A tweak and a groan

This post is dedicated to all of my friends and family living life north of 50.

It is a personal source of pride and sometimes a dwelling space for a bit of internal show-off mentality - postures of mind and heart completely contradictory to the practice of yoga. My head stand. It always feels good to be the oldest lady in the class who is one of only a handful who can stand on the head. Over time, I have learned to move with control, especially on the descent. But we all know what they say pride comes before…

And so on this particular day, I was slowly coming down out of this posture, with my legs straddled, when I felt a small tweak and then an inward groan. Though my husband assures me that he had this experience during his intense sports playing days, I myself had never experienced a groin pull. Until that day.

I remember when I was a regular runner (a more accurate description would be jogger, though I realize that word is quite out of fashion these days) in my late 30’s. There came a time when I grasped the reality that I had passed my peak and prime. Even though I could keep up this activity for a time, I wasn’t going to get faster and most likely was on a slow physical decline in that area. In actuality, this particular form of exercise became a casualty of back-to-back spine surgeries. My physical therapist offered these words: “If you tell me that you can’t live without running, I will work with you to minimize risk of injury, but given your physical make up, I recommend that you find other ways to pursue fitness.” I surrendered. Pounding the pavement was not the best way to address my personal fitness needs given the physical body that I was granted.

This give and take process has only become more complex as I age. My dad assures me that it gets even more complicated and often says, “old age is not for sissies.” These days it feels like a giant tightrope walk to stay healthy and strong without doing too much damage along the way. I recently had a bone density scan, and I have the mild beginnings of osteoporosis. I was chatting with my naturopath about this, and she recommended jumping on a trampoline or repetitive lifting of 3 pound weights. Great, I thought. Those are things I can work into my routine.

With fair warning from a close friend on the possible issues for women my age of bladder leakage while jumping, I set out to jump for 10 minutes. About 5 minutes in, my left foot began to hurt. It was an issue that had taken three podiatrist trips, one orthopedic foot specialist and an expensive pair of orthotics to address. Ok, even if my bladder can handle it, jumping on a trampoline is not my answer.

So the next time I was doing my cardio workout at the YMCA, I picked up 3 pound weights and swung them in all sorts of directions as I moved. But after several go rounds of that solution, my sciatic nerve began to call out to me. NO WAY I am going back to that kind of back pain if I have anything to say about it. I have settled on using 2 pound weights, for now.

I could tell you several more tales involving issues of everything from teeth to cholesterol level to sleep, but I will spare you the details. Suffice it to say that I find myself in the same circuitous inner dialogue over and over. “If I do this, it affects this, so I need to do this, but then it will affect this” and then doing my best to choose the healthiest path forward. Many of my current fitness challenges are complicated by the presence of a 10 pound inner tube that has taken up residence around my waist since I was ushered into the passage called menopause. So many things to consider and balance.

In my 30’s, it seemed as if life would go on forever. Rationally, I knew this was not true, but it sure seemed like the challenges of middle and older age were in a very distant place. That distant place arrived in a hurry.

I have learned the importance of listening to my body and giving honor and space to injury and breakdown. Despite my desire to head right back into yoga classes that have the descriptors of power, intermediate and level 2, I am learning to be content in the yoga practice called gentle. They are lovely classes in a very different way. These experiences are also a reminder that when this body and mind know that it is time to take yet another step away toward more appropriate exercise as I age, there will be another place for me. I hope that by tuning in more fully to what my body is saying to me, I can avoid a few of the tweaks and groans.

One of my yoga instructors often ends class with an encouragement to be grateful for the bodies that we have. She reminds us that there are those who for many a reason are not able to be on the mat at all. As I approach the days and years ahead, no matter which yoga postures I can and cannot do, I wish for my heart to be always in a posture of acceptance for what is coupled with gratitude. I am convinced this will lead to aging with more grace for myself as well as spill out and over onto others. Namaste.

A long goodbye

I was raised in what would now be referred to as an American evangelical church. Over the years this term “evangelical” has gotten murky and entangled and confusing. It has become conjoined with Republican politics and often times all twisted up with hatred and disdain for those deemed as “other”.

