Super Choice Champion Chart

Posted on January 14, 2013 by Christy

Since the end of winter break, it’s been a ragged transition into the heave and ho of routine. My five-year-old is especially having a rough go of it…

There have been several freak-outs and not a few fights.

Tired tears are flowing soaking many late, late nights.

I’ve had it with the shouting, the whining and the like.

And if I see those eyes roll once more,

I swear I’ll wreck your bike.

I’ve got something for you, you snotty, hissing child,

(Especially my first-born, who is neither meek nor mild)

Shut up. Sit down. (And here comes the kicker…)

“I love you, sweet boy. Have another sticker.”

So, under the wise and loving guidance of my step-mom, I made each of the boys a behavior *star* chart. First night: great success!

I’ll keep you posted…

If you want one for your sweet, obedient child, I am taking orders for custom charts :). They are 8.5″ x 11″, laminated for use with dry-erase markers and so stickers can be removed/reused. trouble.trace@gmail.com

Vacate

Posted on January 14, 2013 by Christy

According to Merriam- Webster’s online dictionary, vacation has a few meanings.

My favorites are:

-a period spent away from home or business in travel or recreation

-an act or an instance of vacating

Let’s follow that…

Vacate, according to the same source, is defined as:

-to deprive of an incumbent or occupant

Ha! So, when we talk about Christmas/Holiday Vacation we’re basically just talking about being absent from where we are generally expected to be. Keeping that in mind might make a huge difference in how we judge the resulting experience of our “vacation”. So what if the kids forgot to pack their manners? Who cares if the husband/wife/uncle/dog is anti-social during prescribed family time? Four hours of sleep a night? Eh, you’ll get over it. The point is we are vacating. No one said anything about naps, foot massages and deep, uninterrupted conversation and/or reading sessions. That’s something else. We are just depriving our occupancy- as a family.

That said, we had a stellar family vacation this Christmas. And I would like to take the opportunity to offer you, dear reader, some insight into why and how one can experience a true family respite, not just time away from the grind.

– Loosen your expectation.

Rigid demands, especially emotional ones, will restrict living in the moment and limit the unexpected delights of relational opportunity. If you expect that you will be able to sleep til noon every day of vacation, you will be disappointed, and if you’re like me, pissed when the kids come in and 6 AM to “snuggle”. But, if you allow for flexibility in your expectation, all of a sudden snuggle time becomes the highlight of your week. Along the same lines, if you expect your spouse to have the “just be happy- we’re on vacation” attitude, you could miss out on some really productive, possibly messy, relationship work. Expect surprises.

– Voice your priorities and choose some common goals.

“I can’t read your mind,” my dad once told teenage-me. So true. Sometimes I can’t read my own mind…

My ideal vision of marriage, or community for that matter, is: moving together toward a common goal. Determining which goal is the challenge and it requires conversation.

Leading up to our recent vacay, I told Aaron that my main priority was to be with him, to clock some serious presence hours. I also stated my desire for frequent jaunts to the beach and limited screen time, but those were secondary to just being around each other. It worked out well. Aaron and I had plenty of time together and everything else sort of swirled around in a holy mess of family living. We came home heart-full.

-You don’t have to spend heaps of money to feel satisfied. (But you should be willing to spend a bit.)

Basically, you don’t want money to become the focus either by scooping it out to every shopkeeper and restauranteur that you run over or by holding it so tightly it becomes another family member.

Florida has some seriously great thrift second-hand shops, so I packed some cash just for thrifting. That way, I didn’t feel like I had to spontaneously have internal debates over the financial impact of certain frivolous purchases. We also decided, as a family, to eat at home as much as possible. There was one dinner out and one night of Chinese take-out (of course), but the rest of the meals we spent cooking for and serving one another. It allowed my normally critical sons to slather on praises for their Lolli’s food. “This is the best dinner ever, Lolli! I love this stuff! Can I have some more, please?”

-Take risks.

Start an off-key sing-a-long. Wrestle on the living room floor. Put your mother-in-law’s dishes away, even if you don’t know where they actually go. Best risk that I took on our vacation: jumping into the ocean solo on a very cold, blustery day. Also, eating homemade almond crescents every day… Safe is boring.

– Disconnect.

I’m talking about phones, internet (especially the wastebook), video games, etc. You might only see these people once a year, look at them. I’ve also seen how screen time, especially video games, set a attitudinal tone that is hard to interrupt. I don’t know if it’s a brain wave thing or what, but my boys jellify and hype-up simulataneously after they hit the three minute mark- all of my boys, if you catch my drift. Everything in moderation, people.

-Flat-line your schedule.

Kill it dead. There is nothing like the vultures of appointments, meetings or expected emails/phone calls/faxes/telegrams to dominate your time away. (Remember the definition of vacation?) That said, our expectations are pretty loose, so we’ll take what we can get!

