Take Me To Neverland

16 Sunday Aug 2015

Consider it a rite of passage, maybe even ordinary, when a Southern California family has annual passes to Disneyland. We’ve been putting it off for years, saving our money until the kids were old enough to remember the experience. But when our youngest turned three and fell in love with all things Mickey and Minnie, we knew it was our year.

An old plaque hangs at the entrance of Disneyland, welcoming families for the past 60 years. “Here you leave today and enter the world of yesterday, tomorrow and fantasy.” The cryptic quote brought a smile to my face as we stepped onto Main Street that very first morning, towards our family’s new adventure.

Walt Disney’s vision is manifest throughout every inch of the park. It was evident while we soared with Dumbo in flight, fell down Alice’s rabbit hole and blasted into orbit at Tomorrowland. We stood in long lines for our favorite rides and received many hugs from Minnie Mouse, Donald Duck and Winnie the Pooh along the way. At the happiest place on earth, you’re free to be a kid again, riding on rollercoasters, indulging on ice cream, cookies and churros.

The first time our family saw Mickey Mouse, he was riding on a trolley through California Adventure. One glance and my three-year jumped out of her stroller and chased him down the street. I jogged along while she shouted, “Mickey! Mickey!” waving her arms at her long, lost friend. It was a memorable moment – and if Evelyn’s uncharacteristic performance is representative of how other children behave, then Disneyland employees have funnier children’s stories than most parents.

FullSizeRender Can you imagine a day in the life of Mickey Mouse? Every day he gets ready for work like all of us, but then he drives to Disneyland, walks into some top-secret building and POOF!!! No longer anonymously living among millions of people in Southern California, he transforms into the most well-known character on earth, chased by every child in the park.

He has to look, think and act like Mickey Mouse. I’m sure there’s a script and he’s initially overwhelmed trying to bring this character to life. But somewhere along the way, he’ll memorize the role and no longer need to think about what’s next. Having been through the motions so many times, it becomes second nature, so ingrained in his mind he forgets where Mickey cuts off and the real person begins. Like a child lost in play at Disneyland, altruistically bringing happiness to everyone in the park.

When I walk through the gates of Disneyland, a rush of pixie dust allows me to see the world through new eyes. It unlocks a youthful energy, unconcerned with judgment and criticism. The inner child breaks free, wearing Mickey Mouse ears, whistling and skipping through the park. It’s the one place on earth where it’s perfectly acceptable to be a kid again, no matter what your age.

Like a moth to a flame, children are to the senses, submersed in their moment to moment experience as if nothing else exists. We went hiking a few weeks ago and Mason picked up a stick, but in a matter of minutes he transformed it a dozen times. An airplane, monster, snake, cane – there were no limitations to its usefulness. Infinite possibilities, but my white washed, distracted version of the world won’t let me see it. My mind lacks the color, dimension and, more importantly, the creative potential to step outside of the mundane.

Play When I was a child, I wanted to be an adult and experience everything the world had to offer. Pursuing a “successful” life, I left behind my childish ways. Like a potter, creating her dreams out of clay, I reached new frontiers of responsibility. And only when I achieved what I set out to do, did I look back and notice how far I’d gone, standing in the corner of my own creation. Now that I’m here, I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to figure out a way back, as I’d happily exchange the daily grind and monotony of adulthood – responsibilities, work schedule and routine – for the openness and freedom of my youth.

Somewhere along the way, happiness became synonymous with results and achievement, as I drown in my plans for tomorrow. Where is the present moment when it’s staged in the future and forgoes the innocence of experience? Children are free of that burden until adolescence arrives and reflects the mirror of self-awareness, forcing them to compare and contrast, dividing their world into categories, separating them from their experience.

I should have listened to Peter Pan. For once there was play and now there’s pursuit. I left the security blanket of childhood with a curiosity yearning for more and fell into a prison of my own creation. You can’t unlearn it once you know and it’s nearly impossible to find your way back. The ignorant desires of adulthood now separate me from the simplicity of happiness.

Like the man behind the mask at Disneyland, I have more quick changes now than a child growing up in the theater. Tiffany’s cast of characters present themselves throughout the day, invisibly trying to please and evoke confidence in those around me. At work, the manager is serious and analytical, trying to portray an image of control in the midst of chaos and uncertainty. At home I’m more relaxed and (usually) a fun mom, but I’ll quickly become a sergeant when my kids step out of line. The person that shows up depends on who I’m with and what circumstances are presented.

FullSizeRender_1 Contrary to the adult persona, covered in labels and expectations, a child’s mind has the freedom and security to be itself and dissolve in the moment. At the happiest place on earth, our family escapes into a world of fantasy, playing out unadulterated yesterday’s. Courageous vulnerability shines through in tomorrow’s free of the mask that separates the public and private self. Children are the portal, the keys to escape, illuminating the way to secret treasure and freedom. Not concerned with how they are perceived, raw truth is all that remains.

In the wee hours of the morning, while the world is still fast asleep, there are no faces, no masks – no need to perform. It’s the closest I’ve come to revealing my inner child in complete freedom and vulnerability. The darkness of the night carries me into the light of the moon, where the stillness and security give me enough courage to stretch beyond the confines of my mind. My thoughts float freely to the surface, peacefully, harmlessly. I accept everything as it is.

I’m determined to remain in the space where freedom lies, where my quirky tendencies are free to roam, where I’m not caught up with some idea of what I should be thinking or doing, where masks are no longer necessary because I have enough courage to be myself – because an imperfect truth is greater than any false, perfection I could portray.

When the sun goes down and the last firework blazes the sky, Mickey returns to the room of his creation. Rainbows descend from the corners of the room as he stores his costume for another day. A bittersweet relief reflects in the mirror, that’s no longer obliged with the need to perform. The remnant echoes of laughter provide shelter in the silence that follows. Stepping outside, under the light of the moon, he’s amused at the sight of his shadow. He looks up to the stars to guide him back home, with anonymity and silence til morning.

3 Things I’d Teach My Younger Self

28 Saturday Mar 2015

Posted by tiffanyshaw in Me

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2015, Acceptance, Addiction, Alive, Confidence, Criticism, Dependency, Expression, Feedback, Flowers, Friendships, Gardening, Imperfection, Insecurities, Love, Mother, Motherhood, Passion, Performance, Praise, Reality, Satisfaction, Self-Love, Self-Trust, Theater, Trust, Truth, Validation, Yearning

I walk past it every day and pretend to ignore it, deny that it’s there. But it waves at me from the corner of my eye and reminds me of my neglect. My poor, overgrown, unloved garden is just a small plot in my backyard, but it represents so much more. While I’d like to think that I’m good at many things, gardening is just not one of them. It requires too much time and attention on a regular basis and I’m really not that consistent.

Last weekend I mustered up enough courage to get back out there and make room for the flowers my kids picked out a few days before. Although I struggle to keep up with it, I really enjoy gardening. The small acts of planting and digging my hands in the earth bring me joy and I love looking out the windows to see it bloom with color again.

A few weeks ago, while rummaging through papers in my kid’s backpacks, I came across a homework assignment of Tilley’s that read – “This is who I am and that’s all I want to be.” At 7 years old, if she has even a glimmer of this idea in her mind, she is on the right track. That is leaps and bounds ahead of me at that age. In fact, who am I kidding, I resist this idea now!