 I moved out into the world with my share of baggage courtesy of a religious tradition that emphasized fear and hell and the absolutes of right and wrong. But this place also introduced me to Jesus, who in time I have come to know and love and view with eyes of wonder in seasons of sorrow as well as joy. As Philip Yancey says, “the Jesus I never knew”.

 Saint John the Evangelist is my very favorite gospel writer and a verse from one of his letters has literally changed my heart and mind over the last ten years. “There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love.” This evangelical apostle proclaimed something radically different from those who carry his title these days in these parts of the world.

 I have watched this week with a sense of morbid curiosity coupled with a most unsettling disturbance deep within my soul as 1000 evangelical leaders met with Donald Trump to form political alliance with one many of them had very recently deemed a completely unacceptable candidate for president. One of the men quoted in this Atlantic article married my husband and me. I feel heartbroken and devastated on many a level.

 When these leaders speak of religious liberty, are they in pursuit of such a cause for Christians only? Does this not raise a red flag of hypocrisy for them? Have they been seduced by the promise of power? Here is what Mr. Trump said to them as they met:

 “This is such an important election. And I say to you folks because you have such power, such influence. Unfortunately the government has weeded it away from you pretty strongly. But you’re going to get it back. Remember this: If you ever add up, the men and women here are the most important, powerful lobbyists. You’re more powerful. Because you have men and women, you probably have something like 75, 80 percent of the country believing. But you don’t use your power. You don’t use your power.”

 Is that the deal that evangelical leaders are willing to make? Has fear blinded them or are they walking into this eyes wide open? Have they traded being disciple for being lobbyist? The Jesus that I know had no interest at all in power.

 As unsettling as this situation is for me personally, it has been once again clarifying. Tricia Wilson belongs somewhere radically different from the American evangelical church. Micah 6:8 asks and answers, “And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly, to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.” For me, this path is far, far away from the religious tradition of my youth. I never felt at home in the midst of American evangelical spaces and places. Piece by piece, little by little, I have moved away from this place. This week seems to have offered me one last wave in a long goodbye.

The boys on the bikes

Much has been shared and posted and written and in both raw and eloquent form expressed about the Stanford swimmer’s sexual assault of an unconscious young woman. Personally, I have let my thoughts and feelings and decision to publicly address this or not percolate within my heart and mind and soul. I have taken a wait and pray posture on this one.

I want to scream when I read the rapist’s delusional claim, “she liked it.” The most offensive “20 minutes of action” perspective of a father making a lame attempt to defend the indefensible has inflamed anger and passion within. A legal system that protects the privileged and so easily disregards the pain and suffering and voice of a  woman can almost make my head explode. This particular story would most surely have a radically different ending if the perpetrator embodied more melanin in his skin.

I have been reminded of what consent does and does not entail. The brave, vulnerable and honest letter that the victim wrote touches me deeply. And then to imagine the fortitude required for her to stand before her attacker and read it to his face paints a picture of brutal and raw courage. Especially when he continues to deny and justify and belittle his savage behavior. The actions of the two graduate students who came upon the crime scene and took action within this tale of darkness offer a sliver of light in a very gloomy space.

As mom, I experience this as both mom of male and female offspring. On the daughter side of this equation, stories like this can be terrifying if I let my mind spin out the worst-case scenarios for too long. Not a one of us is immune from the possibility of such destruction entering our life, our family, our children. We are delusional if we believe otherwise.

In response, I have landed upon the writing of a letter to my sons.  

Dearest sons of mine,

When I held your infant selves, I sometimes dreamed of the men you would one day become. I have not been disappointed.

As you grew from child to adolescent to fully man, by sheer genetic and gender laws of nature, there was always a line that was crossed when you had the physical strength to take me down. Only one time in all your growing up years, did I think this actually might happen. Just for one terrifying fleeting second. 

But you had a dad who demanded respect and honor at all times, but most especially if the object of your frustration or anger or any other of the passion flaming feelings rumbling deep down inside was of the female type. Especially when she was your mom.

You were born into privilege. My desire is that your random, lottery winning birthplace never leads to feelings or actions that scream out entitlement, particularly as you interact and live alongside those with a different beginning place.

I promise to never care about your swim times or your career performance or any other human measure concocted more than I care about your character. I hope you hold yourself to the same standard deep within your soul.

