Briggs starts Kindergarten in a few weeks, and turns out, homework is an issue.

Should or shouldn’t Kindergarteners have homework?  And if they do, why?  What’s the intention?

Is part of the problem associated with increases in childhood stress, anxiety, bullying, obesity, that our schools (and society) are obsessed with production and progression, and less focused on play and connection?

Personally, I’ve struggled with homework…from the beginning.  From avoiding it, to overdoing it.  35 years in (with a collection of diplomas, degrees, and certifications), I still flip-flop between feeling aware and in sync with what needs to get done, and being driven by fear of not getting it done (well) on time.

Yesterday, as my 17 year-old nephew told me about the summer homework he’d need to get done before his senior year kicked off in about 48 hours, I started thinking about all of the homework he’d actually gotten in.

The hours he’d put in looking for a summer job that he enjoyed.  The late night fires with friends…the talking and getting into whatever you need to talk out and get into with your friends at that age.  The long runs, and new movies.  And the sleep.  The much needed sleep.

All of that homework – the work of discovering what makes you feel at home in your own self – that’s the stuff that actually gets you to dig in, so you can grow big.

And I thought, maybe if we all gave ourselves just a little more credit for doing our own homework, doing the rest of it might feel a little easier.

I didn’t really “get” Star Wars until about a year ago.

When I started watching the original three movies with my son and my husband, things clicked, and I found myself soundly wrapped up in the magic, the story, and all that space.

Here’s the thing about “The Force,” it’s totally powerful.  An ally.  A super tool.  A deep and concentrated power gifted from within…but, there’s nothing actually “forced” about it.

In fact if you try and force The Force, you’re guaranteed not to truly connect with it…just ask Kylo Ren.

Lately, I’ve been trying to decipher the difference between working hard and forcing to fit.

I believe in hard work.  I’ve seen and felt it connect.  When you are willing to try so hard you fall, even fail, and for a time, stay down…only to rise again.  That’s hard work getting you to closer to your Force.

But what about when you’re giving your all, but aren’t totally sure where your all is going?

Is that spinning, to spin?  Or part of the path?

This morning, I don’t have any answers, but taking even a little bit of time to contemplate the questions, makes me feel like I have one up on the dark side.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OvsJk6Dve3A

Growing up I loved being invited to sleepovers.  I took it as a sign that I had actual friends. But, I loathed the non-sleeping part.

Gossiping, movie-ing, truth or daring,  laughing, crying, eating = YES.  Sleeping = not so much.

And while I truly did (and do) love all the “ings” that come with staying up and out, I’m best in the morning.

I’ve always believed that there’s a bit of magic for me before sunrise.  Sacred time.  When the day is brand new, and somehow I am, too.  And for me, early to rise has always balanced with early to bed.

That means saying, “yes” to eight to ten.  (Do the math.  That means settling into the ceremony of sleep no later than nine.)  And saying, “no” to after-hours sugar and binge watching.

My “no” muscle is a bit weak, so I’ve just started flexing it ever so gently this week.  No to TV after work, yes to reading before bed, no to emails after seven, yes to writing first thing in the morning.

And wouldn’t you know…just three days in, I am up and feeling truly (happily) awake at 5:42.

It truly is a brand new day.

“Take a day for yourself,” he said.

My husband could see how good it was for me to spend Saturday pulling weeds, and come Sunday, he wanted to help me keep seeing and believing in a clear path.

 

When you work in service and your tables are filled, and food’s running late, and the bar’s backed up, and you just can’t seem to get a handle on, or ahead of your orders, you’re “in the weeds.”

And it’s really helpful to let your co-workers know when you’re in the weeds, so they can can help clear a path.

But, you have to say something.

I’ve been in the weeds for weeks now…maybe months.

I stopped writing.  Stopped yoga.  Started my days with emails and long (very long) silent commutes where I churn and gnash about what I’m not doing, how I’m failing, and how utterly foolish I’ve been for trying.

What’s interesting is that while I’ve been exhausted – emotionally passed out – in these weeds of mine, the actual weeds all around my house have been thriving.

This summer’s heat and drought, combined with our neglect created the perfect conditions for these long, ugly disasters to settle in.

