The Billerica White Sox had our first practice on Saturday, and it was awesome.

Here’s why:

1. I’m excited to coach – as excited as the kids are to play, and so we met each other with equal enthusiasm
2. I do my homework – I read the manuals, and I’m still researching some of the most successful programs in the country
3. I pay attention at work

I earn my living as a marketer and fundraiser for non-profit social work organization called The Life is Good Kids Foundation.  It started in 1989 as a grassroots organization lead by Steve Gross, a clinical social worker who’s since become a leader in the field of early childhood trauma response.  Throughout his work, Steve realized that in order to make a lasting positive difference in the lives of children, you also had to make serious and lasting investments in the men and women who dedicate their careers to caring for them.

So, for more than 25 years now, the Foundation’s been offering personal and professional development to teachers, social workers, early life specialists, therapist, counselors, and coaches.  We help childcare organizations build safe, loving, and joyful environments for kids to learn, play, and heal.

Now, since signing on with the Foundation just over a year ago, I’ve felt like I’ve had a pretty good handle on what our program does, and how our social workers and program staff deliver workshops, retreats, courses, and exercises…but truth be told, I didn’t totally get it until I put what I’ve learned into practice on the field.

When the 10 Billerica White Sox tee-ball players showed up to play late Saturday afternoon,  I now knew that the only important thing here, was to make sure that all of these kids felt good about being here.  I knew I needed to make every kid – regardless of ability or even interest – feel comfortable and relaxed, so that they each could in fact engage, learn, and play.

So, the first thing we did was a high-energy teamwork game – called “Squirrels and Nuts.”  The kiddos were the “squirrels”, and the “nuts” were the Wiffle balls Ken (my husband and assistant coach) and I scattered all over the infield.

The object: gather all of the nuts and put them back at home plate.

The catch: if a coach tags you, you’re frozen – if a teammate tags you, you’re unfrozen.

How to win: get all the nuts and all the squirrels back home.

The kids LOVED being chased.  They loved being called squirrels.  They loved working together.  See, the Foundation reminded me that when kids are playing (learning), it’s not about ups and outs – it’s about getting together to get to the really big wins.

After three rounds of this, they (and the coaches) needed a water break.  That’s when I addressed our score board – because look, part of why kids love to play is keeping score.  Which is great, the Foundation taught me, as long as you consider what you’re scoring.

I told our team that the White Sox Scoreboard (a DIY project of MDF & chalkboard paint) would be tracking “team runs.”

“Every time I hear someone on our team tell someone else, ‘good job,’ or ‘nice try,’ or ‘keep it up,’ and even just a good ole ‘Let’s Go White Sox,’ we earn another team run on our scoreboard,” I explained.  “Every time we do good team listening, we earn another team run on our scoreboard.  Every time we try hard or learn something new, we earn another team run on our scoreboard.  Sound good?”

Agreement was unanimous.

“And every practice and every game we earn 10 runs, we unlock a new game, you all in?”

They were all totally in.

So, we went on to learn how to grip and throw a ball, and run the bases.  And then, kind of before any of us knew it, it was time to check our scoreboard.

We won, and a secret parachute game was unlocked.

Every kid on the team left with a better understanding of teamwork, how to properly grip, aim and throw a ball, and how to run the bases.  But, way more importantly, every kid left feeling that they could do this, that this was fun, and that they couldn’t wait to come back.

And, truth be told their coaches felt the same way.

When practice wrapped one player’s father made his way over to me.

“I gotta tell you,” he said. “That was amazing.  You ran that brilliantly.  It was so good to see our son so engaged and into it, really into it. Never losing interest.  That means a lot.  Thank you and we’re here to help.  Whatever you need.”

Another team parent, without even being asked, helped us pack up the field and get everything back in the shed.

And I think by the end, the kids, the parents, and the coaches left all feeling a little bit more connected.

And that’s when I finally and completely felt the importance of social work – of helping us (all of us) discover and rediscover how to positively, authentically, and compassionately connect.

That way we can all feel good about being a squirrel just trying, getting, and sharing all those nuts.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pSsqWHtg7Ig

The worry crept in a bit too much this week.  One way I can tell when that’s happening is how I spend my commute.

If I start out for my day excited about the next chapter in an audiobook, or curious about the news, or even hankering for some windows-down tunes, I know all is well.

When all I can tolerate is silence – not because I am mindfully getting where I need to be, but instead because my mind is full of road blocks, I know I’ve sharply turned off course.

