Cheerio Road

The grace in lieu of gratitude

2009-11-26T10:29:00.000-08:00

Planes fly
Dogs sleep
The pancreas secretes enzymatic elixirs
Sun shines
Wind moves
The bluejay calls for peanuts on the back porch
Friends greet
Pain subsides
The disposal still works
Light fills
Shadows fall
Ventilation from the ambient air into the alveoli of the lungs
The abundance of it all
And me, sitting here doing nothing.

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Missing person

2009-11-25T05:45:00.000-08:00

I caught a story in yesterday's paper that you shouldn't miss. It's not uncommon for one little story in the newspaper to sum up the wretched whole of human tragedy but this story was in a category by itself. A 13-year-old autistic boy, running from rebuke at school and evading punishment at home, stowed away in plain sight on a subway where he rode nonstop for 11 days without being noticed.

It wasn't hard to be invisible, he told police. "Nobody really cares about the world and about people.” He is a rare jewel among human beings: he can see things as they are. Read more about his journey here.

I feel as if I have been missing for some time. Not so good about reading your blogs or writing my own. Not as open-eyed or even-keeled as I might have been. I've been immersed in the late stages of the publication process: the manuscript submission, the diagnostic revisions, and now the slice-and-dice of copy edits. No one who is striving for that mythical, magical realm called "Being Published" will ever believe what it is really like: how much it extracts from you, and yet how little it changes things. It's like abdominal surgery. Over the course of the procedure, all 28 feet of your intestines are shoved aside, and in some cases, taken out and piled up on the table beside your body. Then your bowels are put back and you're sewn into the semblance of something new. For a short while you feel the effects, but before long everything is just as it was before. You're not younger, better looking, or rich. You might even been poor. You don't believe me, but you can read more about it here.

Today I said goodbye to my husband and daughter as they travel east to celebrate the holiday with my in-laws. Aside from the year my father died, this is the first Thanksgiving we haven't been together. I will attend Rohatsu sesshin, a Zen meditation retreat that commemorates the Buddha's enlightenment. It is time for me to excuse myself from the family table and do what the Buddha did, to be like the boy I told you about at the top of this post: a rare jewel who can see things as they are. You can read more about the story of Buddha here.

Next week several guest bloggers will appear in my stead. I thank them for spilling their guts, and I hope you'll stick around and read more about them here.

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Nothing you've seen until now

2009-11-22T14:26:00.000-08:00

I've been captivated by this view of the unseen marvel in a prickly pear bloom.
It's a sign of thigmotaxis.
And that's a sign that it's time to get a move on and register for the Mother's Winter Plunge in Scottsdale, Arizona on Sat. Jan. 16.

Discuss amongst yourselves

2009-11-20T13:49:00.000-08:00

I have a little load of delicates in this just-published book. I haven't seen the book yet, but I'm posting this promotional video to make it easier for me to view another 2,000 times:

Since the video is a little finicky, you can always click and see it here.

The book is one thing, but the really interesting thing (to me) is that the editor, Kirtsy co-founder and social media maven Laura Mayes, was once a co-worker of mine. Actually, I was her dictatorial but charmingly benevolent boss back when I was a woman of substance. That our lives have intersected again is something far more interesting than anything of mine you'll see in the book, because it's the way women's lives really are: deeply and profoundly connected.

I can get as riled up as the next gal about the inequality in this world of ours, the his-versus-hers, the patriarchy, and the idiots in pants. But the more I see, the more I see that's the way it has always been. There is no equal, and there is no quality. So I don't want to spend any more time getting riled up. Not while there is so much to do. Like write, and read, and fold laundry; like start companies and spread peace; like soothe the suffering and calm the cries; and discuss, yes, discuss everything amongst ourselves.

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Letting the air out of fear

2009-11-18T03:54:00.000-08:00

Exhalation is the jump. Inhalation is the parachute.

Last week I spoke to a college class – an Asian philosophy class – about Zen. It is a gas to speak about something as simple and straightforward as waking up. The thing is, in this morning lecture to nearly 100 young people, a quarter of them were completely asleep and none of my antics could stir them. If it were an audience of middle-agers, the percentage in deep sleep would spike precipitously, so this was a chance to change the course of lives, to be sure.