The red brick walkway carpeted in rough green, the front flowerbeds filled with fried dandelion leaves and knee-high grass that resembled hay, the shamrocks stuffed under the lattice that started to push up and through the first row of cedar shakes.

Tired and intimidated, I made my way out front on Saturday and started to pull.  Beginning felt awkward.  It was hot, and the weeds were in so deep that I really had to root down to pull.  Many times losing my grip, and winding up empty handed.

I stopped for water.  Stopped to put on music.  But, I didn’t have to stop for my husband to lend a hand.  Somehow without even being asked, came over to help, and to acknowledge that I had the harder job that day.

I agreed, and meant it, when I said it was okay.

So much stuff came up.

Colonies of fire ants, and big shiny black multi-legged creepy things, worms, and caterpillars, and stuff that smelled, and stuff that looked rotten, and there was this one really (really) deep hole that clearly some animal called home, and I was just praying that whatever it was had either moved on, or at the very least had stepped out for the morning.

This is what happens, when you let the weeds grow.  Things settle that don’t belong here.

Truth: all those scary, creepy, fiery creatures deserve a home.  They’re all beautiful and wonderful – but none of them were ever really intended to wreak havoc on my entry way.

They were just feeding off my scared complacency.  Doing what I was doing.  Settling in, where no one would notice, while simultaneously scurrying along – waiting for it all to uproot.

That’s why I didn’t stomp on any of them.  Just wished them well and hoped they would use the disruption to find a better place to live, work, and be.

Days later the backs of my legs are still sore from all of the pulling and tugging, all of the starting and stopping, but at least I can see a path.

Middle school was tough – as middle school often is.

My parents had been divorced for a few years.  I’d entered an awkward, chubby stage, and I was struggling in math and science.

Plus, there was this bus ride when I’d been brutally picked on for my clothes.  I came off the bus in tears, but didn’t feel much like telling my Mom what happened, so I wrote my cousin Mary Ellen.

Technically speaking Mary Ellen was Bob’s (my “stepdad”) first-cousin.  But given that Mary Ellen’s Dad was sixteen years younger than Bob’s Mom, Mary Ellen was closer in age to me (her cousin’s kid), than her actual cousin.

Even though Mary Ellen lived with her parents and siblings in upstate New York, she’d spend most summers with family in New England…mostly looking after her fist-cousins’ children…like my sisters and me.

I loved Mary Ellen from the first time I met her.

She let me try her makeup.  Introduced me to Pearl Jam.  And somehow made it feel okay to feel however I was feeling.

She let me talk about the Dad, that wasn’t her first-cousin, whenever I needed to, and at the same time never (ever) made me feel like anything else other than true, forever, and natural family.

So, I suppose it made sense that when I hopped off that bus covered in shame and soaked in tears, that Mary Ellen was the first place I turned.

After pouring out in a long and messy handwritten letter, I breathed easier and with the stamped envelope, simply let it go.

About a week later a big box arrived, addressed to me.   It was stuffed with expertly folded brandname clothes.  Polo.  Gap.  J. Crew.  L.L. Bean.  And a note from Mary:

“The labels don’t matter.  You do.  But in the meantime, just tell those kids that these came from your cousin in New York (just say New York).  No need to mention that they’re hand-me-downs.  Just tell them they were shipped directly to you from your cousin in New York. :)”

For years to come, the clothes that made up that life-changing care packaged remained an essential part of my wardrobe…and my heart.

Late last night I decided that I again needed my cousin, so I packed bags for my son and me, gave my husband a good, long kiss, and made our way to Mary’s in Maine.

And when I woke up this morning I had that same wave of peace wash over me, that lovingly rolled in when I cracked open that box so many years ago.

(PS – Mary Ellen is the one to the far left)

I don’t think I can forget the day in 7th grade, when the boy I had a deep, deep crush on asked:

“Hey, Amanda, do you like anyone?”

My hands and feet went tingly.  He and I talked on the phone all the time, for long periods of time.  Of course, no one really knew that, so I was floored when he openly asked me this question (with other kids around) during “silent reading” time in Mrs. Davieau’s English class.

“Maybe,” I flirted.  “Why do you want to know?”

“Well, I was just thinking about how you’re too ugly to ever get a boyfriend – so, I was hoping for your sake that you didn’t like anybody.”