As a child, I struggled with my self-image. My inflated sense of self frequently collapsed in the face of criticism. I had many friendships, but they varied over time, and their intensity would ebb and flow. As I got older, and my relationships matured, I felt more stability and longevity within them. But a subtlety remained – an underlying insecurity that I could not shake. Nothing I did was ever quite good enough and no matter how much praise I received from family and friends, I was never satisfied. There was a yearning inside of me that drove me to achieve more and more.

As a mother, it’s so easy to fill our children up with praise. When I watch Tilley play the piano or witness Mason’s athleticism, my mind fills up with ideas of their future success. I can see their achievements, as if I’m thinking with the end in mind. I’m at the Olympics watching Mason compete or I’m listening to Tilley’s exceptional performance. I pump them up with these ideas of greatness because I want them to see the world of possibility that exists if they want to work hard and achieve it.

Mothers tend to their children just like a garden, watering seeds for their growth, thinking of new ways to help them sprout in the future. We pull old weeds to beautify their minds, allowing their colorful flowers to grow. We fertilize them with confidence so they thrive and grow stronger. We cultivate seeds of determination, harvest the goals for the future and make them become a reality. Like every mother who came before me, we praise our children’s progress so they will begin to have strong beliefs in themselves.

For 15 years, my sister and I performed in the local theater in various capacities. My mom supported us from backstage waiting for our next costume change, while my dad prepped the mics in the sound booth. Hundreds of people, including many extended family and friends came to watch our performances, and when it was over and we took our final bows, there were spotlights, applause and standing ovations. I remember the smiles, hugs and words of affirmation.

Everyone that performed on that stage poured their blood, sweat and tears into those shows and our reflection of a job well done made it all worth it in the end. I loved performing in front of an audience as it made me come alive with energy. When the curtain came down, it didn’t matter if we had made mistakes that night; the audience’s praise was our final judgment. Their comments and reviews summarized and validated our experience. I cared deeply about what everyone had to say. It made me feel more confident in my performance.

As I got older I began to filter the feedback. There was something deep within me that felt the praise wasn’t real, so I turned to the critics instead. The constructive criticism seemed to be more balanced and insightful. I would continue to search for the truth in everyone around me, as if the version I experienced wasn’t the real one. Like a sickness, I was dependent on their feedback, addicted to their praise, but I didn’t trust what they said.

This desire for applause would become the theme of my twenties. There was a yearning inside of me that drove me towards accomplishment, as if I needed validation and proof of my worthiness. I turned to therapy, self-help books, even hypnosis to work through what I felt were obvious fundamental inadequacies. But this inadequacy was a mystery to me. Something was missing, but I couldn’t even put my finger on it. I was on a mission to cure something that I couldn’t even describe.

This yearning inside of me to become someone different, something more, was the root of my problem. What did I need to prove? Who was I trying to prove it to? In my search for the source of truth, the solution to all of my problems, the missing piece was… ME.

I empowered everyone else and disregarded myself. I let others plant thoughts, but never became the gardener of my own mind. Looking back now, I wish I could talk to my younger self and comfort her. First, I would tell her that the garden is her responsibility. A self-sufficient gardener need not look outside oneself for validation and praise. Secondly, I would show her how to grow her own flowers and teach her how to take care of them. She would satisfy her needs and know that external sources are not sustainable. Finally, I would help her find love and acceptance within herself and to trust her own source of truth. Her guiding light, and the only praise that can gratify her, is the one that she believes within.

Being content with who you are doesn’t mean that the garden stops growing or that we stop tending to it. It will change and grow and learn new things every day. But “a flower doesn’t compete with the flower next to it, it just blooms.” It’s not attached to becoming anything or anyone, as it has always been itself… a flower. It will never become more or less a flower. No matter what my children achieve, they are special to me and they don’t need to prove anything to receive my love and appreciation. I just want them to be happy and express their individuality. I hope they find their calling, their passion, and something that makes them feel alive.

My thriving and colorful “garden” within, the one that I neglected for so long, is the greatest source of my happiness. A spiritual awakening, a rewarding pursuit and I’m satisfied with the fruits of my labor. A delicate balance that requires daily care and attention, it needs enough water, so it doesn’t dry out and get depressed, but not too much, or it gets puffed up and full of itself. I work hard to keep it alive but it’s not a chore when it’s done with love. I am not yearning to make my garden something else, something more. I just allow it become the fullest expression of itself. An imperfect gardener, that’s who I am, and that’s all that I want to be.

The Perfect Example of Love

16 Monday Feb 2015

Posted by tiffanyshaw in Mom

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2015, Adoption, Anger, Children, Compassion, Confidence, Defiance, Divine Love, Father, Fear, Flower, Grief, Heart, Heartbreak, Heritage, Loss, Love, Marriage, Mother, Parenthood, Parenting, Soul, Tantrums, Teacher, Unconditional love, Valentine's Day

46 years ago this Valentine’s Day, a bright-eyed 22-year old man proposed to his 19-year old girlfriend. It had only been five months, but they were young and in love, and she happily said yes. Eight weeks later, they were married on a Tuesday at the local Methodist church. It was the beginning of a beautiful love affair, what would soon become the greatest love story I’ve ever known.

I’ve witnessed this marriage between my parents for over 36 years, and to this day I’ve never seen them argue. It’s the perfect balance between two people; so similar in their approach to life, yet different in personality and demeanor. My father, a creature of habit and routine, enjoys his scheduled lifestyle of leisure, while my mother’s unpredictable and lively nature keeps you guessing. They were ideally suited for parenthood as the harmony between them infused their children’s lives.

A stream of confidence that never wavered, they provided a solid foundation of support during the emotional roller-coaster ride of my childhood. They were the calm beneath my teenage storm, a warm shelter and soft place to land. They always put their children’s needs before their own.

Now as a mother and parent of three strong-willed children, I think of their example as I react to the ups and downs of daily life. I feel their strength when I’m at my best and their forgiveness in my downfalls. I remember their kindness before responding to a tantrum, and I still ask them for advice on a regular basis.

Here in the throes of motherhood, I have many opportunities to practice patience. Like most moms, I am constantly being challenged by my kid’s outbursts and behavior. I get easily frustrated with Evelyn’s shouts of defiance in her attempt to gain independence, and while I’m open and receiving of Mason’s wisdom and energy, I’m fearful, even angry, when he blindly follows his friends. Already a mother, yet still the student, I try to respond with kindness, but fall victim to my fear instead.

It has been widely quoted that “making the decision to have a child is to forever decide to have your heart go walking around outside your body.” I find it both exciting and terrifying to have such little control over these beings that carry my heart in their hand. For one day soon they’ll be making their own decisions and charter a new path. They’ll sail off into the world, taking my heart with them, but I’ll do my best to support their decisions, as my parents did for me.

A few weeks ago, Tilley and Mason brought home a heritage assignment, the most dreaded, yet cherished, school project for an adoptive mom. Although we talk about Mason’s heritage on a regular basis, this assignment facilitates a deeper discussion, providing a great opportunity to explore his feelings and any questions he may have. On the morning of his presentation, my heart leapt from my chest as he courageously presented to his classroom. He spoke proudly of his country, his heritage, and the details of his adoption.

