Selah

According to Wikipedia, the word selah appears seventy-one times in the book of Psalms. Though it does not have a direct translation, two possible meanings are “stop and listen” and “pause, and think of that.” Psalms are often read as songs or poems, and the selah reminder woven throughout seems most appropriate. As I travel through life, I very often need prompts to stop or pause, as well as to listen and think of that.

I am grateful that my husband Mark and I have had the gift of selah over the past several days. Thanks to my parents, we were able to get away to a lovely bed and breakfast in the mountains of western North Carolina. The Buck House Inn was the perfect place to pause.

We ventured up to Bald Mountain and spent a few hours trekking along the Appalachian Trail. This journey sparked my imagination about the millions of moments of selah that have taken place along this 2190 mile trail that stretches from Georgia to Maine. I said out loud to my husband, “There is nowhere within our city life that we can experience this depth of silence.” Quiet restores my soul.

The mountaintops peak up through the clouds below us

The white rectangular trail markers were sprinkled all along our way. I imagine that the blue marker has invited many a weary traveler to refill the necessary water supplies for each particular journey.

When we saw this sign up on a tree, we decided to veer off and explore. We met four hikers who had spent a selah night in the midst of a two day hike. The basic shelter provided was much different than where we were spending our nights.

As we interacted with others staying at the inn, we heard much talk of Hurricane Matthew since many loved ones of those we met were in the path of this storm. All the chatter took me back to my own South Florida childhood and a particular time when we met our neighbors out on the cul-de-sac where I lived. The skies were blue and there was great calm. But it only lasted for a short time as we all headed back inside. It was the eye of the hurricane, an eerily silent and calm respite in the midst of chaos. It was a chance to stop and listen to the eerie yet peaceful silence in between the roaring wind and pounding rain on either side of the pause.

We were escorted up the mountain in an ATV, all terrain vehicle. On the bumpy journey, we crossed paths with a bride and groom who had planned to be married in Charleston, South Carolina on Saturday. That was before the hurricane evacuation. They scrambled and were tending to myriad details in their new wedding venue, a beautiful outdoor mountain pavilion, over 300 miles away from their original plan. I wish for them times of selah after this weekend as they both celebrate and recover after a whirlwind of change for bride, groom, and over one hundred guests.

This little vehicle can climb up steep and rugged terrain. It makes a lot of noise as it does so, but the experience still provided a pause in the routines of my life.

Whether you are in the midst of a storm or just living life at a pace of busyness and amidst clutter that rarely offers silence, I hope you can find places of selah. How do you stop and listen in the midst of the everyday? How do you pause, and think of that, when life feels out of control?

What's in a name?

Names matter. I always feel seen and respected when someone I barely know remembers my name. I often feel irritated if I have interacted with someone a number of times and they obviously can’t recall my name. I am trying to be mindful to say and retain the names of others while giving grace to those who can’t bring to mind my own.

At our local YMCA, the employees wear nametags. Rather than just be transactional with the person who scans in my membership card, I try to read the nametag and speak to them by name. It often leads to a true knowing of their name along with the added bonus of short yet sweet human interactions. This has not always been my practice.

Each of our sons have middle names that honor someone in our family. We picked their first names because we liked the way they sounded. When I was a child, I was embarrassed and sometimes teased about my middle name, Adair. Now I think it is exotic, different, and I am proud of it.

Our daughters were each named by one of their big brothers. One of them was named after a middle school crush. The other by a brother with aesthetic sensibility. Their four-part names include a fragment of their Chinese name. Big names for such petite girls. Grace and Joy stand amidst their names. A foreshadowing of the gifts they offer to each one in our family.

I tend to remember the names of children before adults. Just the other day as I stood watching a cross-country race, I said, “I remember your daughter’s name, but please remind me of your own.” I had just been introduced to this mom a few minutes before.

Our neighbor is of Iraqi descent though born in California. She was hanging out at our home recently. Her name is lovely, but it is not common in this country. “My name never shows up on anything. Not even the first letter, Y, is anywhere to be found.” This conversation called up memories of Disney World and Cracker Barrel as I would stand and twirl the bike license plate, key chain, or any other kitschy treasure display searching for Tricia. It was almost never there. Patricia or Pat often made the cut, but rarely my particular called name. I felt left out and a little irritated that my brother’s common name, Mike, was readily available.

