Extremely Ordinary

I did it!  I finally finished the last chocolate in the box... probably my third or fourth chocolate for today, because I told myself: once all the Valentine's chocolates are gone, then I'll get serious about how I am eating!

I've discovered that I have a penchant for extremes and addictive behaviors.  For example, if I replaced my sweet tooth with a desire for alcohol, smoking or some other nasty habit, then both the obsession and mindlessness with which I indulge myself would clearly be seen as unhealthy.  Some mornings I wake up and the shiny box of sugary chocolates immediately begins to attract my attention. Why eat Cocoa Puffs for breakfast when you could jolt your system with a succulent square of candy enrobed in milk chocolate?  Then there is the issue with all of my "secret stashes".  On a bad day, when my top dresser drawer is empty of goodies, I can always start searching the kitchen cupboards for other chocolates that I've stashed away.  If worse comes to worse, there's always the humongous Costco bag of chocolate chips that I normally reserve for making my husband's favorite cookies... except in the case of emergency chocolate cravings.

Over the years, I've attempted to keep my obsession confined to being primarily a holiday treat. We start out in January with the on-sale, leftover Christmas candy.  Then comes February with Valentine's chocolates.  In the spring, there are Easter bunnies and Cadbury Eggs.  After that, there is a bit of a lull, but with various summer festivities, there are at least 2 candy parades (yes, my very community is an enabler to my bad habit!).  Of course October means Halloween candy by the bucket-load, which often last until Christmas.  So you see my problem - no time is a good time to avoid candy - it's practically shoved down my throat the whole year through!

Well, I didn't intend to make this posting entirely about health and dieting, but it certainly illustrates the patterns and extremes of addictive behaviors and the impossibilities of controlling them.

I tend towards extremes in my life.  The pendulum swings from one extreme to the other whether it involves exercise, food or my schedule.  For a while, I'm intensely committed to eating more healthfully, then I drop the ball, and I don't just let things slide, but I usually plunge myself into the sorrowful mindset of "I just couldn't do it, so now I might as well give up and eat every disgusting sugary, chocolaty thing in sight."  And there are times when I load up my schedule with every hour accounted for, my life so tightly wound that one little mishap will leave me completely frazzled and hopelessly, wretchedly late and unable to catch up.

The problem is, as a society, we tend to be addicted to extremes.  We have television shows featuring all manner of extremes:  people losing extreme amounts of weight, "xtreme" fighting,  people documenting survival in extreme environments (Survivorman, Man vs. Wild), the eating of extreme foods, and then there are all the shows with extreme in their name: Extreme Makeover, The Most Extreme, and don't forget Extreme Couponing!!!

I wonder if our instant-gratification, over-stimulated and comfort-driven lifestyles have numbed us to the satisfaction and joys that can come from simple, honest living?  If my "normal" life has become dull and mundane because my senses are accustomed to getting whatever I want, whenever I want it, and I am always trying to make my life better, then how can I find delight in the ordinary?  Too often, I'm seeking the next high - and in doing so, I battle the extremes in my lifestyle that come from an underlying dissatisfaction with my present circumstances.

We are 51 days into a 366 day year. (That's about 14% of the year.)  Today also marks the first day of Lent for many people, as we approach the Easter season.  There seems to be a lot of personal-assessment going on around me, and I imagine it has a lot to do with our proximity to the near year.  By now, you're either cruising along, satisfied with the success of your New Year's resolutions, or you're beating yourself up over your sucky-ness at screwing up yet another perfectly good year.  As tempted as I am to check-mark the boxes of where I'm doing well, and berate myself over the areas where I feel I'm floundering, I know I shouldn't because I'd only be fueling my tendency to implement extreme measures.  (Yes... I've eaten WAY too much chocolate this week, this month... this year.  That doesn't mean I need an extreme diet to counter it.)

What I am proposing is a pull-back from the hunger and desire for something bigger, better, faster, thinner, sweeter, or richer... ultimately that craving that simply says: I NEED MORE.  Instead, I will seek to find contentment and satisfaction in my daily routine.  I will choose to be more grateful in the midst of my circumstances.  I  will stop and smell the flowers - or maybe just the sticky sweet syrup in my toddler's hair.  I will find joy in the simple satisfaction of a neatly folded pile of clean laundry.  I'll thank God for the busyness of a household of healthy, active children, and the fact that I am blessed enough to spend my days at home with all of them.
 
Instead of hiding my boredom, stress or sadness with unnecessary indulgence, and instead of setting myself up for failure with all manner of goals and resolutions as I seek to change myself and my life in a really big (a.k.a. "extreme") way... I'm going to aim lower...much, much lower.  I'm going to attempt to be happy right where I am, just the way I am.  I'm going to work at being happy with my life and my family and not fuss about trying to make everything better all the time.