As part of the assignment, we were asked to choose eight significant life events to outline the story of his life. Of course, I wanted to use his birth as the event that began his timeline, but we were asked to provide more specific details on what happened that day. Nervously, I dove into the discussion, wondering how he would respond.

On October 4th, 2007, in the capital city of Hanoi, Vietnam, Mason’s birth mother, doctor and nurses welcomed him into the world; a beautiful day when he and his mother spent precious hours together. This woman, who I may never have the privilege to meet, made my son’s life possible and for that I owe her a great debt. As he wrote down the details, he looked at me with his wise, insightful eyes and said, “I bet she misses me.” Those five words split my heart into a million pieces, evoking feelings of love and deep sorrow. I responded, “of course she does.”

On that day she made the decision to have her heart walk outside her body in the most selfless way; she offered her son another path, a different life than the one she could provide. The love she has for her son is the most unconditional love I know of; a divine, selfless love that pours everything out, yet expects nothing in return. Even if there is sorrow, only the purest love remains. Like finding the most beautiful flower, but not picking it because you want it to live.

Mason’s birth mom may never get to experience the joy that I feel when his smile lights up a room and she may never bear witness to his compassionate heart. Although their lives took separate paths, the connection between their souls will never be lost. Instead, they are on a journey to find each other within, to achieve inner peace and solitude, even amidst the physical loss.

I’ve been told that a broken heart physically hurts because light is breaking in allowing the heart to expand. In these broken moments we can either repress the pain by closing off our heart in fear, or we can give ourselves some time to grieve, the catalyst to healing and growth.

Behind every one of my children’s tantrums is an opportunity for my heart to expand or contract. When I was a child I acted out, but my parents showed me compassion. That love is part of me; the living and breathing example that shows me which way to go. But when my defiant children stand before me and anger is all I can taste, I can think of a woman in Vietnam, whose heart is standing before me. I can sit with my fear, feel my heart-break, and experience a level of love like I have never known before; pure, unconditional love with no expectation or attachment to the outcome. I can just let go, and when I do, I will find her there.

One Commitment to Make this New Year

01 Thursday Jan 2015

Posted by tiffanyshaw in Me

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2015, Blogging, Challenges, Children, Christmas, Commitment, Death, Fairy tale, Fiction, Gifts, Materialism, Miracle, New Year, New Years Resolution, Reality, Resolution, Sadness, Story, Story Teller, Truth, Yang, Yin

Just like that, the year is over and a new one begins. In the last three months we celebrated five birthdays, three major holidays, many celebrations, performances and parties. A hectic, but memorable time of year when my mind flips between calendars and “to do” lists on a regular basis. With so many things on my mind, is it any wonder that I haven’t been able to write a blog?

In actuality, I wake up early almost every morning to write, but hundreds of pages later, I’m unable to share a single thing. Often times the story doesn’t meet my expectations. It’s too preachy and depressing, not engaging or thoughtful.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a story teller. As a child, I would write stories and poetry on my mom’s typewriter, sharing my best work with family and friends. I credit my father, the attorney, with his story telling skills and poignant choice of words. I try to convey my thoughts in a way that is meaningful and inspiring; threading together real life stories that illustrate a deeper meaning in a light-hearted way. You’ll find that I frequently use analogies or life experiences to get my point across.

Through this blog, I’ve tried to share the ups and downs of my daily life. Although difficult at times, I’ve worked hard to expose my vulnerabilities and shed the layers I wear in the world. But let’s be honest, no one would read a single thing if I were to just say what I think. Instead I share stories of the kids and pictures of my life because it’s softer, while barely scratching at the surface. I flip back and forth between fiction (the nice version) and reality (my truth) to say what I need to say. I struggle between these two worlds to find a middle way and summarize it with a heartfelt story.

“They ran down the stairs and squealed with joy, while their starry eyes twinkled in the light. Bright, cheerful presents greeted them under the tree and sparkled in sheer Christmas magic. Bursting with pleasure and wonderment, they carefully shook each gift before ripping away the paper to uncover their treasure.

But riding a roller coaster of emotion, how quickly they crash into a puddle of tears. My three-year old, Evelyn, stepped onto her new scooter, devastated to find that it wouldn’t move on its own. The very gift that had given her so much joy, only moments before, was now the source of her rage.”

This small, but perfect example illustrates the fact that material things can never bring us the happiness we seek. No matter how magical the experience, each gift will eventually bring disappointment, as it cannot satisfy our ultimate desire. One day, every gift we opened on Christmas morning will sit in a dusty pile in my garage, waiting to be donated or thrown away. There is nothing magical about them, as they will wear out or we will grow tired of them, just like every other gift that came before them.

But year after year, I get into the “holiday spirit” and spend ridiculous amounts of money to buy my kids the perfect gift. I perpetuate a lie and portray to my children a false meaning of Christmas; teaching them unrealistic and painful lessons of materialism that will eventually need to be unlearned. Evelyn was so upset that her expectation of the scooter didn’t live up to the reality. She thought this thing would make her happy, but material things don’t do that and they never will.

No, unfortunately, this is not a story about how magical our Christmas was, nor will it be wrapped in ribbons and bows. But behind my words you will always find the truth and reality of the struggles I’m facing. Writing provides me with an outlet to communicate life lessons in a way that balance the yin and yang of life; even in the best of times, a touch of sadness, and in the worst of times, a silver lining.

Because you probably don’t want to read about the death of my 17-year old cat and how painful it was for me to watch her die. Or the tears I shed at work, when a co-worker shared her pain in going home for the holidays with fresh memories of her late mother. If I try to approach the subject of death and the dozens of lives we lost in our network of friends this year and during the holiday season, it would be far too depressing. But this is the unfortunate reality of life, no fiction or silver linings, and sometimes it’s just too hard to take.

Behind the holiday cards, pictures and stories are the challenges and tragedies of everyday life. It’s unrealistic to think that I can go on writing and not touch the surface of suffering. No matter what time of year, I would be doing myself a disservice if I continued to avoid the tough stuff. Our hurdles are the same, but we experience them in our own way and in our own time. We are all connected and can support each other as we go through it; sometimes as the teacher, other times as the student.

Sure, we can continue to figure it out as we go and get punched in the gut along the way. Or mistakenly look to things outside of ourselves to bring us momentary happiness. But if we’re lucky, we’ll have someone to talk to, a pastor, spiritual friend or mentor. Someone who can look us in the eye and say, “I’ve been there. I know what you’re going through.” We can learn through the unfortunate mistakes of others.

Life’s hard lessons aren’t packaged with a soft message, and you can’t just break down and throw a temper tantrum when you don’t get what you want. But, unlike Evelyn, we shouldn’t mistake the fancy package under the tree, for what’s inside, because the gift is your reality. If you’re fortunate enough to find something you cherish and people you love, then hold on to them dearly, and appreciate them while you can, because nothing will last forever.

My commitment this New Year is to continue walking towards my truth. I hope that all of us continue to narrow the divide between our fiction and reality and lead the most authentic life possible. It’s simple really, no bells and whistles. I just don’t want to look back at my life many years from now and regret anything. I don’t want to wish my life away by dreaming that I was somewhere else. Instead, I want to be firmly planted in reality and witness the miracle of my life.

Anything else is just a fairy tale, the window dressing that someone is trying to sell you.

I should know. I’m a story teller. It’s what I do.