-Give yourself some transition time.

Especially on the return. Back in the real world familiar things are moving: cogs and gears and whatnot. Allow yourself space and time to fit back in. Also, make sure you’ve cleaned the house (and fridge) before you leave on vacation! There is nothing more demoralizing than coming home from a lovely time away to a cold, stinky, dirty-ass house. Oh, and make sure there are clean sheets on your bed, too.

First day back home…

– Share your joy with others.

As a culture we are pretty good at sharing in each others’ sorrow and suffering but not so great at sharing joy. Often jealousy weasels her pretty face in there and blocks the glory of full-life shared. Practice joy-dumping and happy-carrying: it deprives the soul of the occupant of fear. And that’s the best vacation of all.

Common Nonsense

Posted on December 18, 2012 by Christy

What exactly are “common sense” solutions?

The problem is not obvious. The break is not clean. The parts are no longer available. We can’t fix what we do not understand, what we are ill-equipped to repair.

Ten years ago, my dad called me to tell me that my mom had died. It was a cold February night in Brooklyn. “Is Aaron there?” My dad asked. He wasn’t. “Do you know where to find him?” Yes, what is this about? “Are you sitting down? You need to sit down… Christy, your mom is dead.”

I can feel my heart racing even now. I can hear the world become muffled by a blanket of that falling moment. And then the blanket lifted. Sounds became sharp, piercing. Color radiated and hummed. Texture vibrated. I felt peace and energy and unremitting comfort. This is so good, I told my dad through tears. She is free of the limitations of this world. The brokenness, the despair, the relentless hoping, the unseen faith of waiting and struggle and perseverance. We prayed together, voicing our gratitude for her shared life.

And then I ran.

I ran like one runs in dreams- with the swiftness of purpose, without noticing my breath.

I found Aaron, my then fiancé, in class. He gathered our things, he gathered me, and we drove through the vivid night.

The cause of death was unclear. She had been home alone, reading on the back porch (Her Bible was open to Isaiah 61, amazingly.). She had walked my sister to school that morning, spoken with my dad at several points throughout the day. Nothing had seemed out of place. She was healthy, sound. But when my sister came home and found her lying on the floor, she knew something was wrong. Caroline hid in her room until, not five minutes later, a friend called to speak with my mom. Caroline explained that she couldn’t wake her up and that she had some blue spots on her face. The friend immediately called 911 and came to get Caroline, who was 8 at the time. My dad received the call a short while later from the police and came home with a friend. “She looked cute.” He told me later when I asked if she looked like she had suffered in those final moments. “She looked cute.”The house was treated like a crime scene. Forensic officers were dusting for prints, checking for evidence, looking for pieces. Nothing.

My mom’s body was taken to UVA Hospital for an autopsy. My dad picked up my sister. And then called me.

One week later, there still were no answers. My mom’s body was sent to Richmond for a second autopsy. We were told it would be at least a month before we would be given any indication as to what shut her body down.

There were no answers. The cause was unknown. There were no replacement parts.

And this was an immense and beautiful blessing.

We had been dropped into an ocean of grief, of loss, of confusion but there was no memory of blame, no point of origin. We were here, in this moment, breathing, floating. The ‘why’s’ and ‘what if’s’ were harbored elsewhere, along with their distracting, false hope of rescue. Instead, rafts, life boats of friends and family sailed to us and we bobbed along together.

Eventually, a medical “explanation” was afforded us. But it was superfluous. Basically, it confirmed what we already knew: this was unavoidable and it is final. This we all know. This is our shared knowledge- our common nonsense.

So, loose the weak thread of comfort that we seek in reason. Un-knot the net of tidy solutions. Release our captive souls and those we hold prisoner with our tear-blurred judgement.

Even in the distorted face of a killer, there is the knowledge of pain, the lie of being alone, and the hope for satisfaction. As ugly and horrific and terrifying as it is, we share this pain, these lies and this hope. It permeates our collective, finite humanity. And yet…

Death itself is dying. Decay is submitting to life. Isolation is fading into community. The shredded cords, the frayed ties, our broken heart-strings are woven into the warp and weft of peace.

