Category: aspirations (Page 2 of 5)

In defense of the constant questions

A few weeks ago, I lamented on Facebook:

Screenshot 2016-01-08 09.28.40

My oldest seems to be particularly inclined to ask about anything and everything. Honestly, it can be exhausting, and I do have limits. However, I’m trying to maintain an openness to their curiosity.

A while back, I read that in a particular Jewish culture, mothers (and fathers) would drop off their children to Hebrew School and encourage them, not with parting words of “behave!” or “eat your lunch!” or even “have fun!” but rather they told the kids, “ask good questions.”

The point of the article which shared this tradition directed me to the benefits of raising children with a faith that is open to the questions, as opposed to a more closed system that much of contemporary Christianity tends to portray. I liked the approach, and as I often do, adopted it as one of my own. I encourage the kids to ask questions frequently and impose my Jesus-like quality of answering a question with a question to a frustrating degree.

Beyond the impact on a person’s belief system – one that is developed over time, nurtured with curiosity, comfortable with a few unknowns, rather than simply a product of indoctrination – I believe curiosity to be immensely important in the way we engage with the world. I write because I’m curious. I read because I’m insatiably curious. I spend time on Facebook because I’m curious. I’m curious to the point of nosy (which leads to a few boundary issues, but my truest friends are so very accepting. And forgiving.)

If I were to try to limit my hopes and dreams for my children to only 5, I believe “being curious about the world” would make the list. Please, don’t ask me to list the other 4, this a challenge I don’t wish upon myself. (But, now I am curious as to how I would answer.)

Now I’m backed by scientific research. Mind/shift just posted on their NPR site another article about the effects of curiosity on learning:

“There’s this basic circuit in the brain that energizes people to go out and get things that are intrinsically rewarding,” Ranganath explains. This circuit lights up when we get money, or candy. It also lights up when we’re curious.

When the circuit is activated, our brains release a chemical called dopamine which gives us a high. “The dopamine also seems to play a role in enhancing the connections between cells that are involved in learning.”

Indeed, when the researchers later tested participants on what they learned, those who were more curious were more likely to remember the right answers.

So, while I might be bald by the time the youngest graduates from pulling my hair out at the incessant questions, I will be proud. Those meanderings will lead to further pursuits, I believe. When the oldest wants to know why we “can’t build houses out of glass” it might lead to a lifetime of building or engineering or figuring out which materials will withstand life on Mars. Or when he wants to know how many bones are in the human body or why we can’t tie cords around our feet at night, it could lead to a future in medicine or curing the world of arthritis.

My children, ask away. Keep asking. When you get “I don’t know” keep asking around the issue.

And when mama hides in a dark room, just ask Siri.

Empty Branches

Last weekend, because I’m not proficient with ceiling fan instillation, I was relegated to working in the flower beds. The Lamb’s Ear and the hostas waved dry and empty stalks. The decorative grass was seedy and eating our front porch. A few other things, no longer recognizable, were completely dried up. The place was a mess of dead leaves.

In the hour I spent hacking and chopping and trimming and scooping, I gave a lot of thought to the the autumnal processes. Plants, after living the glory of full bloom, offer new seeds to disperse into the world and then, generally, spend the next several weeks in hospice. The classy ones, like the oak trees and burning bushes, use brilliant hues to say their goodbyes while others simply shrivel up and the next thing you know, you have empty branches.

Nature pretty much self-directs this process. Trees aren’t shocked when they end up naked; in fact, so goes the cycle of life. In order to have new life, we must rid the old growth. The simple truth remains: nothing new will grow where the old hangs on past its season.

This past week I participated with my yogis in what we call an “Ayurvedic Reset.” There are several components, most notably the mono-diet of kitchari. I ate it for lunch and dinner all week; kitchari is considered the “child’s pose of food”, a gentle place to find your breath again.

Quite honestly, I enjoy kitchari… about once a week or so. The last batch I made ended up tasting quite awful to me. Part of me wanted to join in for the fish tacos and call my near-week’s abstinence “close enough.” So many other things sound more delicious. Like tacos. Or, by the end of a reset week, maybe even leather shoes. Or chalk dust. Honestly, I love food so much that restricting me to one type is nothing short of torture.