The Art of Friendship

05 Sunday Oct 2014

Posted by tiffanyshaw in Me, Mom

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

2014, Birth, Children, Comfort, Courage, Death, Elementary, Friends, Friendship, Genuine, Grandmother, Grey, Heart, Meaningful, Mother, Past, Peacocks, Pre-School, Purpose, School, Security, Superficial, Transparent, Trust, Truth, Vulnerability, Wrinkles

On Monday, I took Evie out of bed, got her dressed, brushed her teeth and we went out for breakfast. The week officially marked her transition to pre-school. For the past three years, she’s had the luxury of staying at home with Veronica, our very helpful live-in nanny. Last week, however, Veronica transitioned to a new family, and our baby set off into the real world. Aside from being busy and emotional, the week was a great success. She didn’t cry at Friday’s drop off and, at pick-up, she always came running with a smile. The teachers reassure me that she’s having a great time.

During the week, we spent time exploring the magical grounds of the school. You see, this isn’t your run-of-the-mill place. On the contrary, this private elementary school (up to 6^th grade) is situated on a huge property in Laguna Beach. You step into a fairy-tale; the land is complete with multiple gardens, a huge teepee, a small tea house and European style one-room homes; each home accommodating a different classroom. A large portion of the property is dedicated to animals. There is an aviary with multiple peacocks, swans, chickens, doves, even rabbits, and a separate residence for horses, llamas and pigs. With language immersion options in German, Japanese, French and Spanish, we are happy Evie can continue learning Spanish, as she has the past three years.

Just like me, Evie loves peacocks. On Friday, we watched intently while one of them strutted around the aviary; acting like he owned the place. So many mornings I remember dropping off my big kids, who attended there years ago, and the peacock would stand there in full feathery display, shaking his vibrant, colorful body, and begging for attention. I would stand and watch, in awe of his majestic beauty, and enjoy his lively performance. I reflect on every beautiful creature, are how perfectly suited they are for this children’s community; teaching life lessons of individuality and diversity.

The teachers tell me that Evie has made new friends, but at three years-old, she doesn’t share much about her day. I’m sure they all play together, side-by-side, and get along just fine. It’s hard to watch as your children navigate the open sea that is the art of making friends. This year, my heart broke a little when Tilley received her 2^nd grade classroom assignment and found out that her two closest friends were in another class. Of course, after many tears, she found other girls to play with, and now, a month later, is enjoying those new friendships. As parents, I think the experiences are harder on us, as we share in their pain, and remember similar situations from our past. Forced to re-live our own painful memories all over again, in a real life scenario, like a gift, ready for us to dig up and rekindle. We carry it with us and it shadows over our reality like a dark grey haze.

This month, I traveled back to my hometown of Jamestown, New York and surprised my grandmother on her 90^th birthday. I had the opportunity to see my family and many old friends from high school. I was amazed to find that, from a friendship perspective, time had stood still. Twenty years later and our relationships are the same. The connection we shared as children continues on and allows us to easily share our greatest joys and deepest fears. Like nothing changed, we laughed simply, effortlessly. There is something special about old friends, a deep bond and connection that takes away any aspect of “trying”, a shared history and common values, an understanding that transcends normal relationships.

I have been blessed in my life with great friends; deep meaningful relationships that will last lifetimes. As I approach my 36^th birthday, I can’t help but think about how my closest friends, the most important in my life, were made before I turned 25. When I reflect on my adult life and the relationships I have (or haven’t) made, I find it ironic. It’s harder to find friends now, even though I am more in touch with myself than ever before. From that perspective, knowing what I want makes it harder to find genuine friendships.

Connecting with my friends from home, no matter how many years it has been, is so simple. My husband doesn’t understand and it’s hard to explain, but there is an understanding between us; like they know the real me, no judgment, no fear of rejection. There is a comfort and security from our past, and because of that connection, I’m free to be myself. I can open up and wear my heart on my sleeve. I dig into the treasure chest of my past and extend a long rope of trust. I reconnect to that powerful place and it refreshes me and it gives me a renewed sense of purpose and community.

One similarity all of my friends share is transparency and honesty. You always know where you stand and there is no bullshit between us. It might sting at times when they bluntly tell you what they think, but I’ll take that any day over them concealing their truth. We are honest with each other and that’s what true friends should do. We can pick up right where we left off, with no insecurity about not having seen or spoken to each other for weeks, months, or years!

I really suck at making new friends. Lacking substance and common experiences, I try to find connections through superficial things, like where they live, where they work, or where their kids go to school. My favorite thing to do is play “six degrees of separation” to find out if we share friends in common; as if that’s going to improve our odds of becoming good friends?! Furthermore, finding new friends, after marriage, or “couple friends”, is difficult, at best. But now, as a mother, making new friends is nearly impossible. Simply put, due to our schedules, we have very little time in our life to spend with our current friends, much less to cultivate new ones.

While I was home, I visited with my grandmother at her assisted living facility. I walked into the building and greeted the dozens of women in rocking chairs, chatting away with their similar hairstyles and smiling faces. I thought about how their husbands, probably long gone now, were nowhere to be found, and how I’ll be so fortunate if I reach that time of grey hair and wrinkled, sagging skin. All of us are just trying to find happiness amidst the suffering and change that comes with being human.

Maybe my expectations are high, but I want meaningful relationships, not superficial ones. I want to spend my precious time with friends who stand by in good times and bad, and who won’t go blabbing my darkest fears to everyone they know. I want to have fun going out at night, but I also want to wake up in the morning, so I can take care of myself and my family. I am comfortable in my own skin; those wrinkles are there because I’m expressive and I like to laugh. I don’t need fancy clothes, vacations or things. I lead a healthy lifestyle, eat well and exercise often, but I just walk out my front door. I don’t need fancy gym memberships or care for extreme sports. I want friends who accept me for who I am and I just want to be myself.

Unfortunately, the relationships I’m seeking are few and far between. So when you’re fortunate enough to find even one true friend, who shares your values and priorities, invest in them heavily. Some of Derek’s and my closest friends live 20+ miles away and, in the past, we just haven’t made the time to get together. Instead, we’ve prioritized geographical convenience and ease of scheduling over true friendships. I have wasted time trying to cultivate new (convenient) relationships that simply aren’t there. I’ve cared too much about what other people think of me, not being true to myself in the process.

We come into the world as little children, playing side by side, and, hopefully, we go out like those little old ladies sitting in their rocking chairs. In between birth and death we get so caught up with defining and labeling ourselves and the image that we want to portray. We hide behind our labels, our titles, our branding. We are so afraid of what others will think of the “real” person, we put up a façade. I’m the first to admit fault here, as I parade my life in pictures on the internet. But we’re just your typical, every day family with ordinary problems, trying to make it through another day. Through my blog, I’ve tried to be as transparent and honest about my everyday struggles. I probably share too much, making myself vulnerable, as my husband often tells me. But that’s just my way of being “real” and taking off those layers and labels in the world.

On a bike for the first time in 10 years!

It’s okay though. That’s just me. I’m at peace and I have no fear of putting myself on display. I’m not afraid to bare my insecurities and imperfections. Just like the peacock who stands in full bloom, I want to be uninhibited and show the world who I am with all my expressive colors. I want to be me, with all my strangeness, eccentricities and quirks. I wish everyone could feel that way and stop tip toeing through life, worrying about what others will think of them. Instead, I will live out loud, with my heart on my sleeve, and go boldly and courageously into the world. I don’t care if my words fall flat or my ideas are rejected. Not afraid of failure or making mistakes, I will be remembered as someone who lived fully, who tried really hard to be better for others, and who tried to stay in the present moment. Here I am. This is me, with all of my colorful feathers on display.

