New Beginnings and Miracles All Around!

When I walk into Staples, I am instantly aroused. The pencils, the pens, blank notebooks, sticky notes, whew! I love all of it. So, naturally, going back to school, or now getting my kids ready to return to school, is a very exciting time of year for me. I love making resolutions at the start of the New Year and I am a sucker for the promise of new blooms in Spring, but Autumn rings true as a time of new beginnings for me. I feel most invigorated and most inspired as the leaves begin to show signs of turning colors and the crisp scent of fall wafts through the air. This year, I am wide open, eager to welcome whatever this fresh start brings.

I have also  been feeling nostalgic as my son Alexander prepared for kindergarten with great anticipation of joining his older brother, James, at "his" school. We do drop-off, as opposed to riding the bus, and today, when he leaped out of the car, I don't think he could have been any happier. He was thrilled this morning when I confirmed that he would be going back to school today. So anyway, the other day my mom came over and we listened to some of her saved voice mail messages from the past (please tell me we are not the only saps who do crazy things like save old messages). With her summer tan aglow and her blue eyes sparkling, she said, "oh, this is one of my favorites." I listened as my very own voice began to speak. I was crying. I said something like, "Hi Mom, this is Anna (sniff). James started kindergarten today. He got on the bus and he didn't even look back (sniff, sniff)..." So many things came to mind. First, the image of my husband Dan and I coming home from the bus stop that day and literally sobbing together on our love seat. Second, disbelief that that little kindergartner would be entering fourth (say it with me, FOURTH!!!) grade this year. And third, both disbelief and disappointment that my dad wouldn't be here to share in Alexander's first day of kindergarten as he was for James. I pictured my mom sharing the message with my dad and both of them reflecting on the fact that their first grandchild was ready for kindergarten. That he got on the bus and didn't even look back.

I know, I know - my dad is still with me. I do know that, I swear. But even with that knowledge, I yearn to hear the enthusiasm in his voice when I share these bits and pieces of my life with him. I want confirmation of his pride in Alexander, and frankly, in me. He was a great cheerleader, my dad. He would be (is) so proud.

With all my anticipation of a new beginning at the start of the school year - for my kids and for me, I find myself feeling sad too. And as with so many things I've experienced since losing my dad, I find that this is a time where bittersweet is about the best we can do. Do I sound like I'm whining?

Enter miracles. Yesterday was the first day of school and the morning was filled with miracles. I got up, showered, and made a delicious, nutritious breakfast for my little ones (as opposed to throwing a granola bar and string cheese at them with five minutes left before we have to run out the door). Then, I marched them outside for a First Day of School photo shoot. Nobody complained (I began to think something strange was afoot, bud didn't dare question it). Everybody smiled. Everybody posed. I was in Mom Heaven.

We got in the car and Somewhere Over the Rainbow was playing on the radio. This has to be one of my all-time favorite songs. I was a somewhere over the rainbow kind-of girl as a child. The Coffee House version, by Israel Kamakawiwo'ole' has become one of the songs that remind me that my dad is always here with me and it has come on the radio at the most opportune times. As we pulled out of the driveway, we stopped to talk to our new neighbors. They were sweet and smiling and my heart was simply singing with joy. Then I heard my dad's voice singing. My daughter had found my husband's iPad on the floor of the car and somehow found her way to my dad's recordings. AND, he was singing Summertime, which was my lullaby when I was a little girl. Let's not even get into the fact that I have no idea how the iPad got left in the car, or how Sophia could have possibly found Summertime, especially since she usually goes right for Beyonce's "I'm a Singlet" video. At that point, I knew my dad was speaking to me.

Sophia said, "This is a Papaw song!" Putting to rest my fears that my little girl, who wasn't quite two when my dad died, would have no memories of her Papaw. Then she said, "Mama, my butt is shaking and my legs are swinging!" I look back to see her moving to the music, Alexander glowing, and James clapping his hands and swaying his head back and forth. I was in awe. There was no doubt in my mind that my dad was with us. I so much as heard him say, "I'm here. And I'm proud."

