Truth and slant

Tell all the truth but tell it slant, Emily Dickinson

As I work on writing a book, much of my heart, soul, and time is poured into this exercise of telling my story well. I want to fully own it. The parenthood journey that has led to the dispensation of grace to myself as well as others is intimate and complex. Sometimes the truth bubbles up to the surface and makes itself clearly known. But at other times, my mind has a filter that is not quite ready to yet again visit certain painful places. The possibility of feeling sorrow in the midst of being truthful about my own long ago choices and behavior creates a barrier to owning the entirety of my story.

As a writer and sharer of stories, I seek to give honor to my husband, children, parents and beyond as I write of the intimate things of family. But there is an overarching desire to also tell truth. It is a delicate balance. In any family system, each individual member comes to the family table with his or her own slant. We don’t experience any one particular moment in the same way.

Just this morning, I was fussing and fuming around the kitchen. I reached into the drawer for tin foil and it was not there. I pontificated about how everyone needs to write it on a list or let me know if they use the last of something. One daughter felt attacked and accused. In my mind, I was spreading the indictment to all within earshot – truthfully, all but myself. My husband later expressed that he experienced the moment closer to my daughter’s interpretation than to mine. Each of us has our very own perspective. A discussion with and apology to my daughter are forthcoming.

I recently received professional feedback on my book project. Much was positive, but there was a gentle encouragement to more fully expose my personal story as mom, especially the mom of earlier days. Some of those stories involve regret and shame and a wish that at times I had made different choices. I have worked so very hard to live life in a different space. But if I expect to fully engage with readers, authenticity is required.

Dickinson’s words “tell all the truth but tell it slant” can be interpreted in many ways, particularly in light of the whole poem. The message to me on this day is that as I circle around to the truth of my story, sometimes I come at it from the side, or from behind, or in gentle confrontation. Head on, face-to-face, raw truth is sometimes too much.

I am convinced that vulnerability is the antidote to shame and often when we say something out loud or acknowledge a failure head on, shame loses its power. Those who reveal themselves honestly and vulnerably are the most interesting and real human beings. I will continue to work at being gentle and gracious with myself while at the same time telling truth. Some days the truth requires more slant than others.

Tell all the truth but tell it slant

Tell all the truth but tell it slant —

Success in Circuit lies

Too bright for our infirm Delight

The Truth's superb surprise

As Lightning to the Children eased

With explanation kind

The Truth must dazzle gradually

Or every man be blind —

Possibilities beckon

In the years and days gone by, for coming up on twenty-five years, this is a place where much Wilson family life has transpired. Especially summer time life.

It is the specific place where each of our five children learned to be competent and reasonably strong swimmers. This goal was especially important to a mom who grew up in Florida where swimming pools and oceans abound. When our sons were coming along and participating in summer swim team year after year after year, many values and lessons were learned.

Through the years, both hurricane damage and financial struggles have threatened to shut this neighborhood gathering space down. But dedicated, hardworking and creative people always found a way to open the doors on Memorial day weekend and provide a much desired respite from the months of North Carolina heat.

Right beside this tree surrounded summer oasis, there are two tennis courts. Most of the summer days of our boys’ childhoods were spent on the courts or in the pool and most often in both places. Because of the effects of a nearby creek, the courts were always cracked and almost always had grass and weeds growing up through the many crevices in its surface, yet children still learned to serve and volley on this imperfect terrain. Sadly, the unfriendly elements won the battle for this space. There are dreams and plans to reinvent this fenced in territory in days ahead, but for now there is silence where the back and forth of tennis ball connecting to racquet as well as the sounds of mostly friendly competition used to float through the air.

Our boys were more of the “coach’s award” type kids than MVP winners. I am happy that they were teachable and cooperative as they learned skills and played away their summer days.

