Even the Small Things

The church we attend in Boulder, All Souls, is a fairly new church with a plethora of college students and a smattering of 30 somethings and upwards. This makes for very few children (though the church is lovingly tolerant of children and their antics . . . and the Behmer children who are still learning how to actually behave in church, i.e. no climbing on the pews, at least during the service). Perhaps this is why the six month old baby was so fun and amazing to see today. During the service, the baby's mom handed her off to dad, who was sitting right in front of me. Playing gaily with a molecule-looking baby toy (never to early for some chemistry, right?), I noticed her ear, small, precious and so perfectly made. For some reason, a baby's perfect form looks strange to me, as if they are too small to be so well formed and should be more blobby until they are older. I remember when Asher was born wondering at how clearly his outline was and expecting him to have a fuzzy outline until he was older.

One day last week, I was talking to a church secretary, answering her questions about registering her church's youth group for the Reformed Youth Ministry (RYM - the youth conference I've worked with for some time) Colorado Conference. It was the day we got the foot or so of snow, and I mentioned how I'd been hoping we would get one good snow before spring and warmer weather. "God takes care of even the small things," she said happily. True, so true.

Last week, Michael was notified that he would begin back fulltime at his job in April (cuts were done back in November due to the bank lending crisis - oh, how I love being part of history) with a promotion. Such good news! When I told Ardis, she replied with how it was such a blessing. Indeed, as have been the last few months as Michael and I work together to make a reduced income and new opportunities work, and as God has provided over and over for us.

I have been struggling with some areas of forgiveness (outside my family) and thinking about what I need to move forgiveness along, let alone how I will get to actual forgiveness (you see, without being too specific, it's as if I have a spiritual haunt who I need to release). This has been surprisingly exhausting and slow going, like walking through wet cement. Today I have been thinking that, once again, this is a place in my life where God can be of great help, where I can turn to Him not necessarily for answers but to help carry me through. For He provides for even the small things - finances and baby ears and snow wishes. How easily I forget.

(Now, if He could just take care of my neck, and a new car, and finish Harper's potty training . . . neverending human needs!!)

Dorky Home Workouts

Before winter set in, I was pretty good about getting out to run two or three times a week in the evening after Michael got home. Timing was more difficult with the shorter days, but I found something new in January to get me through - home workouts, both on television and from Self magazine (which my sister, Clare, got me for fun - and it is great girly fun). I am totally hooked! I started out with half hour Pilates and Yoga two or three times a week, and then with the March issue of Self, tore out the eight Self Challenge 2009 exercises in the handy dandy flashcards and did those twice a week. The most encouraging thing is that I could actually feel and see a difference in my muscle strength (plus, I could do them inside, whenever, watching television or when the kids were up in about 20 minutes). I just started the April issue exercises, adding in an exercise band and dumbbells as described and think I'll stick with it, even though the prescribed series is to be done two times each time twice a week. I have to admit that I feel a little dorky doing the home workouts, but, hey, they work, and I get a little exercise high. Gotta do what you gotta do.

Today's Work

While I lament the fact that I don't make a whole lot of money at my job (or have any kind of retirement plan and pitiful contribution towards health insurance) and that I'm not saving the world (because, after all, that's the reason behind the huge student loan for graduate school), I do have the kind of job where
- I can make my own schedule (as long as I get my work done and keep having success with shaking my money maker, i.e. fingers on the keyboard) such that
- I can take a day off pretty much whenever I want, like tomorrow, with two days notice and then
- I can do some work outside in my backyard, in the sunshine, with Michael next to me on his computer after running to the hardware store for fun colored resin (as the lady at Lowe's corrected me) Adirondack chairs
- barefoot
- and with a beer.

That has to count for something . . . at least in the meantime (I do feel a little spoiled while also panicking at the thought of my non-existent retirement).

Memory

I have often thought of myself as one who has a poor memory. I seem to have many missing pieces that are filled in with images from pictures, and I tend to overcompensate (what, me a perfectionist?) with keeping journals (and blogs). I read an article in "Real Simple" recently about how to improve one's thinking, and the author states that one's memories are usually skewed in some way and skewed just in the act of being remembered (and no doubt skewed by each person's point of view/personality/world view).

Recently, I was contacted through Facebook by four friends who I knew either from fifth through eighth or fifth through twelfth grade, and hearing from them brought back so many memories - mostly forgotten memories, and I wondered if my memory is as bad as I think it is. One of these friends wrote to me about the difficulty of making friends as she has gotten older and how strange it is not to be friends with old school friends with whom she was so close to. I realized that my high school friends have scattered all over the world - Australia, Trinidad, Canada, New York City, Washington, different parts of California, Colorado - and, indeed, we are no longer close either in proximity or relationship.

A friend at work knocked Facebook during a staff meeting. She commented, "I don't need Facebook. People who want to get ahold of me know where I am." She is from a small midwestern town, and I have no doubt that most of her old friends do know how to contact her - if not directly, than through her parents. When I lived in Mississippi, most of my co-workers were born and raised in their Mississippi town, still lived there, and, in some cases, had never left the state for even a vacation. Their old friends also know how to contact them.