As you do life with your wives or girlfriends or the drunk lady in a bar, I beg of you to see them with the same eyes and heart that you would desire for any other male person to use as they interact with your sisters…or your mom.

If you ever find yourself in a space or place where you have done something that you deeply regret, I hope you will own it. As your mom, I believe that I could walk alongside you, love you deeply, but never ever try to justify any pain and suffering delivered to another.

The boys will be boys sentiment around the oft repeating stories of sexual assault makes my blood curdle. If you ever walk up on such a real life drama, my greatest wish is that you will be just like the boys, the boys on the bikes. Be like these honorable and decent men who stopped and helped and then wept tears of sorrow because of the pillage and pain to which they had become witness.

This devastated young woman whose life has exploded on so many levels wrote this to the men on the bikes: “Most importantly, thank you to the two men who saved me, who I have yet to meet. I sleep with two bicycles that I drew taped above my bed to remind myself there are heroes in this story. That we are looking out for one another.”

Be the heroes. Look out for one another. Be the men on the bikes. I love you. Mom

Hail to the middle

It hits me every year. The last week of school arrives and I feel a most deep and sincere gratitude for the amazing people who have spent countless hours with my children teaching them everything from reading to writing to arithmetic to how to be kind and compassionate citizens of our planet. This year is no exception.

Both of our daughters are currently in what was called junior high back in my day and now goes by the name of middle school. “I wish I could go back to my middle school years”, says no one ever… though actually I once met a lady who said those were her favorite years. My own experience was quite to the contrary. I hated those years. I was desperate to fit in, regularly angry at my mom, and didn’t like myself at all. It was confusing and miserable and I felt fat and out of sync. I hoped for something different for my own daughters.

Due to good fortune, in a random lottery sort of way, our oldest daughter was chosen to experience a kinder, gentler middle school experience. She then pulled her sister into the same. In our home, we had previously experienced a base middle school, magnet middle school as well as a private school, which of course required a financial commitment beyond our tax dollars. None of these situations came all that close to providing what I would call “a mostly positive experience.” With gratitude, I can now say that for children #s 4 and 5, we have moved into such territory.

I have tremendous love and admiration toward all who choose to teach children. I have written of this before and described them as some of the most incredible people on the planet. I stand by that assessment. But I have always said that middle school teachers, even a bit more than any other grade level in this sacrificial profession, seem to have a true call upon their lives. They just do. When such a divine match is made, they stay for years and years and years and wholeheartedly love and appreciate the awkward, identity seeking, sometimes goofy pupils that enter their classroom each and every year. They get joy out of doing life with children living through a stage that many a parent just desires to hold their nose and get through as quickly and painlessly as possible.

One of our daughter’s 7th grade teachers announced that she was pregnant this year. The strong bond and connection that my girl has with this teacher has been growing and was demonstrated in numerous ways throughout the year. Our girl used to go to bed every night and make lists of baby names for her teacher to consider. When they learned that this baby was a boy, she narrowed in and focused on coming up with the best boy name possible for this teacher that she loves.

Last week, a surprise baby shower was given in honor of this soon to be mommy. A bookcase was made and each student brought in a favorite title to share with the soon to arrive little boy. My girl took much thought and care in choosing one of her very own childhood favorites. It was a tough call, required some back and forth discussion and ultimately became a toss up with Chicka Chicka Boom Boom. I had a copy of Fly Eagle Fly on hand, so it won out.

Her teacher arrived and as predicted, she was shocked and tears began to flow. I heard her say something like, “I love these kids and this place.” Another mom noted, “this is why teachers do what they do.”

Along with the carefully chosen book, my girl wrote a letter to this beloved teacher. It kind of says it all:

Dear _____,

You have been a great teacher and you have taught me so much this year. I know that you would make a wonderful mother and I want for you to make his life special. You have taught me so many things and have helped shape me into who I am today. I want to thank you for this wonderful year and experiences. You have taught me to be carefree, open up and be the best version of me, along with grammar and prepositions. Teach your little boy the many things you taught me and make his life wonderful.

This little boy will be your pride and joy, while also being a great responsibility. Remember to always be as fair as possible when faced with hard decisions. Teach him to be kind, compassionate and truthful, while also giving him his own space. Let him be himself, but also keep an eye open for his wellbeing. Most importantly, love him and tell him that.