Incidental hugs

Posted on December 14, 2012 by Christy

He looked defeated as he stepped heavily down the bus stairs. It was as if the big yellow box exhaled my five-year-old son onto the gravel. And there he stopped. He didn’t want to walk towards home and he certainly didn’t want to turn around and hoist himself back into the heaving bus.
His eyes were a little pinkish around the edges and his kindgartener-sized back pack slumped around his shoulders.
“How was school?” I asked the tried and true mom question.
“I don’t know,” Pierce responded like the mini-teenager he has become.
“Please walk with me- I’m cold and want to get home.”
He wouldn’t move, his blinking reptile shoes rooted in the grey dust and chilly air.
Finally, after many halting steps, I picked him up and carried him home. He kicked and pushed the whole way, but every time I gave him another chance to walk he seized up, overcome by his will to be immobilized.
Frustrated now, I plopped him in his room and gave him some “settle down” time.
Ten minutes later, his cries changed from angry vocal pushes to lonesome whimpers and I recognized myself, the child that I continue to be. So I held my son, held myself, and listened.
His day had been difficult. There was an incident at lunch when his curiosity led to unintended and challenging consequences. He made a mess of things and then cleaned it up, ashamed and confused. Fear had entered the equation after the equal sign. Somehow the sums and differences balanced out but he wasn’t sure how. “I don’t want to tell you,” he managed, ” I don’t think you will like it.”
“Maybe not, but I will always love you. No matter what your choices.”
Finally, fretfully, and with the gentle, innocent prodding of his little brother, he described the ordeal and named his part.
I watched the fear rush out of him, exhaling much like the pneumatic bus doors. Fear, shame slimed with tears and snot, my son found himself, again, walking on solid ground.
This morning when I walked with him into his school, he was ambushed by two girls. On the left, the one whose lunch he had knocked on the floor yesterday. “Pierce!” She exclaimed with a broad smile. Two pink backpacks jostled towards him. Two puffball pony tails bobbed with the dance steps of four running feet. And my son, my broken boy, was covered, surrounded by the loving arms of forgiveness and joy and my own child-heart was whole again.

In this dark season of waiting, may you find the solace and comfort of humble joy, fierce love and courage in community.

Man(ta) Ray: Surrealist bicycle seat

Posted on November 28, 2012 by Christy

Bikes are pretty rad.

I lost interest in the two-wheeled transport a few years back when my bike was stolen from behind the Virginia Discovery. I had been up all night helping Aaron install one of his exhibits at the children’s museum, and when I finally left around six in the morning, my turquoise Mongoose, that I had ridden since seventh grade, was gone.

A friend found me a cheap beater bike, which I rode until a few weeks out when the whole gear/pedal/crank mechanism blew apart all over the road. Springs and nuts were literally rolling down the street. I carried the floppy, broken pile back home and ran to work instead.

I was done with bikes. They had broken my rusty crank shaft of a heart and it was time to move on. (I guess that was about the time I started roller skating, but that is a whole other story…)

So, now here we are, a full-on biker family. How did this happen? Well, our two kiddos hit the ground rolling, as it were, with the whole bike thing. We started them off on small bikes and took off the pedals so they could push with their feet and balance fearlessly. (You may have seen those snazzy strider bikes that are essentially the same concept, only they cost as much as a functioning bike and once your kid is ready for pedals they are done with the strider. Lame-ness.) Our boys both asked for their pedals when they were ready, and Pierce was zipping around at age 4 and Judah at 3.

Recently, I happened upon a yellow(!) Specialized at the Salvation Army for $25, and I fell in love all over again. I took the bicycle over to Community Bikes and got Honey tuned up. The volunteers there were superb. She needed a new thingamazoo, which they had and installed. Now she rides as smooth as her namesake.

While we were at Community Bikes, Aaron bought a couple of bike seats- also known as saddles to rip apart. Now, a horse riding saddle-maker by trade, he set out to use his skill and ingenuity to make something fantastic for a bicycle.

To him, the bike saddle conjured images of a manta ray. He researched rays, ordered some eyes from a taxidermy supply company, and came up with a quirky, yet slick piece of equipment.

I can’t wait to try it out on our next free-wheelin’ family bike adventure!

Storylines

Posted on November 17, 2012 by Christy

Like the tireless push of blood and air, stories wind their way through our bodies. Systems of disorganized movement, words and images, supplant the actual with memory. And as the streams turn to rivers and seas, we form cyclical connections with those who listen, who speak, who drink in the narrative of our collective journey.

During my time in Australia, several years ago, I learned about the Songlines of that continent’s original people. Through song-stories the people navigated the land and shared their history. The fluid of stories guided these ancient people through the tides of colonization and into the sharpness of invasive cultures. Paintings, songs, words carried the children of the Stolen Generation back to the heart of their homeland.

Hope resides in stories shared.

In my childhood summers I found light in the musk of old books. Creased and tucked into the lap of a mouldering armchair, surrounded by the swirl of dust and old glass, I would read for hours. I was finding a way home. I was listening to the storylines converging like a wild river.

Through the electronic hum I have managed, in my adulthood, to find those tributaries of rushing words. One such place is The Moth. “True stories told live (without notes).” Started by a cousin of mine, under the curtains of Spanish moss in Savannah, it has become a community of believers in the power of sharing stories (There is a free podcast available as well as youtube videos.). The Moth has been an important catalyst in the movement to reclaim our stories. And that movement has expanded to Charlottesville through a nascent organization called Big Blue Door Jam.

