Nicole
Lusiani Eliott

We Belong to One Another

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A Conversation with My 8-Year Old

May 29, 2021 · Leave a Comment

2013-08-01 19.50.21Hey, Mom, did you know we have another teacher?

Another teacher?

Yeah, a math teacher. He comes in once a week. He came last year too.

Really? What for?

To teach math, duh.

Easy Attitude Guy.

Right, sorry. (hands up, palms facing me, eyebrows up as if to say, “Whoa, chill, I got it”) To teach math, Mom. He comes to teach math. Once a week—every Tuesday. He comes and we all listen and then Ms. Jones* learns how to teach us and then she helps us the rest of the week until Mr. Miller comes again to teach us something new.

Do you like that?

Yeah, it’s cool. And Brandon? Brandon is to Ms. Jones like Mr. Miller is to us.

Nice with analogies. Tell me how that works.

Well, number lines aren’t really Ms. Jones’ thing, so Brandon monitors her closely when she does them and when she makes a mistake her helps her fix it.

Like Mr. Miller monitors you and your classmates?

Yeah.

That’s nice of Brandon.

Yeah, he’s a nice guy.

So, tell me about this Mr. Miller.

Well, he’s bald.

Oh yeah?

Yeah, he’s bald.

What else do you know about him?

He’s married.

A husband or wife?

Wife.

How do you know? Does he wear a wedding ring?

No.

Well then how do you know?

He talked about her in a problem last week. “I have 287 pieces of candy; my wife has 218. How many do we have in all?” See? (Raised eyebrows, shoulder shrug) A wife.

Huh. Cool. What else? Is he young or old?

In between-ish (hand flat, rotating side to side). Probably middle 40’s-ish.

Like Daddy?

Yeah, except he’s all bald and Dad’s only a little bald on the top. Also, he doesn’t have a beard or mustache. Only a little facial hair.

Wait, what? He has facial hair but not a beard or mustache?

Yeah, you know, like scraggly short-ish hair (hand close to face making patting motion but not quite touching it).

You mean, like stubble?

Yeah, stubble. Dude needs to shave.

So he’s middle 40’s-ish, bald, has stubble on his face, he has a wife, and he’s good at math.

Yep (lips pursed, head nodding) that about covers it.

Cool.

Yep.

 

Categories : Joyous Madness

Marriage

May 29, 2021 · Leave a Comment

Nico_0001This past summer my family and I traveled to the countryside of France for my brother’s wedding. He and his bride gave me the honor of not only walking my beautiful niece down the aisle, but also of speaking to what I know of marriage. My hard-earned wisdom on the subject came as the following.

As a point of reference, my brother’s name is Nicholas. Born to different mothers, perhaps our father knew somehow that he could not provide us the stability most siblings share, so he gave us names so closely related in order to thread us together the best he could. My brother is one of the great gifts my father has given me and I’m so very grateful that our families have come to know and love each other.

Love coming in a way that is unexpected and, yet, just the way it is supposed to. That, in itself, is marriage.

***

IMG_8077Nic and I have had an unusual vantage point when it comes to marriage. To say we grew up without a traditional model is probably an understatement, yet for whatever reason both of us have chosen faith over fear. I did so very young and with reckless abandon; Nic has done so thoughtfully, reflectively, and with great intention. He may be my younger brother, but often times and in many ways, he is far wiser.

There are many cliches about marriage–the journey not the destination, the marathon, not the sprint…and they are all true. However what I’ve come to understand after being married almost 16 years is that each marriage is unique to its participants.

So rather than speak about marriage in specific terms, I will share a perspective. In very general terms there are three ways to view a marriage. There is the romantic version of marriage that lasts about five minutes and, while wonderful in the moment, is destined to end in disappointment. And there is the institutional version of marriage, an agreement between two people to create a practical set of mutually agreeable routines that guide their days. Then there is a third version of marriage, one I see already blooming between Nic and Nejma, and that is one of spiritual partnership.

From this perspective the two people involved consciously view their roles as partners in an evolutionary process. Sometimes this can take the form of nurturing support. When one of us is afraid the other is there to guide, ushering us through doors we know are right but we are afraid walk through on our own. These are the kind of times when gratitude comes easily and love flows freely.

Choosing a spiritual partnership, however, means accepting the reality that the lessons we are on this earth to learn are not always easy and that our greatest teachers are also the source of our greatest frustration and pain. Everything we avoid in life comes to pass again and again until we learn the lesson but when that lesson comes haunting in our marriage it can make our partner almost unrecognizable.