Later, I told Alexander that I wanted to tell him something very special. He looked up at me with his big, blue eyes and I said, "I have been really sad that Papaw isn't here to see you start kindergarten because I know he would have been so proud of you." He nodded and I continued, "And today, when we heard his song, I knew he was with us and I know that he is very proud of you." Heart-melting smile from ear to ear on that kid. God, I love him. There must be so much wisdom in that little five year-old head. And even later, when we got in the car to attend his orientation, These Are Days was on the radio! This was the song that Dan and I danced to at our wedding. And through the years, it too has come on the radio when I've needed comfort the most.

So that is my morning of miracles. Later, when I was feeling extremely disgruntled, along with my tired out, over-stimulated children, and trying to get dinner together, a penny from heaven appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the counter. Nope, we didn't save a life or cure a disease yesterday morning, but we were definitely in the midst of miracles. I spoke out and someone "up there" was listening. This all reminds me that we are always surrounded by miracles. Big or little, there are messages for all of us, everywhere, saying "you are never alone. I am here with you." And all of that makes me even more excited for this new time of new beginnings...what's next?!

The Possibilities are Endless!

I've never been much of a "Let go, let God" kind of girl. In fact, it seems that as soon as I sense that I have no control in a matter, I bear down, gripping more tightly than ever. I am not one to gracefully release it. I squeeze it, I hold it, I try with all my might to mold it into something I can control. My lack of control transforms into worry, to fear, to anxiety, and even to obsession. I sometimes lose sleep and I drive a lot of people crazy. You might ask, "How is that working out for you?" And, well, to be honest, it's not.

As I stood in the shower this morning, obsessing over whether or not our recent move to a new home was a good idea, I decided that this obsession was something I needed to release to the Universe. We moved, there is someone living in our previous home, and there is no turning back. I can't worry about whether my son will make new neighbor friends, or whether I will make new neighbor friends. I can't worry about anything like that because what is done is done and only time will tell what kind of friends we will make or not make as a result of this move.

So then I started thinking about the move in general (I know I'm not the only one who does her best thinking in the shower). It all happened really fast and it truly wasn't part of the "plan". It went something like this: Husband comes home from work and trips over kids' shoes in the doorway. Husband tries to put his bag down, but can't because all flat surfaces are covered with laundry (in the doorway). Husband says, "I hate that our laundry room is in the doorway! I can't wait to get out of this house!" I smile sweetly and agree that someday we might consider moving to a new house. Husband shares other examples of why he hates our home. I smile sweetly, and nod for good measure. Husband decides to "research the market" and begins work with a realtor. I stop smiling. Dan, my husband, isn't the kind of guy who spends a lot of time doing research. When Dan wants something, he goes for it. Sometimes he moves so fast, it frightens me.

We thought we might move in 2-5 years. We considered buying land and building a home. We looked at land (meaning we all piled in the car, met the realtor at the land and Dan got out and looked at it while I tried to keep the kids from driving off without him). Dan got serious. We actually asked our babysitter to watch our children so we could attend an Open House for a promising new home. It was a wonderful home. All it took was one deep breath with space to do so and I was hooked on the idea of moving. I was ready to make an offer.

Dan hopped online as soon as we got home to look at the house again (he was not ready to make an offer). After weeks (months?) of looking at houses and prioritizing our needs and desires, and coming to terms with the fact that the "perfect" house wasn't out there and that a compromise or two may be necessary, a new listing appeared on the screen. There was an Open House there that day and it ended one hour from the time we saw the house online. From the virtual tour on the screen before me, it looked as if it was built for us. From the tile work on the back splash to the incredible timber framing on the ceiling. My dad was a timber framer. It felt like he had a hand in this, like maybe he had found the house for us. 