For such a small, modest neighborhood swim club, there have been a high number of swimmers sprinkled throughout the neighborhood that earned college scholarships. There was even one guy who was part of a gold medal winning relay team in the 2012 Olympics. Charlie is kind of a neighborhood legend, and some of our sons’ best swim team memories happened when they were called upon to swim relay races with this lightning fast neighbor. As anchor, he could always bring it home.

This is also the place where our youngest daredevil daughter began jumping off of the high dive at a very young age. The lifeguard on duty encouraged and cajoled her and off she went. The bribe was a “jolly pop” - a frozen, sweet, forever 25 cent treat that comes in red and yellow and green and blue and orange and my personal favorite, white.

Despite the myriad country clubs and fancy pools in our city, the girls’ friends are always so very excited that we are heading to this particular pool. As one of only a handful of pools within our city where a high dive remains (I understand that if it ever breaks, it can never be replaced due to insurance restrictions), many hard working and handy people have figured out ways to keep this rite of childhood springboard open. It truly is a special place.

When we moved away from this neighborhood a few years back, I knew that when the soaring heat of summer came calling, I would miss the convenience of a two- block walk to this magical place. That has played out. We now drive the 15-20 minutes to get there, but the visits are infrequent enough to have become impractical. Life changes.

The other day, I drove up to this spot where I have spent hundreds of summer days. As I recalled many lovely memories, at the same time, I felt a bluesy sadness in my gut. It became clear that it is time to say a kind of goodbye to this peaceful oasis in the woods. This will be the last summer that we are formal members of this “anyone is welcome club” (well, anyone who can pay the dues).

As with so many other recent milestones and passages, it is not just about a longing or sadness around hanging out in this particular space. As I look around at the new and young families splashing around and enjoying the hot summer days, there are fewer and fewer that I recognize. “Six and under swimmers” turn into kid catchers who then post up on the lifeguard stand. It seems to happen overnight as the circle of life is played out right before our eyes. My own children are growing up and three of them are in fact grown. Life rolls on.

I, myself, feel a bit like those crackled tennis courts. A small and specific territory that is ripe to be re-made and re-purposed for days ahead. There are feelings of nostalgia about what has taken place in the past coupled with hopes and dreams about what is to come. There are endless prospects and an excitement around the choices before me. With gratitude for the past and the path I have taken, I also look forward to the shifts and transformations ahead. The possibilities beckon.

Where is home?

"Where we love is home - home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts." Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr.

"I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself." Maya Angelou

Last week, the girls and I were invited to tag along with my husband on a work trip. It was to a place that offers up a landscape and breathtaking scenery of the likes that I have never seen before. This space is located in the general area where the upper and lower peninsulas of Michigan meet up, and two of the great lakes co-mingle. One of my dearest friends has spent almost every summer of her life in this vicinity, and her eyes sparkle and dance when she talks of summer days lived in such a place. Now I understand, if only a little.

As a girl who grew up in South Florida, I relate a bit more to the Maya Angelou quote over that of Mr. Holmes. This tropical coast that I called home for much of my childhood is a bit of a transient region, and there are few that have deep family roots there. For almost 26 years, I have lived in a medium sized southern city, but I am not a southerner. That became quite clear to me when I landed in my college freshman dorm and began to navigate a new and strange to me culture and code. My family did travel to the mountains of North Carolina most summers of my youth, and that landscape and beauty still has a special piece of my heart. But there is no one place that claims the whole of me.

Our family has had opportunity to travel and visit a great number of places across our country. Each one captures my imagination in its very own way. I wonder what it would be like to live in this area? Summer seems great, but what about the winters? Could I make connections here and settle down? What would daily life contain in this specific space? What would I miss if I left another place behind? 

So, this week, I wonder aloud and secretly about this beautiful spot. With searing heat and soaring humidity back in my current hometown, the mild temperatures and gentle breezes of this place are so inviting. I'd love to share a bit of this beauty with you.

A view of the bridge that connects the lower and upper Michigan peninsulas.