Dream big...?  Nah, not me.

Shoot for the stars? No way.

Instead of setting my sights on extraordinary things, I'm going to get my head out of the clouds, calm down, and be glad that today is just another ordinary day.  

"This is the day that the Lord has made, I will rejoice and be glad in it" (Ps. 118:24) 
"In everything give thanks" (1 Thess. 5:18)

Goodbye to Summer?

It's gloomy and dark outside.  Some would say "Welcome!" to the cooler, fall-like weather, but I am dissapointed as summer's kiss seems to have just tickled my skin for a moment before the clouds once again took over the sky.

I haven't the heart to confine my kids to the dining-room table for schoolwork, and binders lay scattered about, books sit unopened, undone, unread and indoors is uncommonly quiet and still.

They chatter and squeal outside, building blanket forts in the still-soft grass, under the trees.  For a moment, there is a bustling and tumbling indoors, and cheeks are pink and cool (is it really the last day of August?) and I offer them a left-over bag of chips to take to their castle in the yard.

A sweet daughter hands me a miniature bouquet of tiny white flowers; pretty yet with an unpleasant scent, and I thank her for her generosity as she bounds away to play - carefree and content.

In my heart, I wish that I could have forever summer... the endless non-routine playtime, basking in sunshine, laziness and memory-making moments with my family.   Each day is carelessly packed with discovery, adventure and a grateful appreciation for the world around us.

However, part of me longs, in quiet expectation, for the sense of accomplishment and contentment that fall will bring.  As the air turns crisp like the leaves on the trees, and they fall crunchy and mulchy onto the sidewalk, we will turn our hearts to home; family times on the couch, reading by the fire, snuggling with hot cocoa (and perhaps a pumpkin spice latte!).

Seasons come and go - summer is a gentle reminder to relax, let go, "don't worry, be happy" while autumn seeps an urgency and prods us to regain our footing; become productive and re-enter the normal hustle and bustle of society's schedule.

I won't let myself forget the warm, lazy days.  I will engrave them upon my memory, revisiting the moments with urgency when winter's cold grip comes to take over and threaten me.  Even now, I remember the frost, the snow, the icicles hanging from the eves - the bone-chilling cold; the hibernation never-want-to-leave-home feeling that takes over...   I'll close my eyes tight and find the sights and sounds of summer within - those moments that etched a wondrous tranquility and fulfillment in my soul.

The Summer Sun Shone Round Me

THE summer sun shone round me,
The folded valley lay
In a stream of sun and odour,
That sultry summer day.

The tall trees stood in the sunlight
As still as still could be,
But the deep grass sighed and rustled
And bowed and beckoned me.

The deep grass moved and whispered
And bowed and brushed my face.
It whispered in the sunshine:
"The winter comes apace."
Robert Louis Stevenson

Runaway

I have always wanted to run away from home.

I'm serious!  Almost as far back as I can remember, there were plans made, partially carried out, but never totally completed as I sought to run away.

I remember when I was about 8 or 9 years old, and I was fed up with living in a city and seeing my dad work long, hard hours all the time.  I didn't have the freedom to run wild in wide open spaces, and I figured I should run away and live in the woods somewhere.  I believe I had just finished reading "My Side Of The Mountain" by Jean Craighead George, in which a young boy leaves his city life, runs away and "lives off the land" by himself for many months.  At any rate, I was convinced that my life would be so much better, and that I wouldn't have to deal with people who didn't like me or didn't understand me, if I could just be one with nature.  I packed a backpack, stuffing in a blanket and pillow and a few articles of clothing, and started the trek down to the corner of my block.

Once I reached the crossroads (at the end of my block) - the place where I would have to decide North or South; left or right, I paused and began to consider my "running away idea" a bit further.  For one thing, the weather wasn't the greatest at the time.  Also, supper was in an hour, and I was hungry.  I made some halting steps forward, attempting to plunge into my new life of "wilderness girl", then I would reconsider and turn back towards home -  until, finally my appetite and reasoning took over and I sheepishly sneaked my things back into the house and gave up on the idea altogether - for the time being.

By the time I was 12 or 13, and filled with teenage angst, feeling that my parents "sucked" and didn't understand anything (ha ha... now I'm the parent, and I see things a little more clearly!) I began to plot my escape from home once again.  This time, a friend and I planned to run away together.  We made our elaborate escape plan, talking of how we'd jump onto a Greyhound bus, and go to Vancouver, where her dad lived.  Everything would be better there - we could have brand new lives and be whoever we wanted to be.  Life would be one big party.  Time and time again, we devised our perfect get-a-way; how I would tell my parents that I was sleeping over at her house, and she would tell her parents that she was at mine- then we would escape!  Somehow, we (thankfully) never had the guts nor the money to go through with the plan, and although something in me desperately yet foolishly desired to run away, I didn't follow through.