Sometimes when I get rolling in a talk, the ocean swells, the surge accelerates and I finish up feeling as if I'd consumed all the oxygen in the room. Pens literally drop, and we hear them. Drop. Drop. There is a cushion of hush that follows, and hardly a murmur comes forth. I was not surprised that the horde rushed the exits, and only a smattering came to the front to see me.

A young woman waited her turn, eyes wide, and when the space between us cleared, I instinctively grasped her palm in one of mine and began tracing circles with my index finger on the top of her hand. She said she wanted to talk to me about something that had happened to her recently. She said, "You tell us to trust our lives . . . "

but I have a problem letting go. People tell me I am a control freak, and I wanted to do something to prove them wrong. Something to overcome my fear.

And so she dove out of an airplane.

She described the experience. The feeling of numb nonchalance, eerie disembodiment, followed about eight hours later by total shrieking hellish recall and paralyzing terror. She'd given herself post traumatic stress.

I said, "Don't jump out of any more airplanes."

I'm sure there are some for whom it qualifies as sport or playful pastime, but skydiving is one of those ridiculous things that fearful people do to prove they are fearless, humans do to prove they are superhuman, and mortals do to prove they are immortal.

"Don't do that," I soothed, still tracing circles on the back of her hand.

"Just exhale."

This is what I tell everybody all the time these days, because I've finally realized that what all the ancients tell us really is true, and really is that simple, and really is that effortless, natural and ordinary. Just exhale.

Exhalation is the act of letting go, the release, the surrender, the trust, that otherwise seems like mumbo jumbo psychobabble coming from another New Age guru with a book and website. Just exhale, and you'll realize that all this time you've forgotten to exhale. You've become tense and constricted in your fearful distractions and your anxious grasping. All this time you've been holding onto your breath, choking yourself, and now all you have to do is exhale.

Just exhale: there's the jump. Just inhale: there's the parachute. Land in one piece without ever leaving the ground.

You're safe, you're free, you're fearless. You're dismissed.

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A stickler for the holidays

2009-11-16T18:53:00.000-08:00

I was cruising through the living room with a basket of laundry the other day and caught sight of the television (hint: it's not hard to catch sight of my husband's new 47-inch Panasonic high-definition attention span) where I learned that we are already in the midst of a holiday shopping season described as frantic, manic, rough, tough and tricky.

This was completely news to me. Frankly, news like this is always news to me. After Jan. 1, everything that comes stampeding at me for the rest of the year – all the Hallmark occasions, the manufactured shopping seasons, the media histrionics and pandemics – is news to me. I'm living on the tail end: the perennial last to know. It's quiet here, and we're not in the midst of any mayhem.

The truth is, I kind of like it that way. I like not getting worked up ahead of time. I get plenty worked up right on time. And it occurred to me, being so concerned with the well-being of others, that I could share the bliss by offering a one-touch way to get someone else's holiday shopping done before they even begin!

Just point them in the direction of this gift certificate to the Mother's Winter Plunge on Jan. 16 in Scottsdale. This year, care enough to send the very best to that special someone who is frantically shopping for you. Tell them to save the hassle, the traffic, the wrapping paper, the hiding place and the surprise for someone else. Tell them to send you to Scottsdale.

And after the shopping is done, have some tea. I might have to ask for some myself.

Mother's Winter Plunge Holiday Gift Certificate

How to make a baby

2009-11-15T06:56:00.000-08:00

Add baby.
Dispose of birth plan.
Put all cashmere out of reach.
Abandon eurostyle.
Abandon style.
Piss on style.
Shop Wal-Mart in haste and desperation.
Beg for hand-me-downs.
Wear husband's sweatpants.
Every day.
Leave room for baby weight, flat feet, worry lines and permanent scars.
Resemble your grandmother.
Forget bathing.
Luxuriate in a hot shower for 7 seconds one day.
Forget that day.
Chop off your hair.
Lose your head.
Soak all stains overnight in salty tears.
(The stains remain and the tears return.)
Simmer in fatigue.
Whisk in exhaustion.
Churn the night into the day.
Let surface harden until brittle.
Scrape the bottom.
Let time evaporate.
Give up completely.
Make nothing.
Except mac and cheese microwaved for 3.5 minutes on High.
Love without doubt.
Forever.

If you have a minute, stop by here and give Theresa an attagirl.