I fully expected Dan to come home to tell me he just bought a new house. We all know, in the world of real estate, especially in Michigan, things don't usually happen that quickly. So began the agonizing process...would it work out? I began to bear down in fear, in anxiety, and then I remembered that I was evolving and the new and improved Anna would recognize that there were many variables that she could not control. So, I took a plunge - I let it go. I waited. And in the end, it did work out and we all love our new home (I especially love the shower).

And the funny thing is, this wasn't part of "the plan." We took a detour. I love Emily Dickinson's gentle invitation to "dwell in possibility" and each time I see this quote (which is often), it is like someone, Emily perhaps, is giving me permission to let go. To step. Away. From the plan. To open right up, throw my head back and my arms in the air, and look out at all the possibilities.

There are dreams buried deep inside me that I have long forgotten or given up on, and why? Because I'm not sure where to fit them in. Because I can't figure out where they go in the plan. Because I've been so busy trying to control every little detail of my life from when I will get pregnant to when my last child will leave home, that I don't allow space for things to simply unfold. From this moment forward, I am scrapping the plan. Who really knows what the future holds? Since my dad died, seven women I love and care very much about have lost a parent. Death isn't planned. It sometimes comes when we least expect it. It jolts us. It breaks our hearts. Sometimes we have to start over.

Little by little I am learning to let go in ways that I never would have imagined. I was okay letting go of some little stuff, but now I think it's time to let go of the big stuff. I'm sure Dan and I will still have to plan, but I'm playing it a little more loosey-goosey from now on. No more obsessing over the things I can't control. Years ago, when I first heard the Serenity Prayer, it made so much sense to me. God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference. It sounds so simple, really. But for me, especially as I get older, it's been really hard. 

I think in some way, my tight grip on life is born of love. It comes from good intention. Somewhere along the line, I began to believe that trying harder and holding tighter was a sign of my love, or of my commitment to someone or something. Reflecting on life and death and what it all means, thinking about moving when we had planned to stay, and even seeing so many of my friends suffer through the loss of beloved parents - all of this is teaching me that letting go, even a little, and opening to possibility, isn't a sign of loving less or caring less.  I think letting go may even open a pathway to loving more. When you let go, it's all out there. Rather than limiting myself by hanging on, I might actually find that I can love more deeply, more richly, and more truly by letting go. I'm still figuring this out. Maybe that in and of itself will take a lifetime. Maybe I'll never figure it out. But I feel pretty certain that when I do let go, the possibilities are endless.

Beautiful Days

I've had some really neat opportunities lately to gather with large groups of friends, family, and mostly strangers. These are opportunities that weave in and out of my life frequently, really, but for whatever reason (three kids, large dog, messy house, mounds of laundry...?), I don't always notice the magic contained within them. Thankfully though, I've been paying attention. I'm so excited about these miraculous little moments, that I had to share...

It all started at a U2 concert a few weeks ago. I was with my husband, Dan, and a group of our very dear friends. The concert was held in Spartan Stadium, which is, to be frank, sacred ground. Dan and I met at Michigan State University our sophomore year, so naturally MSU holds a special place in our hearts. It's where we fell in love and decided to take on the world together. Over the recent years we have made many memories tailgating with friends on campus and attending football games. We are MSU fans, yes, but first and foremost we are Spartans (there is a difference). And, we take that very seriously. And, we have lots and lots of fun.

I like U2, but I wasn't a huge U2 fan when we planned to attend the concert. For me, U2 was secondary to a night with great friends in East Lansing. I love music, but I don't usually remember lyrics or bands or any of the important details. I hear a song and I love it or hate it, and then each time I hear it after that, I remember what was happening when I first heard it, or when I heard it again and again, or the way I felt back then. A lot of U2 was played in college and hearing their songs reminds me of that time in my life. It was such a carefree and exciting time. I felt like an adult, but I was really still so sheltered from the rest of the world, from reality, from true responsibility. So anyway, there we were with our MSU friends in Spartan Stadium and life couldn't get much better than that.