On Thursday night, my good friend Charlie told a story, his story in front of the Big Blue Door.

Listen to Charlie’s story

(Warning: This story contains adult themes and language and is probably not suitable for those under the age of 17.)

It was powerful to hear. Funny, dark, humble- it carried us, the audience, along the shores of who and where he has been. Past the fearful night of addiction and isolation, into the lull and push of tides changing. I was so proud of his honesty and thankful for the opportunity to listen. The storylines wound around our warm bodies in the small gallery, like the old wood of a sturdy ship.

Little Free Library

Posted on November 6, 2012 by Christy

Our library in the news! -click for video-

I happened upon the Little Free Library community completely by accident. In my research for some consulting work, up popped woodworking plans for the construction of what looked like a cross between a dollhouse and a dog house, with a door and a shelf or two. Odd, intriguing and when I read further, utterly genius.

The concept is simple: take a book or leave a book. Anytime.

Started in the Midwest (US) a few years ago, the number of Little Free Libraries has grown to over 2500 across the globe. To read more about the movement please visit www.littlefreelibrary.org.

Our library was a composite of evening chalkboard drawings, compiled materials we scrounged from our own collection of odds and ends, and generously donated materials from local cabinet shops and exhibit builders.

When the post was set, the paint dried and the mascot installed, it was time to invite the patrons. The boys went around knocking on doors and passing out bookmarks with the info about our Grand Opening! The shelves were filled to capacity within hours.

The stock is always changing but never empty. We have met more of our neighbors and have connected with a broader global community through shared love of reading, books and stories.

Come on by and see for yourself, the library’s always open.

Dia De Los Muertos en Charlottesville

Posted on November 5, 2012 by Christy

Beyond the mischief and innocent mayhem involved in the goings-on of this time of year, there is a significance of remembrance as well.

My dear friend, Estela, invited me and many others to a Dia De Los Muertos celebration at her and her husband’s music studio downtown. Estela and Dave are incredible musicians and have a true passion for their cultural ancestry.

Often as a white American, I find myself hesitant to participate fully in many unfamiliar cultural traditions. I don’t want to make others feel that I am commandeering what rightfully belongs to them or worse, that I am disrespecting the practice of faith, history, sorrow and joy with my ignorant engagement.

With Estela’s invitation came permission to be a part of a joyful community. Dia De Los Muertos is a celebration of life, a celebration of the futility of death’s grasp and a time set apart for sharing memory, music and food.

I painted my face, I pinned a flower in my hair and danced and danced in a circle of children! And for that and the lives of my ancestors, I am thankful.

Turtle Power!

Posted on November 2, 2012 by Christy

Photo by John Lee

I love Halloween. Not so much the scary stuff or the candy, more so the community of play that seems to spontaneously erupt from neighborhood sidewalks and city streets.

When I was living in NYC, I made a point to jump in the Village Halloween Parade, annually. One year, after the parade had ended, I was in a late-night dive around St. Mark’s when I was barraged by two wildly gesturing young men. “You are my hero. I loved you so much… And here you are!” One of the guys then proceeded to kiss my cheek. When he pulled back to face me, I could see that he was crying.

I was dressed as Rainbow Brite.

The crazy thing was, he wasn’t the only one. All along the parade route, young mothers, college kids and even some teenagers, emphatically shouted at me. Well, at Rainbow. They were so shockingly and honestly emotional, the representation of this character all of a sudden took on some serious responsibility. It was time to smile, wave and throw more Starburst.

Growing up in Trenton, New Jersey, my dad would set up these elaborate and totally geeky A.V. Halloween spectacles. Once, there was a pumpkin-headed man that would talk to folks coming in for candy (Yes, you had to come inside the house for candy). My dad was hiding behind a partition and was doing the whole man-behind-the-curtain routine: speaking into a mic and lights would flash and whatnot. It wasn’t meant to be scary, just inventive, conversational even. Kids left screaming, some didn’t even bother with the candy.

The following year, dad dressed up like- who else- Jesus. He got some of the same reactions, crying and whatnot, that I did as Rainbow Brite years later. And strangely, (although it was the 80’s, who can say what was strange) the following year dad stayed home and I went trick-or-treating chaperoned by our visiting family friend who was dressed as “an abusive, fat, alcoholic”. The irony was completely lost on our working-class neighbors.

Regardless the get-up, I have always reveled in this shared night of bizarre behaviour and playful interchange. Unexpected things always happen.

When my youngest kiddo was only a week old we dressed up as a family of chickens and got out into the fray. My newborn chick stayed tucked in his sling while his dad and brother flapped their wings at wizards and monsters.

We’ve represented characters from The Cat in the Hat, Where’s Waldo and most recently all of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

We are that family. And I hope we will be for a long time…