And during one of these sharp turns late this week, I noticed something in the corner of my windshield.

Shit, is that a crack? I didn’t say out loud.

While stopped at a light I leaned forward and ran my fingers over the area and felt a division.

I slumped back in my seat. My mind jumped into overdrive.

This car’s the rental.  I’m still waiting for my actual car to get fixed.  My insurance has already gone up.  Money’s already tight.  How, when, why did this happen?  Am I responsible for replacing the entire windshield? How much?  How fucking much? 

And just as I was about to launch into a hurtful, silent rant about what an absolute idiot I am – I pulled over.  I stopped.

I took ten full deep breaths.  Reminded myself that I am smart.  I am capable.  I am totally safe and supported.  I can feel however I feel, but it will not change who I am.  Then I took five more breaths and ran my fingers back over the glass, only to find it perfectly together.

My guess is that the crack was never there to begin with – though at the time I felt it, I would’ve sworn it was real.

Worry, stress, and anxiety are liars, tricksters, and cheats.

The less you and I fall for them, the better.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U0oitCLJWJQ&index=1&list=PLh7lKGFiDo61HrTVXx77l7kBl2h2QmCX7

Today was filled with a lot of asks.  Asks I made, and asks made of me.  All of them competing for attention.

I’ll write here that I want clarity.  I’ll write that my principle intention is still to move with ease and in peace.  And while what I’ve just written is certainly true (I do seek clarity, ease and peace), lately I haven’t been putting in the care that I know is essential to accessing any of it.

My yoga mat’s been rolled up for a week.

I got my lunch this afternoon from a drive-thru.

I’m tired.  Even when I wake up.

And tonight, just as I feared that one more ask would flatten me, my son said:

“Mum, can we play a hand of Uno before bed?”

My shoulders dropped, my smile rose, and I happily responded with: “you betcha.”

I got nothing but Love for Uno.

Nothing but warm memories of late night cousin tournaments, family rounds on Sundays and holidays, and the sounds of a well-used deck coming together through a soft shuffle and proper bridge.

And tonight, for the first time, the name of the game resinated with me a little bit more.  The object is to clear your hand and confidently proclaim when you are one.

“Uno.”

Maybe it was because I was listening to Gloria Steinem’s My Life on the Road, or because I sent myself Reiki today, or because I’m making an effort to listen to the voice that builds me up instead of tearing me down…

But tonight, as I sat in a Little League meeting – the only newbie and the only woman in the room, I felt good.

And confident.

And ready to contribute.

Yesterday, a friend (and fellow SuperMom) told be about Geocaching.

Self-proclaimed as the world’s largest treasure hunt, it’s an ingenious prompt to get you (and me) outside, moving and exploring.

Using the Geocaching app you can identify a hidden cache in and around your current location.  For example, there are hundreds within a few miles of our hometown of Billerica, Massachusetts (and apparently millions around the world).

Each cache varies in size, shape, and contents.  Some are hidden in plain sight, some require bushwhacking. All contain treasures.  And upon finding a cache and taking one treasure, you leave another for the next treasure hunter.

This week I felt so distant from recovery and discovery that I took this “shortcut” into exploration as a sign that it could be easy to get on track again.  Hell, it came with an app.

So, following a family gathering this afternoon, I logged into the Geocaching app and turns out there was a cache less than a half-mile from our current location.  My husband, Ken and four year-old, Briggs were both all in.

Minutes later we found ourselves on a trail behind the Billerica Country Club (we’re we’ve been dozens of times) that until this afternoon was invisible to us.  We followed the digital compass, a couple of clues, and then off the trail “across from the U and by the big stump” Briggs and I found our first cache.

An old ammo box – great to withstand the elements – chock-full of notes and goodies.  Briggs picked up a cool new pair of kiddo shades and our family left a polished stone etched with “strength.”

I walked out feeling better.  Lighter.  Funner.  I remembered that there are worlds within worlds just waiting to be brushed up against.  And that it’s never too late to get out, start again, and just keep looking.

I just need a little less me.

I feel tired, achey, a little sad, and it’s raining.

My words are slowing down and others’ are calling out.

Time to read and thank God that others are so willing and able to share.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2G1Zvemlc_4

Today marks three years since my grandfather’s passing.

John DiTommaso was a lot of things.  One of them was a traveler.

He adored cross-country road trips filled with truck-stop diners and NPR broadcasts.