Sunset on Mackinac Island

Arch rock with a view of the amazing colors of both lake and sky

Bicycles are a most common mode of transportation all throughout this region. One morning, despite intermittent showers, I took off and around the island. It was so peaceful, so serene, so stunning in its very own way.

The wet pavement rolled out before me

Great lakes style "rock castles" so very interesting and different from the sand castles I know.

Amazingly clear and "see straight to the bottom" water. I love this view of the rocks beneath the surface.

As we moved to another location, the beauty and new experiences continue to delight and charm. The sun comes shining right into my bedroom very early and just as the sun rises in the east. I peak out the window and this take your breath away beauty is just across the bay. A beautiful painting just outside the door.

Early morning and late evening are our favorite times to practice newfound gentle and peace filled experiences. The water is placid and invites us to come out and see the beauty all around.

A few more of our children will show up to this beautiful place in the next day or so. That always makes any place feel a little more like home. I understand why my friend sometimes longs for this particular place and the allure and grace it offers to her soul. I feel more of a kinship with Maya Angelou and in the days and years ahead I too wish to be at home wherever I find myself.

How about you? Which of the beginning quotes most resonates with your heart and soul? Is there one particular place that feels more like home than anywhere else? I would love to hear from you.

At the Golden Corral

Being a part of the blogger world is quite disconcerting at times. When big events, especially tragic ones, happen, there is a bizarre sort of race toward the world of social media to get reactions, clever or insightful angles as well as personal judgments spewed out into the world. Though I often write of parenting and family matters, current events and my evolving Christian faith sometimes drive my writing as well. In a 24-hour news cycle, the temptation is to compulsively react to matters that are more appropriately handled with a great deal of contemplation and soul searching. Wait and consider and pray often comes to mind when my reactions and inner thoughts begin to spin and whirl out of control on any number of challenging topics leading today’s headlines.

Dr. John Perkins, a much loved and respected man who has given his life to the work of racial reconciliation and Christian community development, landed in Raleigh a few months back. As a young man, he was unjustly beaten, tortured and imprisoned during the height of the civil rights movement, yet he has devoted his life to the slow work of racial reconciliation within our country. Now 86 years of age, he continues to speak out and challenge others to move forward along this path.

Recent headlines and shootings happening in St. Paul, Baton Rouge, Dallas and now Baton Rouge again remind us that this critical work of racial reconciliation still has a long, long way to go in these ironically named United States of America -divided rather than united seems a more apt description of so many of the monologues and positions swirling around us as citizens. I have previously written of my personal paralysis and questioning of what in the world does this 53-year old white lady of privilege say and do when tragedies of this magnitude continuously roll out before our eyes?

Even before Philando or Alton or the police officers doing the critical work of keeping the peace were killed, the invitation as follow up to the weekend with John Perkins was issued. Come to the Golden Corral, break bread together and listen and learn. When that night arrived, we as citizens had been through a very difficult week. Roughly 50% African American and 50% Caucasian sprinkled with a Latino and Asian presence gathered on this night.

We ate and got to know each other on a surface level as we talked of work and family and summer plans. Then the floor was opened up and the elephant in the room question was spoken out loud. How do each of you feel about the most recent national tragedies we have witnessed and heard tell of and experienced each in our individual way? Every single person had opportunity to give voice on this matter. The emotions were high and ran the gamut - from anger to despair to sadness to fear to hopelessness to hopefulness and beyond. We listened to each other. I walked away from that evening with much to ponder as well as a better understanding of my fellow brothers and sisters of varied races.

We will continue to meet together in mixed race and smaller groups. We will meet in local restaurants for lunch and invite and host one another in our homes for dinner. Hopefully this will be a springboard to continue to do the on-the-ground work of doing justice, loving mercy and walking humbly with our God. As Kent Annan’s book title says, it is certainly, “A Slow Kingdom Coming.” We will start with listening, honor and respect for all and move toward living life as friends.