So why participate in such practices? Life is short, eat the brownie used to be the motto of my college years. Which is true. I’ve decided never to turn down a plate of my grandmother’s noodles for similar reasons.

If you get into certain spiritual circles, fasting often comes up. You can’t swing a cat without hearing “every time I get hungry I just pray.” And that is nice. Well done. I’m glad people find that element of the fasting practice helpful. I do not.

But here’s what I’ve learned: by limiting my diet, I practice how not to limit my joy. 

Food brings me joy! It’s a love language. I believe Shauna Neiquist will back me up on this. And, as you would have it, Rob Bell. He spoke to me personally on this. Well, through his Robcast, recorded weeks prior… but I heard it while in the want-to-quit middle of my reset and it resonated deeply. He said we tend to mis-believe our joy is limited to only the food, drink, habit or sensation we’re craving.

And I thought back to my flower beds. Each branch sprouts only one leaf at a time.

A healthy tree will bloom over and over, enjoying new seasons with something different on its fingertips. What if the same is true for our souls? We can practice enjoying something, and then set it aside so to allow room for something else just as joy-worthy to sit down for a spell.

So perhaps we take a cue from the trees and realize we need to let a few things go? Just for a time, a season, a purpose – let them fall. Because when we do, we will likely find something new is able to grow.

I want new things to grow in my life, but I don’t get to have that without a regular cycle of letting things go. “Clearing space” is a mantra I keep close.  This can mean getting rid of stuff that was once vibrant. But nothing blooms year-around (at least not in these parts) without manufactured conditions; hibernation is key for a plant to offer something again in the spring.

And so it goes for our souls. It’s time to let go of the things which have passed their season. Perhaps not forever, but for now. If you want something new to grow in the future, it might be time to put things into right places. And maybe, right now isn’t the time for new growth. Right now is the time to get settled in for the long winter’s peace. Some things, including you, are allowed to go dormant for a season.

As the trees show us, letting go can be quite beautiful.

Now is not Forever

Most of my friends are a lot like myself. White, middle class, mothers of young children, living in smallish towns. Generally we all work, some of us not so much in the traditional work structure. We mostly have useful – if not empowering – partners in this gig. Often conversations with these friends revolve around the trials of young childhood, with a peppering of conversation focused on the bigger picture, the future, the better world. I need this solidarity and familiarity. It brings me so much peace to know I’m not alone in struggling at times.

Then I sit out outside next to my neighbors who will graduate their youngest child in less than a week. Their oldest, living in the prime of responsibility-less life, embarks today on a trip to South America for an undetermined amount of time. My neighbor, the father of the family, told me no less than three times last night – just after H boy came running down the street in his skivvies – how quickly this time flies past us.

I believe him.

Throughout my journey we’ve been given gifts of these people, ones not so much like us. We’ve sat at the table with couples in a different season of marriage. I’ve listened to the struggles of parenting teenagers long before I nodded along to Honest Toddler. And now, as we’re on the brink of sending our two oldest into the unknown realms of school, I’m watching parents at the far end send their babies off into the unknown territory of life as an adult. It gives me the simultaneous sense of realizing that what I’m doing right now matters very much in building a foundation for my children while also understanding that what I’m doing right now matters very little in the scheme of the bigger picture of life.

My other-season-of-life friends offer me the pull toward reality. Of course, my reality is my reality. The challenges of bedtime and temper tantrums are a real and valid thing. To dismiss them because “at least you’re not sending them off to college” is completely unfair. I’m not looking to put different stages in competition with each other; rather they offer a gentle harmony to my current situation.

Graduation season, weddings and even funerals temper my life in a way that reminds me that, as I like to say, life will look different in 5 years. Perspective gives me opportunity to enjoy what is without a sense of guilt when I don’t always enjoy what is.

In many ways, when given the gift of perspective, I realize that I don’t have to enjoy certain parts of my life, but I do so with a sense that I won’t get another chance to enjoy them. I won’t keep repeating this stage until it’s fun or I get it right – life will march along no matter what. This is not all that there is. Which is both a frightening and a beautiful thing.

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