I cannot remember which song Bono was singing when I looked around and felt something magical sprout from deep in my soul. I was surrounded by thousands of people and whether or not we were presidents of our local U2 fan clubs, we were all there in Spartan Stadium for the very same reason: to hear U2. We swayed together, we sang together, we came together as one for a few hours on a summer night, and it was beautiful. A Beautiful Day, according to U2.

I tucked that moment in my heart and life went on as usual until last weekend. For the last several years Dan and I have made the trek from wherever we are in Northern Michigan to Glen Arbor for the Independence Day parade. The first year we were in Glen Arbor for our family vacation. We liked it so much, we keep going back! In all fairness, I don't recall meeting a parade I didn't like, but this parade is special to me. I'm sure it has something to do with my kids going crazy about it, plotting their candy grabbing strategies, and talking about all the fun for days afterward. It's also something we've been lucky enough to share with my mom and we're all about making new traditions. There is also a Spartan float (truck) and well, we know how much it means to me to be a Sparty. As we stood there in the sun, my husband, my kids, my mom, and me, with hundreds of other people, watching the parade go by, my soul started to stir once again.

I didn't care much for history when I was younger, and I'm nowhere near a buff now, but somewhere in between lies a place of deep appreciation for the past, gratitude for the present, and trust in the future. I like that place. I love connecting the pieces of the past to the present and thinking about what is to come for me, my family, my community, my state, my country, my world...our world. The stories, people's stories of how they began, and what motivated them, and where they went with it all fascinate me. Standing on M-22 in Glen Arbor, Michigan on July 4, 2011, it felt as if all of it - past, present, and future merged into one single moment. A fantastic moment where all of these virtual strangers came together to celebrate independence. We weren't individuals or even parts of groups with which we typically identify. We were one. The military vehicles carrying Veterans and service men and women and their families, the flags waving in the wind, kids clad in red, white and blue, and my favorite - a young woman, stopping us all in our trackes, as she beautifully belted out the Spangled Banner from the Boon Doggies float, these are reminders of what it takes to gain independence and to keep it - they connect all of us to one another and to our shared history as Americans. Another beautiful day.

The third and final moment in this story occurred last night. This was more of a series of moments though. Dan's cousin, Michael, was set to marry his bride, Jennifer. Dan and I dropped the kids off with one of their beloved grandmas and headed to Saginaw for the ceremony. Already, the feeling of oneness began to set in as we rode and I thought about how wonderful it would be for Mike and Jenn to experience their wedding day surrounded by friends and family, just as Dan and I had almost 14 years ago. I don't know Mike that well and I had never met Jenn, but I was very excited for them. It was neat to think of myself, so many years ago, being welcomed to the Oginsky family with many of the same people around me, and to imagine Jenn having a similar experience.

Once the music started and the moms were escorted down the aisle, I was a little misty-eyed. I know I'm not the only sap who cries at weddings. When Jenn's dad delivered her at the end of the aisle, I saw her say, "I love you Dad." My eyes flooded. For a split second, I thought I was going to lose it and I knew I would probably be one of the few who completely loses it at a wedding, especially someone else's wedding. But then that a bit of warmth spread from deep in my soul and I was overcome with gratitude. I threw up a prayer of thanks, grateful for Jenn and her dad that they had that moment, and grateful that I too had had that moment with my dad, even though her declaration reminded me that the hug and "I love you" I yearn to give my own dad now isn't going to happen.

Jenn was beautiful, Mike looked handsome, and their bridal party, friends, and family sparkled in the radiant glow of the love shared by the bride and groom. It warms my heart thinking about all the different people who traveled to the wedding to share in the love and the beauty of the day. Again, separately, we were family, we were friends, we were the people who worked to make it all happen, but together we were one in Jenn and Mike's love. I am grateful to have been part of it, to have been touched by that love. Another beautiful day.

I trust that these profound moments of connectedness will continue for me, and I hope that I will recognize them. I hope that I will remain open to these moments - to being touched by something. To the little spark in my soul that comes from singing in unison with thousands of people in a place that I love, from standing with my family cheering for the Glen Arbor Kazoo Corps in the Independence Day parade, and from witnessing the marriage vows of two people in love. All in all, it makes for some truly beautiful days.