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Madonna of the magnificat

2009-11-12T09:18:00.000-08:00

I cannot let this day pass without a hallelujah! Without a scream! Without a dance! Without wonder and awe! Without immensity of love and gratitude everlasting!

Sylvia Marie Olson
8 lbs, 8 oz
20 inches
Lots of red hair!

Born 5:56 a.m. on November 12, 2009

Perhaps you met this family in my backyard about eighteen months ago. Perhaps you met my friend Jen at the first Mother's Plunge. Perhaps you know everything I'm about to show you. And if so, you know it bears repeating again and again. The glory of eternal life is fully shining here.

The Buddhist in the jury box

2009-11-11T07:22:00.000-08:00

We're sometimes told that one key to an ethical lifestyle is to not take anything personally. That sounds like a good idea but practically speaking, your honor, I object.

State your:
Area of Residence
Occupation
Marital Status
Spouse's Occupation
Occupations of Adult Children
Previous Experience as a Juror

I studied the instructions posted on the courtroom wall. The judge said, "Pass the microphone to Juror Number 11."

I told him where I lived, and then I said, "I'm a Buddhist priest."

***

I like to think of myself as a good citizen, but let me come clean: I haven't been upholding my civic duty for the last few years. When you are a full-time caregiver of children under school age, you are exempted from jury service. After that, you have to dodge and deceive to exempt yourself, and that's what I've done for the last five years, vexed by the question of after-school childcare.

Then, as we expect of our civil society, the court came breathing down my neck with a high-dollar penalty. So I showed up at the criminal justice center downtown for a day of jury service. I hadn't found a way to manage an unforeseen absence at home, but I did have an epiphany. I realized I could tell the truth about myself, and that alone might disqualify me from participation in our system of justice. Truth, you see, is the ultimate defense. It's the defense of having no defense.

Maybe doing good would do me some good, I bargained.

It was 11:30 a.m. before I landed in a big courtroom with 40 other potential jurors, a charming judge, and two sides in a criminal case expected to last up to eight days. The judge warned us that with the late start, we might be required to come back an extra day before jury selection could be completed, and I began calculating the collateral impact at home.

Before anything could begin, we had to break for a 90-minute lunch.

You might think that a 90-minute lunch break is absurd given the overcrowded state of our judicial system. I would have agreed until I saw that it took nearly 30 minutes just to get an elevator down to the first floor. Loaded up, our elevator cab had descended only two of 15 floors before it was stopped and commandeered by peace officers.

There was a scene on the landing before us: a cursing woman with her elderly mother, making a screaming ruckus, encircled by a half-dozen bailiffs trying to corral them into the elevator. One of the officers said, "Wait! Here's her son" and a boy who looked to be no more than 12 walked through the stiffened crowd, his arm around an even younger girl who was shaking with sobs.

The floor emptied and I took refuge on a cold bench where I sat down and cried my eyes out.

***

When the juror interviews began after lunch I was surprised at how diverse we were: a couple of computer guys, a CFO, a real estate agent, an insurance adjuster, a retired teacher, a secretary, a daycare worker, assorted entrepreneurs, sales and marketing types, a therapist, and a guy who said – as though it was the most obvious thing under the sun – "I'm a steel splitter." The judge parried with each, teasing out the hidden biases.

And then he got to me. He was quiet after I told him my occupation and I thought, "He knows I'm a goner. He won't waste a question."

"There will be people in this courtroom who don't share your lifestyle," the judge said.

I laughed.

"I mean, they don't live the way you do," he continued.

I said, "I doubt that."

He searched for a way to poke my sensibilities.

"There might be a witness, for example, who has blue hair. Can you be open-minded about that?"

I sat there, the only person among the 40 in the room without a hairdo, coiffed or colored, without a shred of style, without cosmetics, without an iPhone, the only one who looked different than anyone else, the only one who'd spent the lunch break crying for a nameless shamble of a no-count family shoved onto an elevator going down.

"Absolutely," I said.

***

"Juror Number 11 thank you for your service, you're dismissed."

My truth telling was vindicated. I was relieved, not surprised or offended, but I still took it personally. I've never found a way to take things other than personally. When you realize that everything everywhere is personal, it changes you. Under the blue hair, we're all one big red broken heart: riven by crimes for which there is no defense and never enough tears.

This is the first in an installment of weekly Wednesday Stories, personal accounts of the shared truth in our complicated lives.

