Getting Past Messy By Maureen Eich VanWalleghan

So is anyone still going strong with their New Year’s resolutions? It’s 18 days in and the hard work of making a life change, which often resolutions are, has began.

There is something so refreshing about having a new plan for life and implementing it at the new year. It’s perfect and that’s the problem. Trying to implement perfection is impossible. It’s like trying to write neatly page after page in a new very beautiful journal. Who wants messy in that journal: tear stains, pens smudges or chocolate crumbs? So naturally the inability to attain perfection wins in the struggle to make the desired change.

Okay, what to do about this? Start early…no really, start your New Year’s resolution in October. That’s what I did and I can’t believe how great my New Year is going.

Last October, I watched the movie Julie/Julia for the umpteenth time, balling my eyes out has I had every time I’ve seen it. “I can write a blog…I have ideas” and my other favorite line: “Julia Childs wasn’t always Julia Childs“ really resonate with me. I love Julie and loved that Julia Childs found her passion at dang near 50 years old. Ahhh, I turned 49 on December 31^st. (Talk about pressure and issues of perfection…) After that viewing I watched the special features and when the real Julie said that she knew that if she wrote her blog her life would look different in a year, I thought me too, me too!!!

Maybe it was my upcoming birthday or may it was the confluence of my stars, but finally I said to myself: I am going to run a marathon for my 50^th birthday (one year and two months away) and I am going to blog about the process. The best thing about a blog is the accountability and the cheering section. Now here’s the funny part: I was going to run a marathon during my 40^th year. For my birthday I bought the books, the clothes, the shoes, everything. Mmm, let’s see I lasted probably a month and I didn’t even start reading the books.

But now there’s blogging (and I have ideas too). I started my blog, Run Mo Run in October. I started to read the books. And then I floundered, but I tried again. I floundered and whined some more, but I tried again. Up and down through my fits and starts I actually began the process, slowly. The process of committing time to my training wasn’t just about time, there was a lot of emotional baggage about putting my needs and desires first, at times before my wifely and motherly duties, that was and is difficult for me. During the two months I let go of perfection and just kept moving forward emotionally and physically.

The process of making the commitment publicly to run a marathon has also empowered me to rent an office and write full time. Amazingly, ironically, coincidently the process for getting into the office, something I have dreamed about for quite some time, was exactly the same as beginning the training for a marathon. There was and is a lot of emotional baggage to cut free.

But, here’s the best part, during the two months it took to paint, move in and start writing matched up with the new year. Now it’s January I find my self training for a marathon and writing in my new office. Perfect.

The failure of New Year’s resolutions isn’t about the lack of discipline to do the task, it’s about stepping over the emotional baggage that holds one back. Working through that is messy and messy is hard to do at the beginning of the new year.

　

　

Trying To Wake Up by Maureen Eich VanWalleghan

I am tired; exhausted really. My eyes are burning. I slept until almost 9:30am and still I don’t feel rested. Death can really make one tired.

My father has taken a turn for the worse. My stepmother has called in hospice and then all my brother’s unresolved issues got dumped into my lap in an intense email when I informed him of what was happening. I have chosen silence as there is nothing I can say to change my brother’s feelings or even “fix” the situation.

The death a week ago of my great aunt is upon us as the issues regarding my uncle start being discussed and considered. And the true impact and coming loneliness of loosing a spouse after 58 years of marriage starts to be felt.

Recent news has deeply touched me. A favorite preschool teacher of my daughter's—a woman with a very gentle soul—has a premie baby struggling to get a foothold in this world. I felt her fear as my own daughter was in the hospital at five weeks old for an emergency operation.

The ten year anniversary of 9/11 is haunting me as it does every year when that moment gets reviewed and more personally remembered.

Death is heavy and it is the burden the living carry. I sometimes wonder did it feel differently when death was evermore present in the day to day living in another age, when death could not be kept at bay. Probably not...

My antidotes for this morning: coloring with my daughter and a shower. Both are relaxing and hopefully a little barbecue with friends later this afternoon will pull me out of myself.