Back in the World Again

10 Sunday Aug 2014

Posted by tiffanyshaw in Me

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

2014, Addiction, Anxiety, Fear, Gratitude, Joy, Mind, Mountains, Nature, Paranoia, Peace, Retreat, Sorrow, Suffering

I walked into the cabin and dropped my luggage like I’d been carrying it for miles. The anxiety of daily life wrapped around me like a cloak; so used to it, I barely even noticed. The hectic nature of everyday life, coupled with some thick layers of stress, had become my norm. Like a busy squirrel, I hurried around the house, going from room to room, unpacking my belongings for a 10-day stay. Even at the beginning of a silent, solitary retreat in the middle of the woods, I acted like I had somewhere to go, something to do.

I put away my groceries, unpacked everything from my suitcases, and only until every last object was put away did I allow myself a moment of rest. Like a brick, I collapsed onto the couch, exhausted from the morning. The unsettled energy still surging through my veins, I felt a throbbing sensation in my arms and legs. That initial shock of silence followed by a moment of stillness were ripe with emotion of a long, lost friend; simultaneous joy and sadness.

I lit some incense and watched as it quietly seeped into the room and subsumed me with her sweet aroma. So too did thoughts slowly begin to pervade my mind; a roller coaster of emotion and I rode them up and down the track. A feeling of exhilaration followed shortly by the despair of an unsettled heart.

My dis-eased mind tossed and turned, begging and tormenting me with her plea. Compulsively, obsessively wanting to fill that wide open space with words, ideas and concepts, making that space feel smaller and smaller as she went on. I followed them as they paraded along. On a regular basis, most of my thoughts go largely unnoticed, but not here. Not in the midst of this silence.

The night closed in on the day and my anxiety levels sharply rose with fear. Here I am, in the middle of a mountain, completely defenseless. Not even a phone within my reach, as I’m outside the range of a single cell phone tower. I shut the windows, closed the blinds, and locked every door I could find. I flashed the outdoor flood lights on and off to see what, if anything, lurked in the shadows. I went to my bedroom, locked the door behind me and hid under the covers until I fell asleep.

2:00am. The house settled and cracked loudly, waking me from a very deep sleep. Startled, and then terrified, I thought someone was trying to open my locked bedroom door. My heart began to race, beating so hard I thought it would jump from my chest. Paralyzed by fear, I gasped for my breath, but the wind was completely knocked out of me. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even think. I laid there, motionless. After a few minutes it became obvious. Out there, in the middle of that mountain, the scariest thing was right there in bed with me, in the middle of my head.

I woke up the next morning and was ready for a productive day. I grabbed a broom and began to sweep my thoughts out from every corner of their dark and scary rooms. Out from their hiding places, I brushed them into the light, in the middle of the room. Illuminating what was previously invisible, no stone would go unturned. Hours into the day and there they were; compulsively, obsessively demanding my attention. One after the other, they would sprout up. Out of nowhere. Unexpectedly. FORCEFULLY. Calling me to action. Powerful and spontaneous with their persuasive messages. They scared me with their intensity and volume. It felt like someone was yelling at me.

Like a water skier with no skis, pulled by a boat, each and every thought dragged me along for a ride. Outside, it started to rain. Exhausted by all of the chatter, I just sat down and watched it come down. Slowly at first, then picking up intensity; the rain, along with my thoughts, turned into a downpour. A terrible storm.

Many days passed, the rain finally started to clear. The dark clouds dissipated and the sun peaked onto the lawn. I sat on the patio and watched as the animals came back out to play. The birds sailed from their trees, and the snails stretched out from their hiding places. Bees and hummingbirds gently poked at the flowers and garden that surrounded me. I grabbed my camera and tried to take it all in. Like the snail, I too began to stretch out and expand into the silence of the retreat. Five days in and the stillness of the place was glistening in the sunlight. The leaves shimmered in the wind. I could finally relax in this serene and soothing space.

Like the white billowing clouds overhead, my thoughts are slower now. Fewer and further between. They are bigger and have more detail. I can see them clearly.

…this is anxiety.

…this is sorrow.

…this is paranoia.

Like the coyote’s cry in the middle of the night, those fears pierce my heart, but they just want to be heard. Like a mother cradling her child after he falls, I carefully brush each one off and hold them in my arms before they fade away. They arise out of fear, but they heal through my awareness. A simple acknowledgment puts them at ease, allowing them to float away, back into the expanse of the sky.

I found joy and happiness in the sunset and the dusk that followed. The animal’s nightly routines and songs soothe me with their predictability. The darkness of night no longer holds me in her clutches. I leave the windows open and my bedroom door unlocked. I use ear plugs when I sleep so I won’t wake up unnecessarily. For if a boogie man is coming to get me, then I’ll be dead anyway, so what’s the sense in worrying? I sleep peacefully now and I wake up laughing from my dreams.

The sun is warmer, so I sunbathe in the grass and do salutations under her gaze. The birds sail up in the sky and the woodpecker gently taps on the tree reminding me to stay present with my thoughts. There’s little grasping at them now, so instead I draw silly pictures of nature and color them in with my kid’s crayons and water paints. It’s so easy to find joy in the simple things.

I’ve found peace within myself that wasn’t there before. A completeness from deep within; the space that fear used to fill. A freedom in my heart and a spaciousness in my mind. Those rains swept through every pore of my body, cleansing me from head to toe. I can now go back to my family, friends and co-workers with a renewed sense of life and purpose. I have such appreciation for life and every single person in it. Truly, life is a gift, meant to be savored and cherished. Even the tough stuff can bring growth, a blessing in disguise. I want to be more available for others and live more fully and completely in the moment. I’m no longer weighed down by thick layers of unnecessary suffering. I’m back in the world again. It’s the only way to be. I’m naked like a tree. The only way to be.

Personal Note:
This year marked my 2nd retreat, and as long as my life allows, I will continue stepping out of the world for the rest of my life. These breaks have proved to be the most valuable tool to really reflect and bring more gratitude and meaning to my life. Although painful at times, I am so grateful for what I have learned in going through the process.

My intention in writing this post is to encourage everyone to take just a little time to step “out of the world” to make you happier and more productive for when you’re back in. Even as little as three days would offer an enormous benefit. It’s nothing special really, you’re just getting to know yourself a little better and discovering what is really going on in your mind, day in, day out, that isn’t so obvious. There are too many distractions and so many things competing for our attention, who has the time to observe what is really going on in there? I promise that it’s time well spent and it will benefit you when you go “back in the world again”.

