer.

At mile twenty-three, a dear friend of mine met me on the trail to
offer her support, water and to snap a few photos. Mile twenty-five
found me running up Dickson Street, thanking the police officers and
volunteers who had stood in the cold for five-plus-hours. Mile
twenty-six found me on the corner of Block St. where I burst in to
tears when I saw my family cheering.

The urge to cry was replaced by the urge to vomit as I realized
that I still .02 miles left and half of that was up a hill. I trudged
on, more hobble than stride. Most of the bystanders (apart from my
family, the racing officials and the paramedics) had left by the time I
crossed the finish line at five hours, eighteen minutes and some-odd
seconds. I failed to break through my five-hour barrier, but was too
exhausted to care.

Running for five hours at a time allows plenty of time for
introspection and often your sanity gets called into question. After
four and a half marathons, I’ve stopped asking myself why. I know the
answer: it’s an almost-spiritual experience and a guaranteed way to
quiet an over-stimulated mind. It is a chance to commune with nature:
to watch the birds flit among the branches of trees, feel the rain on
our skin or the heat on our backs. And it is an opportunity to explore
what the saying “one step at a time” truly means.

So as I listen to the clinking sounds of my five medals from
Little Rock, Dallas, Fort Worth, Salt Lake City and Fayetteville, I
drift off to sleep smiling with a new appreciation for what my medals
really mean: it isn’t the destination, but the journey.

I’m pretty sure that the potential is there.  We have within us the ability to be still and fully present.  But how quickly I forget how beautiful it can be, even in the storms, for when the sun returns again I wonder, was the green so brilliant just the other day?  Was it this amazing last spring; did the colors so vibrantly glow?  I don’t have to compare.  I don’t have to know.  My purpose is to love indiscriminately; it doesn’t matter what the weather’s like.  I always have a choice.

My
mom is a neverending song in my heart of comfort, happiness, and
being.  I may sometimes forget the words but I always remember the
tune. 

Recently on my FaceBook profile, I wrote in my status that I wished we could talk about that which we most feared.  I wrote this because lately I have wanted to talk to people about death, even their own, but haven’t felt that it is socially acceptable.  Who am I even to feel I have the right to ask them about what might very well be their greatest fear?

We do not know the number of our days.  We may not know until the very end when our work here is done.  In that simple knowledge, we live our lives.  In that knowledge, we trust that every moment we share is significant, that we have work to do, even if it’s just offering a smile of maternal love, an assurance to a friend, or accepting that we do not know but surrendering ourselves to that which is Good.

May Wendy‘s soul rest in peace, her love surround her husband and boys, friends and family.

The best conversations with mothers always take place in silence, when only the heart speaks.