Also at times like this I am drawn to Rilke. “Orpheus. Eurydice. Hermes” comes to mind. I have Stephen Mitchell’s translation of The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke. With the amazing wonder of the internet, here is the link to that poem [Orpheus. Eurydice. Hermes], which hints at the exhaustion of the living when dealing with the dead.

For me, poetry can be a healing salve that soothes the rawness of feelings I have inside myself. Poetry is power. Sadly, most folks are afraid of it. I hope readers will go to the Rilke link and let that magic be felt for themselves as it is felt by me.

Where Do We Go When We Die? by Maureen Eich VanWalleghan

So I am dealing with a death in the family and wondering how to discuss this with my five year old daughter. My great aunt died yesterday. She and her husband were like a second set of grandparents for my daughter. Since my husband’s parents are dead, my husband had adopted my aunt and uncle as surrogate parents, doing things for them and often taking my daughter with him on his visits to their home.

My aunt was a very feisty gal. When I asked her what it was like to be married to someone for over 60 years she replied “It’s a lot of cooked meals.” Start doing the math and the number of meals is mind boggling. She was funny and fun. My daughter enjoyed her company. Hanging out at her home with my uncle and their two dogs, my aunt would always pull out little toys or pens and paper for my daughter to enjoy.

I really treasured my aunt. I think because she was not my mom we didn’t have the same emotional charge over issues and so it was easy to just relax around her. Generationally, she easily could have been a parent to my husband as she was 87 years old (I think.) I am going to miss her and so will my husband and daughter.

As I consider the upcoming conversation about death, I am trying to think of the questions my daughter will ask me like “Where do we go when we die?” When one has an obvious religious paradigm that governs their lives, answering the heaven question is clearly based on that religion. As a former Catholic, I just can’t speak to the big issues of life with the answers I grew up hearing. Both my husband and I fall more into a Native American ethic, though neither of us happens to be apart of any tribe. As a way to address our anti-religion stance I have started going to the Universal Unitarian church in town. In my conversations with my husband about this, I reminded him that we both had religions that we rebelled against, the least we can do for our daughter is to give her a structure for religion. And if there is something we disagree with at church then as a family we can discuss it.

A few years ago when my daughter was three years old, our dog was run over and had to be put down. We buried our wonderful dog at the lower lake by our home. My daughter got to see our dog just before she died and to touch her in death before we put our dog in the ground. My daughter asked a lot of questions, but three years old is not almost six years old. And a dog is not a person. But there it is: death is death.

So tomorrow on the drive over to see my uncle we will be talking about life and death. Today it will be more discussions between my husband and myself so that we are clear—as clear as anyone can be when faced with a loss—about the esoteric question that we all have: where do we go when we die. Figuring out how to explain what we believe to our daughter is definitely more difficult without religion.

Getting Plumper By The Year... by Maureen Eich VanWalleghan

It's Saturday morning and I keep changing my mind about what to post, but as I sit here at my desk with the hiccups, the issue of fat, my fat, being fat keeps swirling in my mind. Fat is a very “politically uncorrect” way to call this state of being, but I don’t feel like sugar-coating things, so If you are easily offended stop here.

Late life spread has occurred for me. It is such a drag. I look in the mirror and see the fat mushrooming over the sides of my pants and I am repulsed. I hate this fat more than my wrinkles. Somehow the wrinkles feel more “natural” in the aging process. But fat just feels like I am not taking care of myself. And to be sure, I am not.

Let me just say this so I can see it for myself. Pizza is not my friend. Pizza is not my friend. I should probably say it a third time since pizza is sitting on my kitchen counter right now calling me like the sirens from the Odyssey. Calling me to my peril. Pizza is the food of the gods and mothers. Last night was pizza night and a movie. Easy cooking for me to be sure. We accommodated the husband with the special pepperoni that he can eat, but I willingly sacrificed myself at the alter of wheat and had the darn pizza even though it was not the gluten-free crust that we can make at home. I have a great need for ease when it comes to eating...and cooking.

