Looking Forward

 As the year drifts quietly to a close, I inevitably think of promises kept-- and those broken --and wonder about what lies beneath the lovely wrapping in the gift of the new year. Usually I am busy making lists and resolutions at this time, but not this year.

A solidity has settled in me; a stillness, of sorts. I have some plans, of course, but they aren't revolutionary, they are already in place, supported and shored up. My major goal for this coming year is to stay the course, keep my bearings and keep looking up and out to see what's next. 

I got some big wake up calls this year. The same ones that come over and over at my age and have been hitting us all hard since CV-19 entered our world: Relationships are finite, ought not be taken for granted and can end without notice. Pay attention to what -- no who -- really matters and let go the rest. Nothing else matters. The only thing I can leave behind is the impact I have on the people I love. 

Before I move on to the next part let me talk a little about church. I'm a believer - - there's no doubt -- however, I am not always faithful. I struggle, a lot. I have talked to a trusted pastor about it and he has encouraged me, basically, to keep struggling. For now, that's where I am. I go to mass, mostly alone, because that's the most comfortable for me. It's a challenge with a gay child, and a rebellious child and kids who drift in and out of willingness to cooperate. I don't agree with THE CHURCH's stand on everything, but I did a lot of study to get here and it's where I fit most so I am trying.

It's an awkward fit at best. It's like my arms and legs are too long for my clothes and everything is stretched out of shape, but still, they're my favs. I'm good with God. On that, I'm clear and if I'm not, there will be a reckoning, right? Still . . . I'm resting easy.

Which leads to the next thing. When I was a teenager, Billy Graham was a TV evangelist. He was big on people memorizing Bible verses in case they were one day imprisoned. As an impressionable kid with a lot of time on my hands  -- there was NOTHING on TV in those days -- I took his warnings to heart. Whatever he was trying to accomplish obviously worked because many of the verses I memorized way back then are my guiding principals to this day. This has been my theme to keep me lighthearted and hopeful in the face of many challenging and un-funny family situations:  

Count it all joy, my brethren, when you meet various trial,
 for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness.
And let steadfastness have its full effect,
 that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing. (James 1:2-4)

With that, I take a big, satisfied breath. I am indeed "lacking in nothing." It has been a year of hard work with sound results. Everyone  is okay, learning and growing, including me. There is no other way to be but joyful!

I have some plans for next year but the biggest one is this: Take a breath and simply do what's next. I've got this and you do too. 

Here's a wish that the New Year dawns full of hope for you. Cheers!

Never Happier

 
"Tears were spilling down my face. I'd cried more this summer than I had in all the years since I was Izzy's age, and I'd never been happier. "

            Mary Jane by Jessica Anya Blau

I could have written this line. It seems to me -- and I admit that I am not an expert --that when we accept that which needs grieving, life gets easier. This has been the absolute hardest lesson for me to learn. I come from very stoic stock. We are not "crying" people. My family does not even cry at funerals. I once bragged that if you put 12 of my closest friends in a room, together they would not know half the turning points in my life. I rode over all of them and stuffed them down. It was a source of pride.

Disclaimer: This was all before the 90's when I chose to make my life an open book. It turned out that it was MUCH easier to just open the book than try to keep it bound shut. 

The question then, is what is going on with all these tears? More importantly, is it "above the line" grief -- true sadness that comes from a place of empathy and compassion or "below the line" crying that is dramatic, self-pitying, or attention seeking? So the answer is a bit of both, but mostly the former. I have some heartbreak over my "Middle Little" being locked away from me. There are many, many good points which I've often reiterated but there is grief there too. It's hard to see someone you love struggle with addiction (or anything, right?) I want to "fix it," of course, but that's not my part. 

There is a below-the-line piece to work on though. The piece about how I should have done something differently, better, or "right."  That is our perennial struggle as parents. We will not get it all perfect or even right. And the things we thought we got right will also be some of the things we get "wrong." We're human, after all, and even though there are lots of books, THE MANUAL isn't a real thing. We can't go by the book because we're humans raising humans . . . you know, free will and all that. We can try to be "book parents" but there is no real book. 

What I'm trying to say is, there is something beautiful in tears. A child may be struggling in a certain way and another in that, and mom is losing her memory and we are all aging. . . etcetera, etcetera, etcetera . . . all these tears are signs of an opening heart. 

• One of my students got of the car and her dad said, "I want to thank you because this morning Machi said, 'I love to come to school because Mrs. Tischler loves me."
• There was a partial solar eclipse -- so rare and beautiful and other worldly -- and I am here standing on the earth as a witness.
• I have had some amazing conversations lately with "old" friends and new ones -- deep connections -- such a rare and beautiful gift. 
  