Benefits, from my experience only. There are many, many more:

1. More freedom and space in your mind, less yucky stuff
2. More joy found in the simple things of life
3. More gratitude and appreciation for the world around you
5. More present & available for your loved ones

Go on, give it a try, it certainly can’t hurt… well, unless that boogie man comes to visit. That will probably hurt. 😉

Home Sweet Home

22 Sunday Jun 2014

Posted by tiffanyshaw in Me

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

2014, Adoption, Children, China, Faith, Family, Fear, Home, hometown, Jamestown, Memories, Past, Security, Surrender

Home, the sanctuary of the heart and physical location of our comfort zone, where stress just melts away, and we can bare all, both literally and figuratively. Over the past 18 years, I have lived in 10 cities located in 4 different states; from the snowy back roads of Western New York, to the city streets of Philadelphia, the frozen lakes of Minnesota, and the sandy beaches of California. Each location, vastly different from the next, yet they share one similarity; I’ve called them all home.

I grew up in a small town on the east coast. Jamestown, New York is like none other, standing out in my heart among the rest. With the city’s roots in the arts and theater, I benefited greatly, being pushed out on stage at a very young age. Our home was located on the outskirts of town, and for 17 years, I shared that home with my sister and 2 loving parents. My childhood was nothing short of idyllic and, looking back, I wouldn’t change a single thing about my upbringing. We were, and still are, blessed beyond belief. From our annual traditions, to amazing family and friends, Jamestown will always be the ideal version of what I think of when I say “home”.

Outside of Jamestown, the longest stretch of time I’ve spent in one location is right here in my current home. And although we’ve lived here for 5 years, no matter how much I have tried, or would like to, I have yet to recreate that feeling of “home” I once had in Jamestown, New York. Maybe it’s because my immediate family lives hundreds of miles away or because that “small town” feel is difficult to find amidst the sixth-most populous county in the country. Whatever the reason, it just isn’t the same. I’ve thought about this for the past few weeks, even chatting with my sister, who agrees there is something “cozy” about Jamestown that we have yet to find here in California.

The first few weeks after Mason’s adoption, I remember how painfully unsettled he was. So scared and uncomfortable, he would scream at the site of our cat and dogs. Too young to articulate what was going on, everything and everyone was unfamiliar to him. From sites, to sounds and scents, at 12-months old, he had to completely re-acclimate himself to his new environment. I’m sure it was terrifying. The only experience I’ve had that would remotely compare was a trip to China, where I struggled to find normalcy and community. And although I tried really hard to feel comfortable, when the language barrier is so extreme, you don’t have the luxury of simply getting by as I had in other countries. Simple things, like buying a cup of coffee and getting directions were a challenge. I was in the financial district of Shanghai, and naïve to how few people spoke English. I resorted to showing the taxi driver a few Chinese characters on a map to get from place to place.

During Mason’s transition and (to a lesser extent) my experience in China, we were missing that essence of “home”; our familiar surroundings, a warm embrace of comfort, and pure confidence that our basic needs would be met. The truth is the sweet spot of “home” is found in that security. I think of Jamestown and the one big difference between that home and all others to follow. I didn’t need to lift a finger, as my every need was met. From my laundry to my mother’s love-note napkin packed lunches (yes, I was that kid), to every necessity and luxury, my parents carved out a space of lavish security that I never fully appreciated until I left home.

Now, as Derek and I work to create that same space for our children, I finally understand the secret burden my parents faced with bills/expenses, the balance between work and home, and the uneasiness of trying to get everything done. We are all just trying to raise happy and healthy kids, and sometimes it feels like a sprint to the finish line just to get through the week.

It has been 18-years since I left Jamestown and, since then, I have lived hundreds, if not thousands, of miles away from my sister and parents. But in less than a week, my sister and her family will be relocating to Irvine, only 15 minutes away. You can imagine my joy and anticipation, knowing that any occasion, including breakfast, lunch and dinner will be reason enough to get together on a moment’s notice. I will never again have to miss a birthday party, dance recital or special event.

That blissful ignorance of childhood has a special, and powerful, place in my mind. And while there is nothing wrong with feeling great about your past, unfortunately, I have created an unhealthy attachment to it, where I perceive those memories to be “better than” my present moment, no matter where I roam. It has been almost 20-years since those days in Western New York, only to return a handful of times, the most recent being over five years ago. I realize that when I finally go home again, so much will have changed. I’m sure it will feel very different to me, and I’ll probably get lost driving from one end of town to the next. No, the city isn’t the same, as old homes have now been sold, and so many close friends and family have since died or moved away. No, I am not the same, as my definition of comfort and security is different than it was back then. So where do I find this “home” that I love?

Jamestown represents my ideal, a version that is nowhere to be found, but living on if only in my mind. That version of “home” is like pieces of fabric, woven together by single moments, and when I look back, it resembles a quilt. Even still, I continue to compare it to my present. 18 years later, I have finally realized that my fear of loss and this very attachment I have to recreating my past makes it impossible for me to live fully in the present. Trying to re-create that version of home is the problem and it’s just giving me a reason to be discontent with my life, rather than cultivating gratitude for what I have. During childhood, I didn’t have another basis of comparison; I lived spontaneously, and in the moment. I didn’t fear anything, and maybe that carefree, limitless state of mind is what is now tugging on my heart.

“Home” then, and now, is actively created in my mind through the actions of my parents and family, similar to the ones I now create for my children. On a daily basis, my actions of parenting, participating in the community and sharing that community with my sister and her family, is creating my new version of home. Even if I never again experience that same feeling from childhood, I am part of the living, breathing “home” which offers a new warm embrace.

Everything I have needed to find “home“, all this time, was right here at my fingertips. Simply finding the courage to embrace it in the present moment, and having enough faith in my future to allow that fearlessness the space to spill over and grow bigger than my fear of losing the past. My wildest dreams and fantasies of the future are possible, if only I can embrace it and abandon my need to control the outcome. Breathe in the security of the future to feel its warm embrace, surrender all thoughts and expectations, and finally just let go. Maybe then it is possible to recreate “home” right here in California, where she’ll finally have a fighting chance to compete in my heart; the only place I can ever really find.

What is Mother?

27 Sunday Apr 2014

Posted by tiffanyshaw in Mom

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

2014, Adoption, Children, Gardening, Mothering, Nature, Spring

Springtime has arrived in California. The birds are busy building their nests, the cherry blossoms are blooming, and we are planting flowers and veggies in our little garden.

I took the kids to Lowe’s last weekend, and we walked through the store and came across the plant “clearance” section. Tilley and Mason asked me why the plants looked so sad. As I picked up a bag of birdseed, I told them that those were the plants that no one wanted anymore and they were probably dying. Before I knew it, Mason had filled the cart with as many plants as his little arms could carry and told me that we were going to save them. My son’s great big heart of compassion couldn’t bear to have even one plant left behind.

We spent a good portion of our day in the backyard. We planted our new, sad flowers in their pots, soaked our flower seeds in jars and re-filled the bird and hummingbird feeders with fresh food.

As a child, I remember feeling very connected to nature and animals. My parents would constantly ask me to clean my bedroom, as the aroma of my hamster, mice, frogs and turtle was enough to keep anyone away. I grew up in the outskirts of a small town, and I have fond memories of hiking through the wooded areas that lined my street; writing poetry, sitting by the stream and just relaxing in nature. I could spend hours in my backyard looking for grasshoppers and other creatures, keeping them as pets for a few days before releasing them.

Aliso Niguel Canyon (2014)

As a mother, I’m trying to help cultivate that same connection to nature for my children. Although we live in a sprawling city, there are many places to explore and enjoy. From the ocean, to the canyons and desert, to the lake right down the street, my kids have more than enough to be wondrous about in nature. Tilley loves bugs and will happily pick up any creature she finds. Rolly pollies, worms, and snails… Tilley carries them around like her little pets. I try not to make a squeamish face when she picks up the slimy ones, as I really don’t want to discourage her fearlessness.