I just don’t cook for my family the way I would cook for myself. I don’t usually want to eat what my family wants to eat. And I would not have in my house—not because I don’t like it, but because I have no will power—the food that fills my fridge and cabinets. And now I have the fat to prove it.

My husband is a meat and potatoes man. I am fish eater. When I lived alone I cooked once a week and made enough food to live out of the fridge for the week. I ate fish, salmon every day along with a whole grain, lots of veggies and a ridiculous amount of green apples. Now I eat very different. Not really bad, but...there is so much tempting fare around that I am unhappy with my choices.

Okay so I don’t want to b#$%h, but I am amazed that my husband has will power and will not sacrifice his comfort when something is bad for him. He just won’t eat it and he is accommodated. That is really the crux of the matter. It’s not so much a man thing either. I have women friends who are not fat, I have yet to say they have this ability as well. So the quality to accommodate others at my expense or not, is a solidly good quality and has served me well in work and in many social situations. It does not serve me when it comes to caring for myself.

Now here’s the kicker...I have a daughter, who I want to be a good example for and so this issue of fat and really taking care of myself in terms of exercise and eating what is best for me is an imperative. But just how does one get there: not sure. Really it’s an attitude change I have to make. My husband will shop and buy whatever I want and he is sensitive to the issue that I don’t eat what I should. So really I need to invest the time. Carve out the time with a pick axe for the daily exercise and cooking food that I love. There it is in black and white...maybe a little accountability would help. Anyone want to start a blog on this??

Well, my goal for this week is to make enough fish lunches for the week for myself and have salad for dinner. No so much as a diet, but it’s the food I really like and crave and my body loves. Some of the ingredients for my fish lunches have been out on the counter since last week. Now to invest in myself. To really put my health and comfort first.

Think good thoughts for me and wish me luck...

Overschedulers Anonymous by Maureen Eich VanWalleghan

It’s 11:24pm and I need to find a over-schedulers anonymous meeting. Oh they don’t have that...well they should because I am an over-scheduler and I need help.

After writing this blog, I am still going to clean the guest bathroom and do a bit of cleaning up in the kitchen and figure out what I am wearing for the parade I am suddenly walking in because my daughter can’t walk by herself, and then I have to figure out what I am wearing to the rodeo afterward because I have to give the costumes back and then and then and then ad nauseam...

Today was long: kiddie parade this morning, shopping to get ready for my stepson’s visit—he is visiting for a month and staying in my daughter’s princess bedroom. I bought a few things to try tone down the girlie girl feel. He’s a teenager so I just wanted to respect that. Anyway, this evening I went and got the rodeo tickets, gave my daughter a bath (really play and soak for 30 minutes then quick hairwash). Then fixed up the room, put everything away that my daughter managed to pull out while I checked my email and sent off an electronic submission for my film to a festival in Germany (today being the final, final deadline). Oh please stop me.

Tomorrow (today now, July 2nd) is even more intense. Okay, what was I thinking about saying yes to a parade on the same morning that my stepson is coming in for a month long visit. My husband is picking him up at 8:30am (three hours to the airport and then three hours back) and because of my husband’s work schedule we are going to the rodeo (a very big deal in these parts) when they hit town and then my husband will go to work. I really want to run away screaming...help...help...help me...Did mention I also have work to do for the courses I am teaching and for my new online outreach job. I will be squeezing that in on Sunday.

Okay, if you are an over-scheduler raise your hand, because I know that I am not alone. I know what I was thinking about the parade. Neat experience for my daughter. It will be a fun time hanging out with her older good friend who invited her. Blah, blah, blah, blah...

So this rant is making me think of a favorite poem by Susan Griffin—circa mid 1970’s—in her book Like The Iris Of An Eye, in section III, The Tiredness Cycle.

This Is the Story of the Day in the LIfe of a Woman Trying

This is the story of the day in the life of a woman trying

to be a writer and her child got sick. And in the midst of

writing this story someone called her on the telephone.