But for some reason, where I grew up, a lot of the people left, starting with college, and moved around and never returned to California. I wonder why this is. Perhaps it is cultural, a message that proximity to one's family and birthplace is not valued. Or that we are destined to go out into the world and make something of ourselves in a new place. Perhaps it is happenstance, a leading of one thing to another, a decision to marry someone from another palce, a falling in love with a city. I did not return to California because of traveling for school, a desire to see other places, following a path lead by school and job choices rather than family and friends, and a desire to live someplace with less traffic, fewer people and lower cost of living (although, indeed, there are few places as beautiful or as culturally and naturally fulfilling as California).

But I wonder in all this, how our memory is changed by who we live near. If I lived closer to family and old friends, would my memory be better? Did I leave to escape memories, as no doubt places and people bring back old memories? Are we losing collective memories by moving away from "home?"

I for one still believe Facebook has a valuable roll in our social webs - providing a bridge in a mobile society where we can and do live all over the world.

Incidentally, Asher pulled out a book the other night called "All about Me," written by Dr. Seuss, and littered with details about my elementary school self. My penchant for keeping histories started along time ago and while spurred by a bad memory no dobut started a long time ago (and possibly as a legacy from my grandfather).

You Know Your a Closet Pefectionist When . . .

your therapist calls and said you missed the appointment that morning and wants to know where you are, and you get all flustered like you got caught ditching class, and are panicked until she calls back and you get it worked out, after profusive apologizing. And then you realize a few hours later that she was mistaken but you keep checking to make sure you think it is the day it really is (and secretly you want to bring in your calendar the next week and all the proof that you always meet on Wednesday and not Thursday). In the voice of Superman struggling to hold up something huge, must keep everything perfect (shhh . . . and not let anyone know).

My Relationship with Charter Schools

I have a hot and cold relationship with charter schools (you know you're talking to me when I claim to have a relationship with a type of school structure so if I ever end up switching bodies with someone and claim to be me, this is one way to identify I'm telling the truth). On the cold hand, they have, historically, been part of the racial divide in education, used in the south to keep segregation during desegregation and, presently, often continuing "unintentional" segregation(as in, we didn't start this school for only whites but it turned out that way, which just might have been our wish), especially in less urban areas (inner city charter schools seem to do a better job of having a diverse population of students). In Longmont, for instance, the percentage of people of color attending charter schools is about half of what it is in other public schools. Neighborhood schools then lose out on money and involvement of - likely but not necessarily - better educated parents.

On the hot hand, charter schools are able to be more innovative and, generally, have better parent participation and better academic results. As the parent of a new charter school student, charter schools have a new place in my heart. I agree with my Aunt Marilyn who wrote to me, I fundamentally believe in neighborhood schools (and in the public school system), but not necessarily for my child. What I realized recently is that I want my child's school to reflect our family and our values. When I visit Flagstaff Academy, where Asher will attend in the fall, I see my family and our values for education, character and healthy choices. A school is going to be part of our community, and I want to feel like we'll fit in.

We have a new high school opening in our district next year that will take many high performing, mostly white students from our lowest performing high school due to the schools' boundaries. I am waiting to see what kind of white flight we have. Talking about this change with a friend who works at the lowest performing high school, she commented about losing students to the new high school and charter schools. And right there I saw one of the other positives of charter schools. If principals of neighborhood schools, especially low performing schools, want to keep and attract high performing students (who more often have caring, involved, well-educated parents), principals are going to have to both take a look at their schools as to how to make them more attractive and be ready to give a good sales pitch to parents. The number one reason that I do not want to send Asher to our neighborhood school is that the principal tried to sell me on the school with a pitch about the school's history (you mean, asbestos?) and the bilingual program for Spanish speakers (so you have a lot of emphasis on Spanish speakers - do you have time for my son?). I definitely don't see my family and my values reflected there.

Harper will be at another charter school for preschool next year. I am so looking forward to being involved as a parent at two charter schools and deepening my relationship with charter schools (so dorky, I know. And I do realize there is life outside of school - they are just so fascinating!).

Surfacing

Unbelievable! It's been almost three months since I last posted. I really have no idea where the time went or what I've been doing that kept me from blogging. I suppose I just have not recently been bitten by the gadfly. But it's time to get back in the saddle! I started writing a blog post today for Ruminate Magazine's Editor's Column blog (which will be - shameless promotion - posted tomorrow, March 18!) after realizing last night, having finished my third self-help books about kids (kids haven't been that bad but I had a New Year's goal to learn more about boys and sibling rivalry, got on a roll, and amazingly actually finished three books - usually I get half way through one self-help/non-fiction book and start something fictitious) that I am ready - oh, so ready - for fiction and for beautiful words.

Perhaps, as I close that third book, I am also ready to get back to writing and the creative process. Or perhaps, as I have sometimes feared, in a time of joy, I am less creatively productive. In the last two months, I have recaptured a huge haul of happiness - having more fun in life in my activities, feeling the lightness of life, having fun with my kids, taking things a day at a time (for the most part). A co-worker stopped by my office this morning on her way to the third floor just to say hi, and how much I could feel her kindness and, to use a Boulder term, light.

Critical life events have certainly lessened for me, and, as well, as the fear (though, the reality has held off - even though Michael is still at half time, his slots for private practice keep filling with new clients) of the economic times threatens to creep into the nooks and cranny of my life, I have been able to respond by going back to basics, the basics of what makes my life good and joyful. Harper putting stickers on her leg. Asher inventing a new climbing and jumping game on the dining room table. Walking the dozen brown soccer fields at Sandstone Park. Pilates. A meal with Michael. A home cooked meal with all four of us at the table. Nature, relationships, physical health . . .