 Even with bags of candy, I can't convince my kiddos to pose in a picture with me.
They sure are cute though!

 I wasn't kidding - the one and only Glen Arbor Kazoo Corps

The Spartan float - an annual fave. Go GREEN!

Eureka!

Guess what?! I struck gold!

While maintaining that the main objective of this blog is to share some of my experiences on this journey through life, I will admit that I have been hoping that anyone who reads my blog finds something to take along on his or her own journey as well. We are all in this together! I only say this now because if you are reading this, you are someone I care about or someone who someone I care about cares about and I really want you to pay attention.

So today is all about sharing my gold. I am very new to this, so bear with me. I am no expert, I can't take credit for it, and I'm not even sure I fully understand it, but I think I am on to something HUGE! I am beginning to see that any journey worth taking (i.e., life) must begin with a healthy practice of self-compassion. Of course, like many things I've encountered lately, this is something I have read or heard about in the past and thought, "Well, of course! Duh!" while not putting it into practice.

My last post was about truth and how being authentic, or honest, might be painful, but can open the door to compassion for others, and for myself. I knew I was balancing on the very tippy top of the iceberg because I couldn't keep up with my thoughts on the matter. Since then I have learned a little more about self-compassion and how there is so much more to it than a simple acknowledgment that all is well.

It started with this article that Ken the Angel Life coach asked me to read. And, of course, I didn't read it when he first suggested it. I was too busy (or, enter Twilight Zone theme music - this is something my parents always did when I was a kid - I was resisting it...). Anyway, here it is Self compassion may matter more than self-esteem. So, basically, this woman Kristin Neff, an associate professor at the University of Texas at Austin, researched self-compassion and found that (drum roll) it matters more than self-esteem. Sorry, I am feeling punchy. In all seriousness, there are elements of self-esteem that are desirable and those that are not. Cultivating self-compassion allows for all the desirable elements and none of the undesirable ones. This is really important for those of us raising children, and even more important for those of us shuttling said children from competitive sport to competitive (insert sport or other event) in hopes of instilling a strong sense of self in these children. We all want the best for our children and frankly, it seems to be a bit of a crap shoot as to whether or not we are achieving "the best" in our efforts. Only time will tell.

Cultivating self-compassion is not just for our children though, my friends. The article mentions Neff's recent book, Self-Compassion: Stop Beating Yourself Up and Leave Insecurity Behind (William Morrow, 2011). Being the book whore that I am (punchy!), I immediately searched for Neff's book on amazon.com. And this is where I think I found gold. As I poked around, I found a multitude of other books about self-compassion and...weight-loss, among other things. The funny thing is, I even remember writing about how my own desire to lose weight, or get fit, or however you want to say it, would need to come from a place of self-love, rather than self-loathing, in order to be put into action. I knew that then, but somehow I haven't incorporated it entirely into my journey. Just last week I was telling someone about my inner punk who keeps insisting on french fries. Um, call me crazy, but I don't think calling myself a punk is very compassionate?!

According to Neff, compassion entails recognizing suffering and feelings of kindness for those who are suffering, so that eventually we feel an urge to help or stop the suffering. Compassion also means understanding that we all suffer, that suffering is part of the human experience. Read: when you are suffering, YOU ARE NOT ALONE (I am yelling for my own benefit). Self-compassion involves all the same things.