And, of course, despite her original hostile reaction to the

ring of the telephone, she got interested in the conversation

which was about teaching writing in a women’s prison,

for no pay of course, and she would have done it if it

weren’t for the babysitting and the lack of money for the

plane fare, and then she hung up the phone and looked

at her typewriter, and for an instant swore her original

sentence was not there. But after a while she found it...

The poem keep going for another two pages. I love it. Griffin so beautifully captures the the collision of trying to make art and the rest of life. And though she is not talking about over-scheduling per say, she brilliantly reveals the whole tiredness of a mom’s life. My copy is old and the binding is broken. Who knew 20 years later—oh no, almost 30 years later—this poem would be prophetic.

The title poem is online, “Like The Iris Of An Eye.” Read it as a teaser and then consider reading the rest of the book. I love poetry. As an over-scheduler, reading poetry fits in my life. Writing poetry is another matter. I wish I could say it was National Poetry Month, but that is in April.

I really need to find that over-schedulers anonymous meeting. It’s now 12:32am and the bathroom toilet is calling me.

Becoming A Free-Range Parent by Maureen Eich VanWalleghan

I am follower of Lenore Skenazy’s blog Free-Range Kids. She has a book out by the same name, which I would very much like to buy. I bring this up because often to do the kinds of activities she promotes for Free-Range kids, activities that were once the norm, partly out of necessity and partly the world functioned differently, a parent needs to practice.

Letting kids have independence and freedom in today’s culture takes conscience effort and work, but the rewards are worth it. I have been practicing and I can tell you that at times it is a terrifying process to let my child move in greater and greater spheres beyond me—“out of my sight.” When she was little, two to three, I would let my daughter often walk a block or more in front of me in instances where there were no cars, but I could still see her. Now that she’s five years old, I am working on letting her out of my sight. When I do this in controlled environments, I still get huge knot in my stomach. I fight to overcome the urge to run after her yelling “you are too far from me.

Quick rewind to a blog I posted for Mother’s Day that included my mom’s fears that when she called me at night and I wasn’t home—when I lived in NYC—she told me she couldn’t sleep. Now as a review I was in my 30’s when I lived in NYC. So here’s my mom dealing with the same huge knot in her stomach. She couldn’t see me. Being a mom is living with this knot...and letting this human being you bore become the independent person they were meant to be.

The process of raising independent children is a difficult one. No matter the dictates of any culture, releasing a child into the world begins at birth. What’s sad is that our society has succumbed to our interior fears to the detriment of raising healthy, independent children.

Now I am starting to sound like a professor giving a lecture...easy to do since I am a professor. But let me move into a recent little moment I had with my daughter. She takes swimming lessons at the college where I work and last week she wanted to go for a walk. I responded by asking her where did she wanted to go and she said “I want to go by myself, Mom.” In my mind I was screaming to myself “You’re too little, you’re my baby, no, no, no!!!” I took a deep breath and instead decided that the campus side walk was a good controlled environment and that I could follow her in the car.

We got to the check point and she wanted to go farther. She had a sense of pride in herself. She was really happy that she was being independent. She wanted to go farther. We went farther. We did three legs of the walk and at the last leg she rounded the corner onto the main street. At that point, I had to go with traffic and so pulled out onto the main road. My daughter stayed walking along the sidewalk. I turned at the first block and pulled over. For me, this was the hardest part. She was out of my sight as she walked down the block and I pulled over. She knew this. There were no streets to cross just this stretch along the main road. It was too much for me to wait in the car even though I could see her after I stopped. I had to get out and meet her part way.

When I got to her dealing with my stomach knot was all the more poignant. She said “Mom I am so big I can really do this myself.” Ouch, I just wanted to cry and I was proud of her all at the same time. This to me is the hard work of parenting: owning the fear and walking into it anyway. This is also a definition of courage. Free-Range parenting takes courage and but the rewards are so worth it.