Last weekend we went to the park and walked the trails to find nature’s treasures; empty snail shells, acorns, pieces of bark, flowers and rocks. The kids were busy climbing trees and didn’t get excited when I found a miniature snail shell. I laughed and wondered who was acting more like a kid. Then I remembered… I’m usually the one that anxiously sits by and waits for the caterpillars to transform into butterflies. And it’s me who marks the transformation from larvae to pupa to lady bug.

Even if I am the one benefiting from these childhood activities, I know my passion will one day transfer to my children. Even now, they help me remove the snails and worms from sidewalks before the sun gets too hot. They use their shovels to dig holes in the earth, as I re-pot our vegetables and flowers for the summer. They mirror my excitement as the baby birds chirp and joyfully follow me to the nest to catch a peek.

Connecting our children to the earth and the ultimate “Mother” is one of the most beautiful things we can do. Mother Earth whispers her secrets in every flower, every tree and in every living creature.

Notice the difference between the noun and verb definitions that come from the word Mother. Of course there is the traditional “noun” definition which describes a woman that has “given birth”. But there is a separate, distinctly different “verb” definition that speaks to the day in, day out actions of providing “care and affection”. As we know, it is not always the birth mother that raises a child and “the art of mothering” goes well beyond the act of giving birth.

Through my actions, I am the same mother to Mason, Elisabeth and Evelyn. There is no difference in my actions of reading a book, cooking and feeding them dinner or taking them to the park. Although I didn’t give birth to Mason, he is my son through and through. He has adopted my mannerisms, my many food preferences, and he takes joy in similar pleasures. I can see myself reflected through him and his approach to life. His wide open heart, his joyful nature and his willingness to experience life are things I see in myself, now coming alive through him.

It is through the art of mothering that this transference has occurred. In my daily actions of love, care and affection, I have helped to shape the life of my son. I understand his needs and what makes him happy and scared. I know what to say to inspire him to take action. I know his favorite foods and what books will encourage him to read more. I know which parks have his favorite slides and the stuffed animals he asks to snuggle with at night. I know all of these things because he is my son, and I am his mother.

Nature and mothering go hand in hand. There are metaphors around every corner; in the new sprout, the bird’s nest, even in the strong climbing branches of the mature tree. I feel it in the energy of the buzzing bees, butterflies, and birds that pollinate my garden to grow. And although none of these beings have come from me, through our actions we participate in their creation and we help them grow. If I hadn’t soaked and planted a seed one week ago, then the sprout of this Morning Glory wouldn’t be here today. We are the ones that help the seed to sprout, by cultivating the soil, and by watering them until they bloom. Through our actions, we are all “The Mother”.

Just like a mother, we are… …the planter that transforms the seed into the sprout of the Morning Glory. …the provider of food that nourishes the plants and birds so they can grow. …the fertilizer that helps the vegetables achieve their fullest potential. …the watcher that lives through their eyes to make sure every need is met.

Not yet. Not yet. Eat me now. Too late.

09 Sunday Mar 2014

Posted by tiffanyshaw in Me, Mom, Wife

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2014, Aging, Beauty, Children, Death, Loss, Potential, Purpose, Regret

My friend posted this picture on Facebook the other day. Isn’t this the truth… you’re either waiting for an avocado to ripen or cursing it for going bad. There are many things in life that have a similar shelf life and quickly “go bad”.

I went in to Tilley’s bedroom the other day to pick out an outfit for her class project; I was frustrated to find shirts in her dresser that had never been worn. My kids wear the same worn out clothing on a regular basis, so when I find any clothes with tags and they’re too small, my blood starts to boil. I remember my pregnancy; staring at many pink and blue outfits, dreaming of the day I would meet my children. I thought about them and how they would look dressed in these little clothes. But life happens, and it’s filled with onesies and swaddles, not dresses and bows; and the inevitable sadness sets in when you realize those sweet little things no longer fit. Now in the midst of their childhood, I feel a sense of desperation for all things clothing related. These outfits, and their small window of opportunity, will be outgrown soon.

On Monday mornings, you will find me somewhere in Southern California, standing in a grocery store, choosing my favorite bouquet from an array of beautiful flowers. It’s a tough choice, but without fail, every week, one arrangement stands out among the rest. When I get to work, I clean out my vase from the week before and fill it with new, fresh water. It’s such an enjoyable ritual. I love having flowers in my office and I look at them often; sometimes even taking pictures to text to friends and brighten their day. I frequently get comments from co-workers who pass by and admire their beauty. It brings me a lot of happiness and I think it makes other people happy too; when I forget to bring them in I get lots of comments. On Fridays, I make a quick decision on whether to take or toss them before the weekend. If the flowers are healthy and strong, they come home. If not, they go in the trash.

Of course, I have also tried to keep potted flowers in my office. I absolutely love gardening, but I’m not good at it. Derek laughs every time I bring a plant home. “Dead already, but it doesn’t know it yet,” he’ll chuckle. I have to remind Derek that just because I’m not good at something, that doesn’t mean I’m going to quit! I will try and try (and fail) and try again, because one day I will succeed! In the end, so many plants will have suffered as a result of my learning, but one day I will become a great gardener! Their sacrifices will not have been made in vain!

My latest obsession is the orchid because it’s one of the hardest plants to care for. It’s a challenge for me; so I study it, nurture it and (want to) understand it so that (eventually) it will thrive in my care. But, if you’ve ever befriended a potted orchid before, you know how frustrating it can be. I can just look at it the wrong way and it drops its flowers. Only days before, it was a healthy, luscious, beautiful plant in Whole Foods; and now I’m left with an ugly stem and some leaves. It’s truly heartbreaking. Today, I have two “leaf plants” that will hopefully flower again, but no progress just yet.

Last weekend, I was looking at my Gerbera daisies, remembering how beautiful they were just days before. I reflected on how quickly a flower goes from “beautiful” to “wilted” in my eyes. Thinking; the aging of my flowers makes them less beautiful than before. Once the flowers beauty is lost, I throw them in the trash. Of course, I wouldn’t keep a bunch of dead flowers around, but do you see the problem here?

If I listen closely, all of these things quietly whisper their wisdom in my ear. The irritation I experience upon finding rotten avocados and outgrown kids clothes, the sadness over the inevitable decline of my waning wilted flowers; their short life cycles serve as every day reminders of life’s most difficult lessons. There is more to my frustration than some silly, outgrown clothing. I’m being quietly reminded how quickly life is passing by, and before I know it my kids will be grown and gone. As parents, it feels like we do a lot of waiting, but if we forget, or we are careless, we won’t get another chance. If I’m not paying enough attention, these windows of opportunity will be lost, as when I reach for that rotten avocado. The sole purpose of that avocado was to be utilized and enjoyed. I purchased it; it was my responsibility to help it achieve its purpose and I failed. Its potential is wasted, so I throw it in the trash. And my Friday flowers; they served their purpose and are no longer useful to me, so I throw them in the trash too.