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The complicity of blindness

2009-11-09T14:24:00.000-08:00

The day gives light to things.

In other words, wake up! I may be the only person on the planet who gets such a guffaw out of spam emails from the purveyors of terribly clever and inanely unnecessary things. Today, the $49.95 voice interactive alarm clock. Around here, we have a voice interactive alarm without spending $49.95.

Like looking for the eyeglasses on top of your head. A treatise on asking a teacher how to find a teacher, over at Shambhala SunSpace.

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Triple strength stainfighting color booster with fragrance crystals

2009-11-08T07:57:00.000-08:00

If you come to the end of another week feeling as though you've missed out on something, this will help.
If you have difficulty relaxing, this will help.
If you think you can't live without your iPhone, your computer, your TV or your Baby Cry Translator App, this will help.
If you struggle to go to sleep most nights, this will help.
If you are afraid to turn on the news, answer your door, speak to a stranger or knock on your neighbor's door, this will help.
If the thought of the holidays, and the end of the year, fills you with anxiety and guilt that you have not accomplished enough so far in your life, this will help.
If you are worried about your partner, your children, your parents, your job, your health, your finances, your HDTV signal or anything at all that might fall apart tomorrow, this will help.
If you think you're not good enough, this will help.
If you think to yourself I'm not getting any younger, this will help
If you think to yourself I'm not getting any wiser either, this will help
If you are afraid, this will help.
If you are angry, this will help.
If you are sad, this will help.
If you are confused, this will help.
If there is no way you have the time to do this, this will help.
If your alternative is to stay at home and scream at the kids, this will help.
If you tried meditation once and didn't like it, or if you don't know how to do it, or think you're doing it wrong, or think that you'll never be able to do it, this will help.
If you want to know where the truth comes from, where the love comes from, where the words and music come from, this will help.
If you think this is something you'll get around to doing someday, this will help.

Beginner's Mind One-Day Meditation Retreat
Hazy Moon Zen Center
Los Angeles
Sunday, Nov. 15, 9-5
Register here

If you wonder how doing one thing can possibly help in all these ways, it's because it won't hurt.

Why will I be there? All of the above.

The keys to heaven

2009-11-05T07:04:00.000-08:00

Recently I ran across a new Buddhist blog that says it is for people who "are interested in meditation but don't want to pretend they live in ancient Asia." I try not to get too worked up about how people characterize Buddhism, but that line about pretense got my attention.

If I have your attention, please hop over to the web magazine Killing the Buddha, where my newest essay, "Grass Huts and Hermits" is up this morning. I'm looking into the future of American Buddhism, and it seems an appropriate way to sum up this week's explorations of faith.

You have the keys. Get going!

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Michael with the gloves off

2009-11-03T20:00:00.001-08:00

I told the best of my friends I would write about this, as uncharacteristic as it seems. The impact was that stunning.

The other night I had an unforgettable dream. For one thing, it's the full moon and all. It's been some time since I've had a dream this vivid, and I knew that I would have to share it. For 24 hours after, I couldn't find the words. My mouth would hang open, my eyes fill to the brim. Here goes.

I was standing in a room with a guide. Expectant, awaiting. I would be meeting someone soon. And then I realized I was standing backstage about to meet Michael Jackson as soon as his performance was over.

Whaaat? I'm no hysterical fan. I share only everyone's appreciation for his musical genius and discomfort with everything that came after. Still, collective consciousness weaves its way into unwitting spaces.

He entered and stood before me. Instead of a shadow of black, a camouflage of dark costuming, he was enrobed in yellow light. I stared into his open and unlined face. It was pure, unblemished. There was no shield or barrier; no fabricated drape of hair, hat or sunshade. I looked into his eyes and he looked into mine and I thought to myself, I could look at him forever.

Honestly, I could cry at the recollection.

Just at the moment I've realized what a contortion self-image is, how we cripple and mutilate ourselves with false identity, the confines of our shame and guilt, I have an audience to prove the point. This is Michael without that. Without the guise and defense; the self-hatred. This is pure love.

He said to me, I'll be seeing a lot of you.

I said, I'll be seeing a lot of you too.

And then I realized where I was, where we'll all be, when we make that change.