I will never forget the first time he called me from the road to tell  me that he’d just heard my name in the credits of Sunday Baroque – a nationally syndicated classical music radio program.  He was somewhere in the middle of the country, but his pride came through loud and clear back in my apartment in Connecticut.

Whenever I hear (in my head or just in passing) Willie Nelson’s On the Road Again, I’m reminded of my grandfather’s adventures…and that it’s okay to start, stop, and get on again with my own.

Three hours after I making a left out of the auto-body shop in my brand new fixed-up car, I got into another accident.

Again, everyone was okay.  The important thing was kept the important thing…but still.

Another round of reports, claims, and adjustments – and another rental while my still (pretty much brand new) car is back in the shop.

Today, when I picked up Briggs from daycare in a blue Jeep Patriot he was excited about the size, shape, and color, but a bit bummed about the lack of a back-up camera.

“Well, did you see it has Maine license plates?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said, not really caring.

“Maine is the beach, so maybe it’s a sign that we’re suppose to live at the beach.”

“C’mon, Mom,” he said, as he buckled his own seatbelt, “our house right now, right here is our beach.”

And then I gave him a high-five…because that’s what I do when someone is precisely on-point.

I haven’t been posting, but I have been writing.

A few days ago one of my favorite people, my Aunt Kathy sent me a link to a 300-word essay contest.  The theme is, Your Maine Intention and the prize is, a beautiful home situated on four acres in Bath, Maine.

My Aunt told me she believed that I could write a beautiful essay, and when good, honest, and loving people share their beliefs with me, I’m making it a practice to listen.

I’m not sure that my essay is ready to submit (or even quite beautiful) yet…but draft one is done.  And the beauty of finishing something (anything) is something far too valuable to overlook.

THE ESSAY

MAINE INTENTION (v.1)

“Eat it,” she whispered.  

Her face was so close to mine that I could see the smudges on her glasses and smell the hairspray in her dull, gray curls.

“Please, Julie,” I choked out.

I was five with hot tears running down my cheeks and she was a babysitter scaring the shit out of me.

“I said.  Eat it.”

Now, my little sister sitting across from me was crying, too.

“I’m not hungry,” I lied.

Julie nudged the cereal bowl closer.

I barely liked cereal to begin with and Cheerios least of all.  Thankfully, there was a Tupperware cup filled to the brim with grape juice.  Maybe I was too excited.  Maybe that’s why I spilled that entire cup of deep purple deliciousness directly into that bowl of bloated Os.

I watched the juice bleed into the milk and felt sick.  I started crying immediately and in the smallest voice I could muster asked Julie for a new one.  That’s when she let out her first sinister and threatening,  “Eat it.”

Still petrified of puking I reached for my spoon, crying harder and quieter.

“Every.  Last.  Bite.”

Then. Miraculously. My Mother reappeared.

In one loving swoop, she picked up my sister and me, covered us in kisses, and we never went back to Julie’s again.

For reasons I’ll likely never know, my mother’s mother never swooped in.  Not once.  My mother spent her childhood abused, neglected, and aching. But, my sisters and I did not. And neither will our children.

In her late teens, my Mother discovered her inner Super Woman on the coast of Maine.  As a result she ended a terrible cycle of trauma and positioned our family to soar off a solid foundation of safe, loving, and joyful experiences that can be traced from Footbridge Beach, to Old Orchard, to Hermit Island, to Acadia and back again.

My Maine Intention for the home you’ve so lovingly built is to fill it with the family my Mother made possible, and to let her know what it’s like to have someone else save the day.

Someone told me today:

“Your life is your laboratory.”

I never paid too much attention in science class.  In fact, I’m quite certain the only way I passed my high school courses was that the teacher offered extra credit if you handed in a weekly synopsis of PBS’s Nova.  I’ve always had a thing for public broadcasting, so this was always more treat than test to me.

So, even though I didn’t always find myself in the lab, I still liked how I felt in there.  The smooth, clean beakers.  The noisy bunsen burners.  How the tiny explosions, contained combustions, and even the exposed guts of the fetal pigs found a way to sparkle.

The lab evoked a gritty  curiosity.  Sure I wanted to know how something ticked, but was I willing to actually cut the thing open to find out?  Sometimes I answered with a voracious “yes” – and sometimes I doodled song lyrics in the margins of my lab notes.

What I liked today, when someone referred to my life as my lab was realizing for the first time that the equations, the experiments, and the doodles are all equally relevant.  And how absolutely wonderful it is to build an entire existence out of trial and error.