A couple years later, when I was 15, the plot thickened.  I was on a church youth mission trip to England and Scotland, and I was still a mixed up, misunderstood teenager who just wanted to get away.  While it was a relief to be so far from home, in a foreign land where everyone spoke with charming accents, I dreaded returning to my life back in Canada.

We were waiting for a train -  piles of baggage spread out in the terminal, with tired teens stretched out; some snoozing with their heads resting on their backpacks.  I remember eating a delicious peanut butter-chocolate ice cream bar, and gazing out at the enormous trees in the distance and the gorgeous brick and stone buildings.  And I thought to myself:  I could just walk away right now.  I'll just take my backpack, pretend to head towards the loo (bathroom) and I'll disappear.

Really, one of the only things that held me back was the idea of just how much trouble my youth leaders would be in once it was found out that I was gone.  I wasn't so self-centered to think that my actions wouldn't result in consequences beyond myself, and I didn't relish the thought of these innocent youth leaders being torn apart by my dad (with his bare hands).  So I couldn't go through with the escape.  After another few days of adventure, I was homeward bound - back to my world, my life... back to me.

Somehow, I grew up a little, matured a little and adjusted to my life.  Instead of running away from home, I began to go for jogs and would run away - even just for an hour or so.

Eventually, I was "grown up" and in my first year of Bible College and I met a guy.  Well, I didn't meet him there - in fact, I'd already known him for a few years, but I suddenly saw him with new eyes.  So the dating began, and the intimate conversations and opening up my heart - learning to trust.  One weekend, he took me home to meet his family.  By this point we were quite "serious" and knew that this was no ordinary friendship, but one destined to be life-long.  Amid the noise and laughter and chaotic abundance of family, I felt small and intimidated.  His family was larger than mine, and having 3 boys in the family (and one older sister) caused plenty of ruckus and activity.  After a rather loud family dinner, we sought to get away and have some time to ourselves, and I think my sweet boyfriend wondered what had made me so moody.  We went for a walk on the quiet streets of his sleepy home-town, and I told him how overwhelmed and intimidated I felt.  Something inside me felt scared - scared of this bursting forth of emotions and conversation that flowed easily, without hesitation.  My family wasn't really like that.  We were quiet, civilized, reserved.  We didn't have yelling matches (camouflaged as friendly debates) at our dinner table.

And then, I played the "immature girl" card and I ran.  I took off from my befuddled boyfriend, legs stretching and feet rhythmically pounding on the bumpy, semi-rural road as I tried to escape something... attempting to run from the feeling of  vulnerability that accused and intimidated me.

The very one who I should have trusted the most, said that my actions scared him - suddenly I was like a skittish colt - wild, terrified and on the run.  When I finally settled my tumultuous emotions, I turned around and headed back to the one who wanted to understand me and care for me.  I found him: walking the streets searching for me, and praying for me.  He held me close and made me promise to never run away from him again.

When I married my best friend, 10 months later, I promised to stay with him forever, and I put my running shoes away (for a while).

Still, occasionally I have the fleeting thought to run away from my life.  I might be simply headed out on a grocery trip, the kids left at home with their dad, and me - alone for the moment; away from the needy, away from the weight of responsibilities.  Something will pop into my head and say:  Just take off!  Grab some cash from the ATM and disappear!  RUN!!!

But I don't.  I know better.  I know that I can run as far and as long as I want, but I will always have myself to contend with.  I now know that this "runaway" tendency comes from within and not from my circumstances.

This runaway heart has been seeking contentment for a long time.  I've learned that contentment isn't found in the car you drive, the neighborhood you live in, the body-type you struggle to maintain (or attain) and it isn't even found within any human relationship - because people just can't meet all your needs; they can't be your savior no matter how badly you may want them to be that in your life.

Who can whisper calm and quiet into my racing heart?  Who can vanquish the whirlwind of fear and discontent that threatens to drown me time and time again?  Who can stop me from thinking that the only answer is to run away?

Ironically, I have been finding the answers when I run.  No, I'm not running away anymore, rather I'm running to:  I run to escape my worries, and to find the calm of Almighty God's presence.  I run to find quiet in my soul.  I run to simply be set apart from my thoughts, my selfishness and my puny perspective - to find peace, sanctity and refuge.

I run for dear life to God, I'll never live to regret it.  Do what you do so well: get me out of this mess and up on my feet. Put your ear to the ground and listen, give me space for salvation.  Be a guest room where I can retreat; you said your door was always open! You're my salvation - my vast, granite fortress    -Psalm 71:1-3 The Message

Something inside me will always be a runaway.  But now I run with purpose; I always return home, and I never come back feeling the same as when I left.