It's not you, it's me

2009-11-01T13:44:00.000-08:00

My daughter has eight American Girl dolls and more than 200 outfits for them. They occupy a trunk, a dresser drawer, and a considerable amount of the floorspace in her room. I only wish they occupied an equivalent amount of her time, but I've learned not to expect that of childish things.

The sum of all this is so outrageous, so embarrassing, that I hesitate to do the math, but I will. Here is how we got in this mess: one doll was a hand-me-down, one came from her parents, one was awarded as a prize, one purchased with her own savings and the rest resulted from masterful pleas to aunts and grandparents.The newest one is always loved best of all, "best" and "all" being subject to the excruciatingly short lifespan of any fancy.

A year ago, I decided to put the kibosh on the whole thing, since to me at least, eight of anything has always been enough.

Yesterday I received something quite close to the following email.

Hi Karen: Well, our contingent feels pretty pleased with themselves regarding Chanukah. When Georgia was here in September she was very enthused about the new AG Doll, Rebecca. Of course we were all delighted. I just ordered Rebecca, plus accessories and the book, ______ got the pink "movie" dress, ______ got her two more books about Rebecca, and ______ got her Rebecca's fur coat and muff set. It means a lot to us that she wanted it.

For those of you who don't follow these developments with rabid self-interest, Rebecca is a soft-body plastic doll sold for $114, book and accessories included, embroidered with the storyline of a girl who celebrates the treasured traditions of her Jewish family.

From time to time I'm asked what it's like to be married to someone who doesn't share my practice, or more to the point, what it's like to be in an interfaith marriage. This is what it is like.

***

The brilliant novelist and kindred spirit Elissa Elliott, herself a disaffected former fundamentalist Christian, has a fascinating post up today. I just read it, and it arrives like heavenly host into the dark storm of my wounded heart. She takes up the curious ramifications of the rising percentage of Americans who have no religious affiliation, a segment that will likely reach 25 percent of the population within two decades. She quotes one religion writer as saying "believers are perplexed and disappointed with God." I rather think people are perplexed and disappointed with other people: their internecine fights and religious-political warfare.

At my weariest, I feel all alone, but more of us are beating a retreat every day.

***

I've written before about how my daughter views all this, or at least how she used to. It was inspiring and uplifting to me to see how purely she saw us all as one: the divisions meaningless, the sum greater than the parts.

If you click the link you might be wondering how the trip to Israel went. We didn't go, because the brothers couldn't work it out.

Yesterday I sent something quite close to the following email:

You can rest assured that Georgia sees herself as Jewish, and always has. No one here tries to take that away from her, or impose anything at all on her. What it means is entirely up to her. My only job is to leave all her options open, pick up the clutter, clean out the drawers, and love her no matter who or what she thinks she is. She doesn't have to please me. No one in my family has ever insisted she be Christian, for goodness sake, or Buddhist, for that matter.

I am fully aware that this is the most trouble I have ever made about this, but then I've been uncharacteristically loud lately.

More and more it seems to me that there is one truth, and it cannot be named. Religious faith is one thing, but religious identity is another: like all identities, a complete human fabrication, and the source of perpetual conflict and suffering. Alas, we like to suffer, and spread it.

***

Elissa's post closes with a sentence that pierces me through and through. It seems the name for people who claim no religious affiliation in our country has been shorthanded to "nones." She writes, "I had no idea that there's an actual term for all of us."

There has always been a term for all of us. It's called us.

But that's what wishing is for.

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Magic spell from a pincurl wizard

2009-10-30T11:33:00.000-07:00

Auspicious Dharani for Averting Calamity

No Mo San Man Da Moto Nan Oha Ra Chi Koto Sha Sono Nan To Ji To En Gya Gya Gya Ki Gya Ki Un Nun Shia Ra Shiu Ra Hara Shiu Ra Hara Shiu Ra Chishu Sa Chishu Sa Chishu Ri Chishu Ri Sowa Ja Sowa Ja Sen Chi Gya Shiri E Somo Ko

Translation:
Veneration to all Buddhas!
The incomparable Buddha-power that banishes suffering.
Om! The Buddha of reality, wisdom, Nirvana!
Light! Light! Great light! Great light!
With no categories, this mysterious power
Saves all beings; suffering goes, happiness comes!

***

If I ever tell you that I'm saying a service for you, this is what I say. On another note, it warms a mother's heart to see that there is some magic that only pincurls can accomplish.