  
• I read an old poem by Mary Oliver, "The Summer Day," and it changed my life in a heartbeat. 
• My "grand-dogger" meets me at the door with seriously unbridled joy at the end of the day. I don't believe animals don't feel emotion. 

. . . and the waters flow!

 

I hear myself joking that COVID 19 turned me into "an old softie" but I'm going to stop that here and now. That's patently false. During those months at home with my youngest 2 kids and sometimes my oldest, I had time to reflect on what truly matters to me.  

Many years ago, I had the privilege of traveling several times for a few weeks to Costa Rica and staying among local people. There is a saying in Costa Rica, "pura vida," which means, basically, to live a simple or pure and clean life; an unencumbered life. This is what I aspire to now!

After CV-19, I noticed a softening in the world around me. I saw it at school, too. Even though for the first year, we had to stay in our classrooms a lot, the staff seemed more caring and connected. I see it in stores and restaurants, even on the news. I don't think it's just me. As a world community, we've become aware: life is fleeting. 

Over the last few years, perhaps I'd gotten hunkered down with a very busy household and a pretty demanding job. I'd let myself get overwhelmed, at times, and forgotten to soften my eyes and take in the beauty around me. I hadn't let myself  turn up the tunes and sing out loud or dance like Elaine or run like Phoebe. 

Those days are over. The time is short. Look out, world!

Sharing

 

This is a poem I wrote in honor of my "sister of the heart,." Sharon Parish.  It's close to her birthday now so I thought I'd post it here to say hello. 

Sharing

by Dreena Melea Tischler

©August 24, 2006

We passed in the night

like an exhaled breath,

slowly whiffing out 

until every last sigh of it

                                        was gone.

Then I trudged into my future 

and you slipped into yours.

I cannot now see you

except 

in backward glances. 

I see you as in 

a foggy mirror 

and sometimes . . . 

I do not recognize you there.

I see you in a dress

lovingly decorated with ricrac

and a photo

and a daughter.

I see you in your tarnished pin

which I do not wear

but only hold and polish. 

Solitary, I long for that night

in which we each went to our futures

and to hold again your hand

and hear again your breath

mingled and shared,

                                    my dear,

                                                    with mine.

Image by Albrecht Fietz from Pixabay

A Spotted Pony Kind of Girl

I tell my students that I'm from "the olden days, and  I am! I know about rotary phones, life before Google, and remember having to teach people about the value of email! In this case, however, I'm talking about being from a time where your parents decided what you would be when you grew up. All four of us Huntleys knew a few things for absolute certain: we would turn 18, leave home, go to college, get degrees and support ourselves. We would have careers, marry and have children, and all in that order. None of this was ever in question. Our parents would not (and could not) help us. We'd pay our own way through.

I don't know what my siblings were told about their futures but mine was a bit ambiguous. All my life, I'd wanted to be a mother, a teacher and a helper of children. I had no other ambition. (I had a "calling" -- with an uppercase /c/ -- but that's a story for another time.) When we played with the neighbor kids, I was the teacher, running the school. 

However, my dad forbade it. "It was no career for a Huntley. I was too smart, it doesn't pay well enough it, there is no future in it." When I was a kid, if your dad said you couldn't do something, you didn't do it. So I set my sights on becoming a dietician, but my heart wasn't isn't it. All my friends at school knew what I was really doing there . . . I was working toward my Mrs. degree. I got it in my first  year and  the Mr. got me to Texas, land of my dreams.

On our trip down, we stopped to see my Uncle Myke who helped me with my vocational planning. He is the one who first called me a Spotted Pony. He said I'm like the Appaloosa*, rare, courageous and fierce but good at lots of different things and that I should NOT listen to my Dad and follow my heart and have my future wherever I wanted it. I was only 19 at the time, though, and not brave enough yet to go my own way. 

I spent several years in work far from teaching. Administrative assistant, full-charge bookkeeping, office management, that kind of thing. I loved those roles, actually. I'm really good at seeing what someone needs and quickly filling that void. One of my bosses called me "Radar," - we just had that synchronicity you sometimes have with some people.

Yet eventually, I couldn't avoid my calling. Unce Mykes words stayed with me. I worked "around" teaching: Children's Minister, Life Coach, Mentor,  Homeschool Mom and then the spotted pony finally shone through. I came to teaching at the perfect time in my life, when I had the patience to finally take on a job that takes YEARS to learn. Who knew?  I'll tell you now, I couldn't have stuck it out in my 20s. Maybe it takes a spotted pony to be a teacher. Maybe it's easier if you get caught in some fences and brambles along the way first, so you know you can get out and be okay.  

Whatever,the reason, I know I'm home. I have plenty of room and sunshine here. Happy New Year.

*The Apaloosa are a breed once found only on the Palouse, just miles from where I grew up, so very familiar to our area