My Fairy Tale Life

Yesterday I was scrubbing gummy, dried out cereal mush off of the floor on my hands and knees, under the dining room table.  I was still in my pj's; a tank top and comfy black capri-sweatpants, and although it was already 3:30 in the afternoon, I felt like I hadn't stopped moving since waking up.  Actually, I felt remarkably like Cinderella, scrubbing the floor with soap bubbles flying all around; over-worked and unappreciated for my finer qualities; only, I didn't have chubby, little singing mice and sweetly chirping birds to ease my work load.

Other days, I can compare myself to Hansel and Gretal as I chase the trail of Rice Crispies that scatter on the floor, falling from 3 year old's pockets and chubby hands as he skips away from the breakfast table in search of adventure.  With my eyes on the ground, I follow the tiny cereal bits all around the house - over the couch, up the stairs, into the bathroom; until the culprit is found, nibbling away at his contraband snack, under a blanket fort in his big sister's room.

It seems that we often desire a fairy tale life for ourselves.  Only mine has somehow become twisted and far more boorish than the ideals I daydreamed about as a little girl.  When I was 11, picking out my perfect children's names:  Christopher, Charlotte, Daisy and Stuart, and dreaming of my tall, dark and handsome knight in shining armor, I never would have imagined the predicaments I would be dealing with "in real life".

I was supposed to have grown into a lovely lady, poised and gentle, with long, flowing locks that were never tangled or (heaven forbid) in a ponytail.  My children would play happily together, showing utmost concern for eachother's well being; always speaking considerately to one another.  We would lay on a perfect (mosquito and bug-free) grassy knoll, on one of those perfectly quaint patchwork quilts, reading Tennyson and discussing music.

Instead... my fairy tale looks a whole lot more like the Shrek versions of the classics.  Loud, obnoxious bodily noises are extolled and praised by my perfect little ladies and gentlemen.  Nearly every day on the trampoline, a shoving match ensues as the children endeavor to bend my rule about rough play, instead insisting that they are merely having "tickling matches" which inevitably end in a child or two crying and yelling "Mommmy!!!"

Another startling reality:  You know those vintage cookbooks, from the 70's that I inherited from my mother, that show a serene housewife in a perfectly pressed apron and cute flowery dress, holding out a tray of hors d'oeurvres to her pipe-smoking husband as he reads the newspaper in a lazy-boy with his feet up...?  Well, all the claims of those cookbooks and promises that "your husband will adore you when you serve him this easy- to- make Croque Monsouir" are highly overrated and unattainable!   The audacious idea that I would be both dressed in clean clothes and have my hair and make-up done, along with having the house in order (and the children quiet), while making a gourmet three-course-dinner for my husband is a far cry from the stacks of pots and pans, finger-painted pictures drying on every available flat surface and me, wearing jeans and a t-shirt, with a pony-tail and the only decorative accessory to be found is a 1 1/2 year old that is hanging off my hip!

'Gee Whiz... Now I've burned the pot roast and my husband will think I'm such a square!'

All this brings me to the following conclusion.  My life is not meant to be a fairy tale, and frankly it will never look like a fairy tale.  Therefore, my expectations need an adjustment if I am to accept and enjoy my existence.  Guess what?  The biggest enemy that I have in regards to contentment and joyfully embracing life is: ME!

My husband doesn't care about seeing a perfectly made-up wife, with the house all in order, the children clean and pressed and mini meatballs with little umbrellas decorating them prepared for his pre-dinner appetizer. (Although, I'm sure he would appreciate some sort of delicious snack awaiting him when he steps in the door!)  Anyway... this is NOT likely to happen in this complicated, messy life of mine - as long as I have small children in the house.  What does my husband care about?  A big smile!  A warm greeting as he opens the door.  He wants a haven of peace and acceptance in our home that can't be found anywhere else.  Accomplish this; and I'll be well on my way to living a fairy tale marriage.

Furthermore, and I've discussed this idea numerous times in my blog: what do my children crave and need from me?  Not more toys, activities, the 'latest styles' of clothing and the most recently released Wii game.   They just want ME!  Freely dispersing hugs and kisses, snuggling in bed and listening to my children's corny jokes and peculiar stories is what makes for a fairy tale childhood.

So as I adjust my mindset, and once again remind myself of what makes a successful family and marriage (not more stuff and NOT looking perfect all the time), I am left wondering what would hold me back from being content with my lot in life.  Once again, the answer is: "me".  So instead of comparing and complaining and convincing myself that I don't do enough, I must take an honest look around me at the wonderful gifts I've attained.

I have a husband who loves me, even when I'm grumpy, messy and frustrated.

I have six children who depend on me, love and adore me; even when I don't mop the floor and I feed them PB & Jelly for the third time in a week.

If we're counting the things that really matter... I'd say my childhood prediction of "happily ever after" was correct.  It just ended up a whole lot louder and messier than I had counted on!