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Monkey love

2009-10-27T06:00:00.000-07:00

First, I want to thank all the commentators on my last post, even those who told me off. I will let you off the hook for not liking me. It's easy enough to let us someone off the hook, since there is no hook except the one I invent with my judgment and expectations.

What I want to explore is where we get the sense that we are so inept at parenting. Where does that judgment come from? It's a fascinating piece of self-inquiry.

Once I gave what I judged to be a good talk at my Zen Center about the extraordinary challenges of parenting. The parents in the room nodded in solidarity. Why, oh why, was it so hard to do it well, to do it right? Ours was the most difficult job in the world! The discussion wound on and on, going nowhere, until my teacher gave a harrumph.

"Even monkeys can raise their young!" he said.

"Raise them badly," I thought at the time, taking his comment to be little more than the rude evidence of his unique insensitivity. "He might have been a father," I reassured myself, "but he was never a mother!" Mothers, I knew firsthand, could be the unrivaled experts at doing difficult things. With an extra degree of difficulty, I might add.

Some of us take at face value the conventional wisdom that "parenting is not intuitive." It sounds true, since we judge ourselves to be so bad at it. But that would mean that human beings are the only species on the planet without the intuitive capacity to raise their young. That sounds false.

There is something that inhibits us, but I don't think it's intuition. After all, we have a boundless store of intuitive wisdom that functions miraculously with no interference from us. That's what I wrote about in a column that ran yesterday on Shambhala Sunspace. No, what sets us apart from monkeys and all other mothers in the animal kingdom is our intellect. Our higher-order thinking, wherein resides knowledge, comprehension, analysis and judgment. Intellect is useful, but it is limited. Intuition is mysterious, and it is boundless.

Knowledge is acquired, but wisdom is revealed. Each has its place, until we come to the matter of judgment, critical judgment of ourselves and others. This is where the hooks are – the shoulds, the bests, the rights and wrongs, the perfect and imperfect, the not good enoughs. We must be careful when we ensnare ourselves in judgment, because there is no love there, not even monkey love, and that's the most irresistible kind.

***

Edited to add: This link to a redemptive story in today's Times for all of us so preoccupied with "how things will turn out."

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Lay off the parents already!

2009-10-24T19:25:00.000-07:00

OK, I've had it up to here and my head is about to explode.

I spoke to a group of parents at a preschool last week, and I got there early so I wouldn't get caught in Southern California's all-day traffic. So I sat on a teeny tiny chair at a teeny tiny table for an hour while the group took care of an agenda of issues vital to well-intentioned childrearing:

Eco consciousness
Internet privacy
How to use twitter
Pie sale
Germ control
School photos
Snack schedule
Yard sale
Teacher evaluations
Plastic forks vs. silverware
Potluck
Halloween costumes
Raffle

After a two-minute break, I got up to speak to a room of parents who held stacks of handouts from the one-hour meeting just concluded. I was silent for a bit, and then I shared what I've been feeling lately, which is the need to shut up about parenting. "You have enough on your hands. I don't want to contribute to the enormous body of information out there. I don't want to give you anything else to do, or worry about not doing."

I'm not going to use my inside voice right now, because I'm angry at the way the news media, aided by all manner of publicity hounds, a whole industry of gurus, keeps bullying the most vulnerable pack on the playground. They call us names. They make fun of us. In fact, they make a sport of it. And so I'm blowing the whistle.

LAY OFF THE PARENTS ALREADY.

"Stop the presses!" exhorts one review for a recent parenting book. "Everything you thought you knew about parenting is wrong!" Way to sell buddy, but are you really helping anyone else but yourself? You think what we need is more conflicting opinions? More self-doubt? More judgment? More test results? More pseudo-science telling us how many mistakes we've already made? More worst-case scenarios to fret over?

You want me to believe you have the missing link to a perfect outcome? An Ivy League early admission? A fairytale future? A happy, grateful, gifted, well-adjusted child? (What does well-adjusted mean anyway?) I think I'm going to have to live with the child I have, no matter what, and with me as her mother, no matter how lacking we all might think I am. I think I'm going to have to forget all my high-minded expectations and forgive us both while I'm at it.