I love reading and a big part of it is because my parents read to me when I was young. I always enjoyed my bedtime story and I want for your kid to grow up around books too. Read him so many different stories and take him to magical worlds with the most unbelievable creatures. Introduce him to the wonders of reading and stories.

I want for you to have the most fun as a mother and also to grow as a mother.

Remember, a baby makes love stronger, the days shorter, the nights longer, savings smaller and a home happier. [Pinterest gets credit for that sentence.] Have fun and congratulations. I wish you many happy memories.

Best of luck,

My girl’s beautiful signature

Again, I say hail to the middle!

PS I did love to read to my kids but not all my kids love to read as much as this one. Just keeping it real…

A big drop and what's next

Before today's blog post, I want to welcome you to my new website and blogging home. A huge thank you to my son Chris for helping his mom with this electronic makeover and getting me set up in this new space. If you are interested in subscribing to this blog, please sign up at the bottom of the home page. Welcome. I look forward to regular meetings at tricia-wilson.com. 

A big drop and what's next?

Over the past several weeks, I have walked by this scene dozens of times per day. It is situated on a much traveled thoroughfare into our kitchen. Until a few days ago, though I had seen it with my eyes, I had not stopped and let it sink into my consciousness. One of our girls enjoys writing memos and tidings on this family message center. This was her handiwork.

As I let the words “bored lassie” sink into myself, they began to speak to me. Is boredom what I am feeling? These two little words served as invitation to stop and pay attention to both my internal rumblings as well as what might be going on within my daughter. I started with myself.

The past two years have been full of excitement, transition and change. We left our home of twenty three years and headed for a much dreamed about historical home. Two of our sons have married in places far from our home, and big celebrations in our new backyard and home have followed. Our house was on a neighborhood Christmas tour where thousands walked through our living space. Three big events in one year were a big personal motivation to get settled and put forth a warm and inviting place for both friends and strangers alike. Much of my time and energy has ebbed and flowed around these happenings.

But now they have passed. My whole body, mind and heart feel a kind of letdown.

In the past year, we have also helped all three of our living parents move into what will almost surely be the place where they live out the rest of their lives. Walking alongside and in the midst of their process has led me to ponder and wonder and consider what that stage of life will bring for me, my husband and our children.

My husband continues a shift of spending less time at work and more at home. The benefits to me and to our children have been immeasurable and such a gift. Fuller sharing of home responsibilities has opened up time and space and freedom for me as I consider what’s next. We are still very actively parenting, but our girls are growing up. I quite seriously recently told him that this stage of parenting is a bit like being a firefighter. There can be a great deal of downtime in the station, but when there is an emergency, we have to be ready to respond. We can’t fill our time so much that we aren’t physically, mentally or emotionally prepared when the fire alarm sounds. We must choose wisely.

For much of my days as mom, I was a sort of busyness junkie. There was little time to feel the ebb and flow of life. Over the last ten years, that has shifted. As I have reflected on the emotional drop of recent days, I believe it to be a necessary, good and healthy place to be, though at times it is a bit uncomfortable. Being content and enjoying life when things are not chaotic and calendars are not packed is an invitation to more deeply consider how to spend time and energy.

I continue to work on a book project – in fact a rough draft sits to my left as I write this blog. My middle school aged daughters are growing up and into greater independence. I hope that as we experience this summer, it can be a time of growth. Rather than being a “screen enforcer” and alarm clock, I wish to make this a time of teaching life skills, enjoying outings together, sprinkled with rest and relaxation. Having done this gig before, I am quite aware of how these next years pass by at warp speed.

After we put a great deal of emotional energy toward anything, whether it is a celebration or a time of crisis, and then life levels out, there will be a realignment. I don’t really think that I am a “bored lassie”, but there are changes, shifts and opportunities on the horizon. My goal is to mostly live in the moment but at the same time spend energy and intention toward “what’s next?” Transitions are certainly ahead.

Afterword: Once again, I have learned that it is best to ask another what they mean when we are unsure of the meanings behind words or actions. Though my daughter admitted that she was indeed bored when she wrote the words bored and lassie, she also shared that they come from two of her favorite tv series – Sherlock and Psych. Thanks to her for the inspiration, no matter what she had in mind.