My auto mechanic recently bemoaned her given name. “My mother gave me a name that means “little princess.” She sure didn’t know me!” She rides a Harley, runs an auto mechanic shop, and enjoys life with her partner. I imagine that her mom had a different vision for her baby girl at the bestowal of her name.

Names are powerful. Sometimes they represent the hopes and dreams of our parents. They often are gleaned from family names and honor those we love. Each of us feel a shot of “I matter” when someone calls us by name. Taking in the name of another requires a level of presence and attention during introductions.

I have a mid-year resolution, a desire to pay closer attention to the names of others. This simple act is often a powerful connector. When we use names, it can open up hearts to a little deeper interaction and knowledge of those whose paths we cross. There are a lot of interesting people all around. With a little extra effort, I hope to retain and say out loud the names of others.

I would love to hear any name stories you have to share -things about your own name or how you remember the names of others or any old thing on the topic of names.

When grandfather was a kid

I have the gift and privilege of knowing all four of my grandparents. None of them left this earth until I was well into young adulthood. I also spent significant time with one great-grandmother and have a vague memory of visiting another in a nursing home. At the age of 54, I still have a 97 year-old living grandmother. She had my mom at the age of 19, mom had me at 21, my firstborn arrived when I was 24. Early motherhood and old age both run in the family.

My aunt is a family historian and is gracious to share with others. Yesterday, she shared this photo with us:

My Papa is the groom in this childhood wedding enactment, aka in the 1920's a Tom Thumb wedding*. He is so very handsome, and I see great resemblance to the grandfather of my memory. He was a man of few words, at least words directed at me. I remember a lot of humming, cross word puzzle working, and time spent out in his immaculately organized workshop. He could build or fix just about anything.

He was young for a grandfather and was always working full time when I visited as a child. He rose at 5 am and ate two eggs, bacon, and toast prepared by my grandmother almost every single morning. I know that he went to a warehouse and seemed tired when he returned. He sometimes brought home free boxes and boxes of full sized candy bars that we got to take home and eat.

For hobby and pleasure, he was an AKC dog trainer. Some of my very best remembrances of him are when I could tag along and watch him work his canine magic. His home always housed pets of some sort, and that made it a fun place for me, the animal lover, to visit. He patiently drove a boat while I learned to slalom ski.

Reflections on Papa lead me to thoughts and memories of my other grandfather, Grandaddy. A retired railroad man, he always had time and energy and fun to offer his grandkids. He too was a man of few words, but he spoke his love in tangible ways. Every day spent with him involved a trip to his garden, a walk to feed the ducks, riding the small attractions at the park down the road, or buying treats of the Icee or Dairy Queen variety.

Not a childhood photo but it reminds me his always present hat and railroad ties.

We did not have many conversations, but he always had time to read out loud to me. That is the way that I experienced his voice. Goldilocks and the Three Bears was a treat and I can still hear Papa bear and the baby bear voices in my mind’s ear. He had a special nickname for me. To this day, “Patrish” echoes through my heart and mind.

As I mull over my grandfathers and my experience of them, it leads to thoughts of their very own childhoods. The photo of Papa above certainly sparks my imagination. Why were they both so quiet? What did their childhood days contain? Whisperings of an alcoholic father on one side. How did their experiences form them and then affect my parents and then touch me? Each and every family unit offers up both functional and dysfunctional ways of living. What did each of them take and leave behind from their family of origin?

If I could sit down with them today, I might attempt to understand them more fully. But chances are, I wouldn’t get satisfactory answers. They weren’t chatty or self-revealing kinds of men. But I am grateful to have known them. This week, my curiosity has been peaked around when grandfather was a kid. There is much to consider.

What is your experience? How much or little do you know of your grandparents and the intimacies of their lives? I’d love to hear from you.

*Charles Sherwood Stratton was a dwarf who attained fame as General Tom Thumb in the circus. In the 1920"s, P.T. Barnum promoted GeneralTom Thumb and his recent bride. It seems that one thing people did for entertainment during this time was to recreate the wedding by using children as participants. As to my Papa's experience, I agree with my Aunt Barbara who says, "It appears they went all out with the clothes and pictures. Somehow the boys don't seem all that pleased!" Actually, no one but the bride looks happy. Maybe there was discord around who would get that role.

Thank you to my Aunt Barbara for days of dreaming and wondering.

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.