Last week there was a story in the New York Times that sent my cranium ricocheting off the kitchen ceiling. In the name of reporting, the article takes parents to task over shouting. Since when is shouting news? Before I send you off to read this one more time, let me level my head and admit that this is exactly the same kind of story as all those "this-is-the-new-that" stories. You know, white is the new black, paper is the new plastic, up is the new down. It doesn't take itself half as seriously as I'm taking it.

First thing in the article comes the inconvenient fact that "parental yelling is a near-universal occurrence." File that under "Duh." Except then the article goes on to say, "this generation of parents seem to be uniquely troubled by their outbursts." I don't buy that. I think parents have always been troubled by their outbursts. But if a story doesn't suggest some aberration, some new twist, this wouldn't be a story at all, and there wouldn't be an industry of experts selling into it.

Oh, those smarty pants parents who think they know it all: they can't stop screaming! (Sorry, I can't stop screaming.)

I finally get it. Like the story says, it's socially unacceptable to spank children. But it's terrific fun to spank the mom and dad.

When I speak to parents it's with the sole aim of reassuring them that they already have everything they need to raise their children. They have enough love, enough patience and enough forgiveness, even when they think they don't. Parents have their frustrations, their tears, their confusion, and their outbursts, the very tar pit where competence and confidence eventually oozes up from. The point where you think you can't go on is the very point that a breakthrough occurs. Parenthood is nonstop personal transformation. We can't figure it out because we can't figure it out! It's not Sudoku, you know. (Full disclosure: I can't figure that out either.)

I'll admit it's a hard sell when you're not selling anything: not a lecture series, not therapy, not an online class, not a packaged set of DVDs for $299. One of my talks was at a conference where the workshops covered the usual rugged turf: handling sibling rivalry, effective discipline, non-violent communication, how to raise girls today, how to raise boys today, resolving conflicts, teaching diversity, managing transitions and a host of terrors that have us trembling in the sanctuary of our own homes. Leaving the hotel after, I saw a woman from my workshop sitting in the hallway wiping her eyes, and I wondered if I'd hurt her feelings.

"You were the only speaker all day who didn't convince me I was doing everything wrong!" That, my friends, is the only parenting problem they don't presume to solve.

I'm so sad. I'm so tired. I'm so frustrated. I'm going to my room to cry it out.

I'll be back in a day or so to talk through my feelings the way some of you probably think I should. But the thing about feelings is that they don't last the way you think they would.

(The rant is not over, but the end is in sight, as it always is.)

Thick with the sisters

2009-10-23T06:00:00.000-07:00

I am a keystroke away from booking another merciful spot for a Mother's Plunge, this one in San Francisco on May 22. I'm so thick with the sisters (nuns) these days. It's as though these forgotten spiritual hideaways wait for the taking by the desperate rest of us. Promise me if you're on the shady northern side of our glittering state, you'll join me there. Mark the date now.

One thing that astounds me about these gatherings is the reach of our sisterhood. I'm awed by the mysterious origin of the audience that comes. Oh, some of my bloggy girlfriends appear. But more, far more people come from who knows where. This world of ours goes so far beyond these flimsy filaments of social media. So far beyond the bitsy bandwidth we blast away at. Do not fool yourself: real is much more virtual than virtual pretends to be. In the real world, you can really see one another: hug, hold and heal. There are no usernames or password protections. No codes or learning curves.

A part of me is pouncing forward with this momentum. And yet the movement is backward. To the simple, innocent, magical power of women (men, too!) meeting face-to-face, and opening our eyes and hearts to the ancient truth that no technological blink can hold a candle to.

All that, plus today's winner of the Shambhala Sun subscription is Jena Strong. This time the early bird caught the sun, the worm, the dew, and the fading glow of moonlight. Thank you to everyone who had the good sense to try.

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What I know to be untrue

2009-10-19T14:04:00.001-07:00

You'll hear from me first thing Monday.

We're in your neighborhood working and we'd like to give you a free estimate.
It's all your fault.
No child will be left behind.
Drinking in moderation is good for you.
The kids are asleep.
It's educational.
When it's gone, it's gone.
Only this once, I promise.
I'll eat the leftovers.
I can't live without you.
You forced my hand.
I understand.
I can't take it a minute longer.
Guaranteed to keep the weight off.
I had no choice.
The world will never be the same.
Regulation destroys innovation.
We're fighting for their freedom.
That's why Canadians come here.
We will never sell your email address.
Limited time only.
We know you have a choice of carriers, and we thank you for choosing to fly with us.
I never go on Facebook.