Although it sounds overly exaggerated to mourn kids’ clothing, avocados and flowers, you don’t have to venture too far off to find more realistic examples of where this happens in life. Even now, in my thirties, I can look at pictures from the past and think about what I once had that is now gone; mourning my youthfulness, resilience, innocence, even my physical strength. I can’t even imagine how I’ll feel later in life. But those pictures and memories I have are deceiving. Said differently, it is confusing the pictures I take of the Monday morning flowers with the real flower. I know that the flower will wilt and die within a week, but I don’t celebrate the wilted flowers come Friday. I don’t take any pictures of them. I simply remember them as they once were and that is all.

Rather than trying to find acceptance for the flowers in every stage of life, we attach to the immortal version of the flower that we can find in pictures only. We don’t want to accept the wilted flowers any more than we are willing to accept some less than perfect version of ourselves. I think, if left unchecked, I am always striving to get back to the “Monday morning” version of myself. I don’t want to accept the lesser version when I know that an “idealistic” version has existed in the past. I incorrectly think life should be a deliberate and constant improvement from status quo and things can only get better from here. This is deceiving. We know that, physically, we are no different than the waning wilted flower. We know that we will age, get old and eventually die, yet we don’t want to accept this. Instead, we distract ourselves with superficial treatments to make us look youthful again. If you can’t relate to this, just give it a few years, I promise it’s coming.

No one wants to feel like they have wasted their potential. We are all striving to avoid the rotten avocado phenomenon. If there is purpose and potential, then it must be utilized. We cannot afford to be careless and risk being tossed out in the trash. Life is too short. Instead, be primed and ready to use those kids’ clothes as soon as they fit, cut open that avocado as soon as it’s ripe, and accept the flowers in all their forms.

This is how we improve. This is how life becomes a constant upward spiral. When we understand and cultivate a life that is ever more accepting and understanding and we strive to meet our fullest potential; and we support one another so that all of us can achieve these things. No one should feel that their purpose and potential has been wasted.

But no matter what happens, let us not forget that the avocado and flowers will find new life and purpose in tomorrow’s compost piles and those unworn kids’ clothes will go walking on someone else’s beautiful child one day. Although life didn’t go the way we thought it would, it will work out from a different point of view. There is always potential even if we are unable to see it. So don’t ever take those “leaf plants” for granted and forget their invisible potential. They will find their way into the arms of a great gardener and flower again one day.

Enough.

01 Saturday Mar 2014

Posted by tiffanyshaw in Me, Mom, Wife

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

2014, Enough, Future, Gratitude, Past, Present, Running, Thankful

My chest felt constricted, my breath was fast and shallow, I was only 1.5 miles into my run, but my body was tired and I wanted to stop. For 30 seconds, I let myself walk and regain my strength. I ran the first mile too quickly and was now paying the price. It was morning in the park, there were no cars to be heard or seen and I watched as the birds flew overhead. I felt the sun’s warmth as it came down on my face. As I picked up the pace, I paid attention to my stride, my breath. My attention shifted to the geese as they socialized by the stream. There were dozens of them.

I ran up the hill to the lake. Even at this early hour, there were dozens of fisherman in their canoes. I stopped to observe the ducks and geese as they sailed by. I smiled as two beautiful cranes swam in sync with one another. I watched as a dragonfly rested her body, and sent ripples from her wings as they touched the water. I was there, fully present, absorbing the moment in all of its beauty. It was peaceful, and fleeting. My attention turned to the voices passing by, the bicycle tires hitting the trail, and my phone as it lit up with messages. The family would be back soon. The moment passed. I jogged on.

I am usually distracted with everyday life. My mind spins a million miles a minute as I try to get everything done. I think about the future; a presentation to prepare, a dinner menu to plan, a project to complete. I think about the past; yesterday’s meeting, a memory of a friend, a concerning comment. Rarely am I aware of the present moment as my mind flips between these thoughts of past and future. Sometimes I am so distracted, I realize the kids have called my name 3 or 4 times before I actually respond.

Even after 8 years of meditation, I still find that remaining in the present moment is one of the hardest things to do on a regular basis. In an effort to be more present, I left my cell phone in the car and ran in to Starbucks for some coffee. I observed people sitting, talking, laughing; simply enjoying the morning. A constant stream of patrons walked in and out of the store; checking their phones, impatiently waiting for their order. They were going about their day as they normally do, but today was different, today I noticed.

The barista prepared drinks behind the counter. She wasn’t her normal self; no smile, no make-up, no greeting. Concerned, I waited for her to look up, so I could say hello. She finished my drink and moved on to the next. I walked out the door, coffee in hand, disappointed that I didn’t find an opportunity. As I got into my car, I thought about how if I had been distracted thinking about my day or looking at my phone, I wouldn’t have noticed she was upset, nor would I have been available at all. At the very least, I was aware. I was available, if she needed me.

This thought stayed with me, as it came clear that being available is really an act of compassion. At Starbucks, I simply made myself present, and in doing so, I got myself out of the way. Rather than being stuck in my own head, my “me” centric universe, I shifted my attention to the world around me. Being aware is really the opposite of selfishness. It’s almost like a state of gratitude for what the moment has to offer. You are there to observe and to be open; you are not worried about yourself and what you will receive.

When we are aware, we leave an open space, we welcome possibilities. When we are distracted, we are closed off and unsettled. We are either thinking, seeking, desiring, craving, fixing, or planning. It’s active discontentment. If you are unsettled, your cup is empty; you distract and busy yourself with actions to fill it. But if your cup is full, you have nothing left to seek. You are already fulfilled. Your mind can just stop, be aware, be present, and be available.

I think contentment only comes about when we start practicing gratitude. Right now, no matter what is going on in your life, if you can find gratitude, then you will find happiness. For example, if you are reading this right now, then you have a home, or at least a place to kick up your feet and read this. You must be educated, and you’re probably living in a developed country. If you are reading this right now, that means that you either have a phone or a computer, which means you have the money to buy these things, and you aren’t struggling to meet your basic needs. You are blessed.

Really, we are all blessed enough and when we arrive at this realization of “enough”, we will be happy. Maybe it will come about when we stop looking at the world with what it has to offer us and start thinking about what we can offer it. According to the Global Rich List, you are probably richer than 96% of the humans that inhabit this planet. (Click on the link; type in your income and find out) You live during one of the most privileged times in the history of the universe, as you scan the internet, and benefit from the information waiting at your fingertips. If you have all of these things, then you must be one of the luckiest people to have ever walked on the planet. So, what are you doing with all of this good fortune?

We have so much to be thankful for already and (guaranteed) we can find others worse off, who are in need of our help and support. Isn’t it time to stop distracting ourselves with thoughts of “me” and start distracting ourselves with thoughts of how we can help others to be happier and healthier?

If that’s too hard to do right now, because you have serious challenges going on in your life, then just relax and think of all of those things that you do have to be thankful for. There are so many things when you really think about it.

At the very least, if nothing else, try to practice awareness and exist in the present moment; it’s really one of the most selfless things you can do.

We can never obtain peace in the outer world until we make peace with ourselves. ~Dalai Lama

Wife, Mom and Me

~ Everyday thoughts about life

Take Me To Neverland

3 Things I’d Teach My Younger Self

The Perfect Example of Love

One Commitment to Make this New Year

The Art of Friendship

Back in the World Again

Home Sweet Home

What is Mother?

Not yet. Not yet. Eat me now. Too late.

Enough.