lessening the fear
A year ago, I couldn't identify a sycamore tree, poison ivy, a groundhog, or a termite. I didn't know how to hold a chainsaw. I couldn't distinguish among heirloom tomato leaves to identify them as seedlings. It had been years since I'd built a fire or put up a tent.
I had never worn through a pair of work gloves. I didn't know how to lower a mower deck on a riding lawnmower, steer a zero-turn, or lift a tractor bucket. I had never driven a pick-up truck on the grass with a beer and no seatbelt (sorry, mom). I hadn't dug four-foot holes to unearth concrete blocks or transplant volunteer trees. I had never stripped wallpaper, repaired a fence, built a fence, felled a tree, or cleaned out a bird box.
I also had never made a mud kitchen, flew a balsa glider, eaten tomatoes off the vine, or gone fishing with a stick in a stream. I had never skipped rocks on a river... my own river. Grown my own watermelon to eat on a picnic blanket on a hot summer day. Driven just a few miles up the road to pick up milk from my neighbors' cows.
This morning we cleared out more young trees and scraggly vines around this towering, beautiful landmark at the edge of the woods. It changes the view from "What's back there?" to "Oh, how inviting!" Kevin and I cut trees and limbs and dragged them back into the woods while the boys played in and out of the pickup truck, running the field, climbing the fence.
We also finally replaced the garbage bags over the bright windows in our "guest" room (nap room, since we rarely have guests) with expensive shades. The windows are an unusual size (surprise!), not level (you're shocked, I know) and crammed up against the closet doors (why we will never know). This made them almost impossible to cover with normal curtains. After a few false starts we managed to find cordless roman black-out shades that coordinate with the bed and block the light to create a cozy space to rest.
This year has been so full of new experiences. I have conquered fears and learned new skills and shed a million layers I didn't need. (Almost typed lawyers, ha, I have shed those too.) I have given my kids experiences that I hope will shape their sense of confidence and balance forever. Sometimes I hardly recognize myself, except... I do. This version of me feels more familiar and true. I feel like I am on the right path.
In a few more years, we will laugh at how naive we were (even now, after almost a year of living here). We might remember how many mistakes we made. I hope we remember how proud we were each time we figured something out. How much fun it was to try. And how satisfying it was every time we completed a project. How the fear lessened and made room for joy.
My friend Lucinda, in her online yoga class yesterday, read a passage about a conversation between the self and the universe. The self says, I am falling apart! Help me put myself back together. And the universe says, I will not. You are not a puzzle. You don't need to be put back together. You are shedding. Only put back what you need. You are growing. You are becoming who you are supposed to be.
Who are you becoming?, Luci asked. What are you willing to let go of?
I had never worn through a pair of work gloves. I didn't know how to lower a mower deck on a riding lawnmower, steer a zero-turn, or lift a tractor bucket. I had never driven a pick-up truck on the grass with a beer and no seatbelt (sorry, mom). I hadn't dug four-foot holes to unearth concrete blocks or transplant volunteer trees. I had never stripped wallpaper, repaired a fence, built a fence, felled a tree, or cleaned out a bird box.
I also had never made a mud kitchen, flew a balsa glider, eaten tomatoes off the vine, or gone fishing with a stick in a stream. I had never skipped rocks on a river... my own river. Grown my own watermelon to eat on a picnic blanket on a hot summer day. Driven just a few miles up the road to pick up milk from my neighbors' cows.
This morning we cleared out more young trees and scraggly vines around this towering, beautiful landmark at the edge of the woods. It changes the view from "What's back there?" to "Oh, how inviting!" Kevin and I cut trees and limbs and dragged them back into the woods while the boys played in and out of the pickup truck, running the field, climbing the fence.
We also finally replaced the garbage bags over the bright windows in our "guest" room (nap room, since we rarely have guests) with expensive shades. The windows are an unusual size (surprise!), not level (you're shocked, I know) and crammed up against the closet doors (why we will never know). This made them almost impossible to cover with normal curtains. After a few false starts we managed to find cordless roman black-out shades that coordinate with the bed and block the light to create a cozy space to rest.
This year has been so full of new experiences. I have conquered fears and learned new skills and shed a million layers I didn't need. (Almost typed lawyers, ha, I have shed those too.) I have given my kids experiences that I hope will shape their sense of confidence and balance forever. Sometimes I hardly recognize myself, except... I do. This version of me feels more familiar and true. I feel like I am on the right path.
In a few more years, we will laugh at how naive we were (even now, after almost a year of living here). We might remember how many mistakes we made. I hope we remember how proud we were each time we figured something out. How much fun it was to try. And how satisfying it was every time we completed a project. How the fear lessened and made room for joy.
My friend Lucinda, in her online yoga class yesterday, read a passage about a conversation between the self and the universe. The self says, I am falling apart! Help me put myself back together. And the universe says, I will not. You are not a puzzle. You don't need to be put back together. You are shedding. Only put back what you need. You are growing. You are becoming who you are supposed to be.
Who are you becoming?, Luci asked. What are you willing to let go of?
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