Oh! And another one: I'm finished.

What about you? What do you know to be untrue?

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The mother you never knew you had

2009-10-18T15:56:00.000-07:00

Bring me that mother.
The one who fills up a pot
turns the flame up to hot
dials the phone for a long talk
and lets it boil over again.
It's okay.

Bring me the one who wakes from a snore
plants his feet on the floor
grabs mismatched socks from a drawer
darts out the front door
running fast, late and stressed out again.
It's okay.

Bring me the one who lives by herself
a chipped cup on a shelf
unaware of her wealth
power reach magic health
until she smiles at a stranger again.
It's okay.

Bring me the one who sniffs change on the breeze
covers a sneeze
lets the air freeze
and knows the bloom will unfurl once again.
It's okay. It's always okay.

Bring me that mother who isn't a mother.
Not the kind you think she would be.
Man, woman, mother or not.
It's okay.
There's no other mother to be.

Bring me that one.

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The bigger the hat the smaller the horse

2009-10-15T21:36:00.001-07:00

And other recollected wisdom from the day heaven kissed earth. These two thousand words are from the hand and heart of Tracey.

And just because, leave your name in a comment, plus a way to reach you by email, and I'll draw for a gift subscription to my literary patron, the Shambhala Sun magazine. Winner drawn next Friday, Oct. 23, rain or shine.

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Seriously, who writes this stuff?

2009-10-14T12:32:00.000-07:00

Dusting off old pages while I work out from under stacks of deadlines.

I come from what now seems like the Mesozoic era in office technologies. The world's first word processor had just emerged from the primordial ooze, so big and noisy that it required its own room and mammal-like operator, the telephone was the only phone, text was the squiggly lines in the newspaper, mail, thank god, came only once a day and was read only once a week and the work day was just the day. We had these pink pads all over the place to record messages and they were labeled "While You Were Out."

Perhaps they are still used. How would I know? I've been out. But if you take a look at them they are so charmingly archaic. Even the label, "While You Were Out" is so gentile, so mild mannered as opposed to "Where the Hell Were You" which is the attitude I presume message etiquette to consist of these days.

It has little boxes to annotate the nature of the missed event. "Came To See You" says one. I realize this still happens – mostly, salespeople cold calling. But can you imagine a time when a connection was still a connection? People met by meeting, and not in a meeting, which is not where anyone actually meets at all, since my husband tells me that, while I was out, meetings have come to consist of people sitting around a table, each hammering stone-faced into their laptops.

While I'm Out, I hope that you will Come To See Me, because I Will Call Again with these Messages which I hope time has not rendered obsolete, or for that matter, Urgent, but just a wink of pink for you to record the While.

Your trust fund has gone up.
Dinner at my place?
This will make you happy.
You won.
Good news!
You won't believe this.
Just wanted to say hello.
Happy Halloween
What did you do all day?
Take the rest of the day off.
We'll be in your neighborhood next week.
This is what you'd look like without $22,800 worth of makeup.

The Parent's Little List of Letting Go*

2009-10-13T07:56:00.000-07:00

A seasonal refrain sung to the tune of a deep exhalation.

Baby is born.
Baby sleeps through the night.
Baby bites.
Baby crawls.
Baby turns 1.
Baby stops sleeping through the night.
Baby pees in potty.
Baby throws binkies in trash.
Baby starts kindergarten.
Baby stops sleeping through the night.
Baby's first drop-off.
Baby's first text.
Baby loses first tooth.
Baby's first career plan.
Baby stops sleeping through the night.
Baby's first true love.
Baby's last Barbie.
Baby's first head lice.
Baby's second true love.
Baby's first first-place.
Baby stops sleeping through the night.
Baby says, "Mom, I like your deodorant. Can you get me some?"

Baby is always right on schedule.

*Not so little. Never ever gone.

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Desert oasis

2009-10-08T09:38:00.000-07:00

After the thrill chill of Minnesota, awaiting a winter bloom at the Mother's Winter Plunge, Sat., January 16, Franciscan Renewal Center, Scottsdale, Arizona. More details and registration coming next week.

Holy clothesline

2009-10-07T08:54:00.000-07:00

An early start on an easy load!

(Taking pre-orders before it's even dry.)