I don’t have a lot of answers. I am saddened that there is pressure to choose corners in so many national matters – it is not incongruous to both believe that a percentage of law enforcement is biased against black men and that law enforcement is an honorable and much needed profession. It is not “either or”, but “both and”.

I am weary and exhausted over seeing this sight. Not for some esteemed citizen who has passed away after living a long, honorable or dedicated life, but in response to violence and hatred and lives shot down far too early.

Just last night, in the dark hours of the early morning in my very own neighborhood, KKK material was distributed. I am horrified and angry. The rumblings and undercurrent and outright brutality throughout our country are unsettling and seem to be throwing us all back to dark times of societal violence and injustice. I imagine that my black friends have many stories of how that very same injustice has been present for them and those they call family all along the way. I need to listen and receive. I guess I will just keep showing up at the Golden Corral and open wide the doors of my home as well as my heart to all who stop by.

I have read a number of perspectives on recent happenings. Here is one that has helped me understand the view of another.

Flight flashbacks

Over the past week, I have had several opportunities to take to the skies as we have visited family in various places and spaces. As a mom who has traveled with children for almost 29 years, I often notice young children and their parents on these journeys. Some interactions make me cringe and others invite a heartwarming smile. All remind me of days gone by and the wonder and joy coupled with the stress and strain of flying with young kids in tow.

I recall the very first plane trip that our oldest son took when he could fully anticipate with wide-eyed wonder at least the general idea that we were going to fly way up in the sky. He was so very eager, but as we pulled up into the sky, he immediately fell asleep and missed most of this much anticipated flight. On an earlier flight when he took his seat upon my lap as those under 2 years of age were able to do, we sat next to a grumpy guy who several times asked me to please keep my son from touching him. I did my best. But this kid was an active wiggler. I had a one-gallon Ziploc bag of Cheerios (rookie mom mistake – sandwich bag size would have been more prudent) that I slowly doled out to keep him quiet and occupied. But at one point, he grabbed the open bag by the bottom and flung it up into the air. Cheerios rained down everywhere, especially on the grumpy guy’s lap. There were compassionate people and flight attendants all around that helped clean up the mess.

Our three sons were born in the span of five years. When our youngest was only a matter of months old, I flew cross-country to visit my parents in Arizona. On the trip back home, I was the solo parent accompanying our three boys. We took our seats  in the almost very back of the plane. Our middle son, almost 3 years old at the time,  loved to sing. He wasn’t much of a wiggler, but he started belting out some of his very favorite tunes – stuff like Wheels on the Bus and Jesus Loves Me. The elderly couple in front of us requested that I please make him stop. Once again, I did my best, but in my heart I wanted to say, “you have no idea how disastrous this situation could be right now – singing is the least of my worries.” Except for trying to keep my warbler quiet, this trip way exceeded my expectations.

When we adopted our two girls, it required 24 plus hours of travel to make our way halfway around the earth. There was a lot of pacing up and down the aisles with grief stricken toddlers. We weren’t the only ones. At one point when we were coming home with our oldest daughter, she fell asleep on the floor in front of us in a very awkward looking position. My husband felt like she must be uncomfortable and attempted to rearrange her splayed limbs. She woke up with a start and commenced to scream. I was not a happy person… On our second adoption trip, we juggled the needs of two toddlers as we made our long journey home.

Now that our children are well past the “I’m not sure what calamity might happen on an airplane stage”, I do my best to be kind and compassionate and helpful to all who travel along with children in this “wildcard” stage. Even when the screaming baby is disruptive to my peace and plans, I remember that there are earaches and overtired bodies and frustrated parents in the mix. Sometimes there are reasons that we will never know or understand that lead to meltdowns and freak-outs way up in the sky. Everyone can feel like a trapped animal in the narrow confines of a plane. Sometimes we make assumptions and judgments about people and situations about which we know nothing. It is a place where small acts of kindness and grace and recognizing that we never know the backstory of any one situation can go a long way.

Do you have any traveling with or without children nightmares? How do/did you handle it? I would love to hear your stories.