The roars of laughter broke out and I mustered everything I had not to turn into a puddle.

For more than a decade, I truly believed that boy…which is likely how I ended up making such bad dating decisions early on.

But, through the grace of all that is wonderful, I did so much better than find a boyfriend.

I wound up with my soulmate.

A couple days ago my gorgeous, loving, kind, intelligent, devoted husband and his brothers – who have through the years, become my brothers, too – played in a golf tournament to support the non-profit where I work.

Seeing them together reminded me how loved, and blessed, and supported I truly am.

The ugly girl with no brothers, has grown into the beautiful wife surrounded by good men who care, and support, and love her – just because.

Seeing them together makes me breathe easier.

I see them and see my son and nephews and know from the deepest place of my being that more good men are coming.

About a week ago I watched the movie, Zootopia with my five year-old.

It’s a good one for everyone to watch – especially now – especially before voting for our next President.

The animated film centers on a bunny named Judy, who is defined by her parents, from the very beginning, as a try-er.

She wants to try everything.  Be good at everything.  Until she begins to fail.  Her failures reveal her greatest challenges and biases, and her paths reveal themselves:

Hop down the straight and narrow.  Pretend you don’t see the twists, turns, bumps, and boulders – until you actually don’t.

Or, try the other.  The one that’s wider, curvier, sometimes darker, and inevitably always clearer (and lovelier) and brighter – for longer.

It’s a Disney film, so you can guess how this one goes. 🙂

It reminds me though, that the most wonderful thing about being a try-er – is that we can always go back to being try-ers.  Even when we haven’t tried in awhile.  We can try again today.

To borrow from Zootopia’s soundtrack: “I won’t give up – no I won’t give in – until I reach the end – then I’ll start again – I want to try everything – I want to try, even though I could fail.”

I’ve been out of pocket for the last few days, and that’ll continue through the weekend.

For five days I get to provide for my family as the stage producer for Outside the Box, the largest FREE arts festival in all of New England.

I truly love be a part of free, live, outdoor festivals.

Music and performance are wonderful.  True gifts that feed and nourish not only our best, but most important parts – and there is simply no substitute for being present when that art comes to life.

There is quiet, and then the guitar.  Drum.  Voice.

And then, there is joy.

The world needs more joy.  So much, more.  Help us all heal with a hum, a shower serenade, a windows down – Pandora up commute.

Stop and listen to the artists busking.  Take a walk through the grass, and take in the concert of the birds.

Get somewhere where the good ones are making good stuff, simply for the sake of making it.

And, through the grace of you, despite the worry, or pain, confusion or forecast, you’ll begin to discover the sound of sunshine coming down.

I’m only running in real quick.  I don’t need my phone and keys.

That’s what I said as I pulled into my employer’s New Hampshire office (in sweatpants and a tank top – I typically work from home on Mondays) to pick up a package at the front desk, and then promptly head back to pick up my son from daycare.

With my phone and my keys on my passenger’s seat, I got out of the car, reminded myself not to lock it, and then, out of habit, locked it anyway.

With an estimated hour window for roadside assistance to come help, I would not be making closing time at daycare.

Fortunately, I did this at work. Where I could use a landline, to call my husband and arrange another pick-up plan. Where I could borrow a computer and work through webmail. Where I could comfortably wait for help to arrive.

Unfortunately, I did this all at work – in sweatpants.

When I finally arrived at my in-laws to fetch my son (Grandparents really are the greatest blessing), he said:

“Why did you lock your keys in your car?”

“I was trying to do too much at the same time.”

“You have to pay attention, Mum.”

I smiled.  He was right.

On the way home we called his Dad – my husband – to talk about supper. I had a great sauce with sausage that had simmered on the stove all day yesterday, but I would have to stop at the grocery store to get something to go with it…

Until, I remembered to slow down in the center of town.

The Farmer’s Market had been in full swing for weeks, but I hadn’t yet made it up there.

Fresh made ravioli stuffed with roasted eggplant from Hollis, New Hampshire.  Asiago and ricotta from Foxboro, Massachusetts.  Basil from the farm down the street.

Dinner was served.  A beautiful walk with my son in an open market was had.  And a key was found.