I think one of our challenges is to show the very same compassion we show toward others to ourselves. And, I think this is what I really meant in my last post...that by virtue of practicing compassion toward others, I learn to practice self-compassion. It sounds so simple, but if we're being honest, we know it is not that simple. I know not a single soul who lets herself off the hook with the same gracious spirit in which she would let me off the hook. Or her children, or her mother, or the grocery attendant at VG's. We are all so hard on ourselves. We come by it naturally though. We live in a very competitive society. We grew up competing in sports, competing for good grades, competing to get into college, competing for jobs, competing to raise perfect children...we are competing all the time. Have you ever told someone what a bad day you are having only to have them respond with the details of their own much worse, much more complicated, much more trying bad day? We even compete for compassion! I'm not saying that participating in healthy competition doesn't have value, of course it does. It is worth mentioning, however, that a competitive culture such as ours encourages us to feel as if we don't measure up to others when we fail at something. Perhaps recognizing that sense of failure as "suffering," instead of proof that we aren't good enough, opens our hearts right up to understanding that as humans we all suffer, we all fail, and we are all worthy of compassion.

Speaking of suffering, I have to say that celebrating Father's Day without a father sucks. There is no way around it. As I practiced self-compassion this weekend, I first recognized how lucky I am to have had a dad worth missing. He was such a great guy. I thought about all the little kiddos out there who don't have dads and I realized just how blessed I am to have had my dad for 37 years. I started to think that maybe it was time to suck it up, you know, that this was my second Father's Day without a father so I should be really good at it by now. But then I thought of myself as a little girl. I know that no matter how old I am, there will always be a little Anna inside me, longing to run to the solace of her daddy's arms. He had the biggest, strongest arms. He gave the best hugs. I miss those hugs...

That little girl will never be expected to suck it up. That little girl is suffering still. That little girl has my utmost compassion. And that too, is golden.

My sister, my dad, and me - 2005

Take Kristin Neff's Self-Compassion Quiz!

What is this blog all about anyway?

In July 2009 I decided to start blogging. I thought this would be a fun place to reflect on the craziness of my life with three children. I named it My Hat Trick in honor of my three children, or, my three beautifully scored goals, if you will. Who doesn't love a good mommy blog? And a sports reference? Well, two and a half years and only two entries later (two entries which I shared with not a single soul), I have a new hat trick on which to reflect. And this time it's all about me.

Almost a year ago my dad passed away. This loss rocked my world. It was a complete shock. Having already done the math, acknowledging the length of his parents' lifetimes, I thought he would be around for much, much longer. I imagined at least another twenty years with my dad around to revel in the glory of his legacy: my children and my sister's children. Theoretically, I'd like to think that I could accept death as a part of the process of life. We're all going to die someday, right? It didn't work that way for me. I felt lost. I didn't know how to move on. I felt as if the safety net that had so tenderly, yet fiercely cradled me for all of my life had been dropped, and I fell out. My mom was left holding her part of the net and I, like Humpty Dumpty who came before me, was broken open and scattered in pieces on the ground.

The beauty in all of it (and I really wanted to be the girl who finds the beauty in the face of great loss), is that I get to put the pieces back together. I am putting the pieces together. I wonder what to keep and what to let go of because it no longer serves me. Coincidentally, my third (and final) child is turning three this month. As I sift through these pieces, I find that many parts of me have been scattered for some time. And some of them were essential! So, thank you Dad, for forcing me to shift my focus from mom-of-three to mom-of-three and me.

So on this journey, where one might expect to seek answers from outside sources, I have found that everything I need is already present. Every answer already exists in me. Do you have any idea how exciting that is? It's true for you too. It is beautiful and it is our gift. We are our gift.

Now, as a fellow citizen of planet Earth in the year 2011, you may be thinking, "This chic is off her rocker. I need to...get another degree, seek expert counsel, read 100 self-help books, lose 20 pounds, eat all Organic, and recycle faithfully for at least one year before I will have all the answers!" Not true, my friend. You are perfect and answer-filled just as you are.

Don't get me wrong. I'm no expert and I'm not claiming to be. I'm on this journey, seeking peace, balance, and tank-top arms, just like the rest of you. And that is what I hope to share here: my journey. This blog is about my voyage. I am on my way to discovering new land, a place where I fully trust that all my answers are within and where everything is in harmony - mind, body, and spirit. This is my new Hat Trick.

Thank you.