This is disconcerting and can be deeply frightening because in our marriage is where things are supposed to be most safe. When we remember our purpose for one another, however, built on a strong foundation of trust and clear intentions, then we can be vulnerable enough to stop defending ourselves against this stranger in our home and instead ask ourselves what lesson our love is trying to teach us.

Choosing learning over fear isn’t easy, but it is as simple as making the choice. It is a choice made day by day, sometimes moment by moment, and it is a gift we give to one another in love and for love. And it is this love that will sustain and grow us into the people we are meant to be.

Learning to lean into marriage as our greatest classroom and our partner as our greatest teacher is where true Love resides. Nic and Nejma have crossed this threshold and to you both I say, welcome home.

Categories : Relationships

Traveling Tuesdays, Part II: Today Sucked

May 29, 2021 · Leave a Comment

After getting barfed on yesterday, not to mention the complete washout we experienced on the bus, I thought today would look up. Apparently, not so much.

Rome in July is hot–wicked hot. Now when I say hot, I’m not sure you understand just how hot. Today was 93 degrees. If that’s not enough to convince you, allow me to introduce you to the temperature’s evil twin, 93% humidity.

And then there’s us, standing in line again because July is high tourist season in Rome and that, my friends, is what’s called a double whammy. We stand in line out in the burning sun for the bus, stand in line to see the Trevi (which was being cleaned so by the time we got up there there wasn’t even any water), stand in line to get on another bus, stand in line to get a slushie that ended up being gross…and it’s so crazy hot, in case you didn’t catch it the first (or second) time I said it.

The day was looking up when we stopped in at a local pizza place that had the best pizza I’ve ever had in my life. The. Best. Pizza. Ever. OMG, Margarita, I love you. I honestly thought I might squeal in delight as I ate it.

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The pizza and wine and leisurely lunch seemed to have pulled us through our funk and we were ready to tackle the afternoon.

Until we got into the Vatican.

I expected this to be a most holy place. I did not expect the crowds or the heat or the behavior of my young son to be so very unholy. Moving through rooms of precious art like chattel, it was a disgrace both to the artists and to art itself.

We spent only an hour in the Vatican and most of that was just trying to navigate the crowd, not because we had really stopped to look at anything. The entire hour, and I mean the entire hour, Tom complained.

IMG_6945

His favorite tirade, “I’M GOING TO DIE OF THIRST, DON’T YOU CARE? DON’T YOU LOVE ME? I SAID I’M GOING TO DIE!” rang through my nervous system until I thought I’d fracture.

In addition to the heat and the crowds is the fact I have barely slept in three days. Couple that with my expectation of holiness and the Godforsaken results, and you can understand my distress.

Finally we got into the Sistine Chapel. I took Tom’s hand, gave it to Craig and said, “Take your son.” Finally, I’m going to have a holy moment. Unfortunately, with easily two hundred other people in this very tiny chapel, all talking and gwaking and bumping into me and the guards yelling, “SILENCIO!” and “NO! No Photos!” well, it’s a wonder I have any recollection of that dimly lit room most people call a masterpiece.

Within three minutes we were out of there. You read it right, three minutes. In the Sistine Chapel. We were all shuffling out when Tom started in again.

“DO YOU KNOW HOW THIRSTY I AM??” Honestly, I had to keep my hands to my sides because if even one got some sense of motion it might have involuntarily smacked that kid.

We finally got out of there and Craig walked ahead, the three of us following. He had had it as well, so I was letting him lead without question. After about 15 minutes I asked, “Do you know where we are?”

“Nope”

“Should I get out the map?”

“Nope.”

Ok. He was an Eagle Scout. The man has a good sense of direction. He wouldn’t knowingly lead us in the wrong direction. In the rain.

20 more minutes go by. I have seen nothing resembling anything familiar since we left the grounds of the Vatican.

“Really, I think I should get the map.” More rain, heavier.

“You said you trusted me to get us home, so do you trust me or not?”

Uh Oh. Keep walking.

Tommy is now perfectly happy wandering around in the rain, cooled off from the heat and away from the crowds. Now it’s Jackson’s turn.

“My knees hurt…”

Here we go.

“…and I have to go to the bathroom,” he says with a heavy sigh.

Heavy Sigh (that one was me).

Ten more minutes and he starts to lose it. “Dad doesn’t know where in the world we are and you are letting him lead? What the heck, Mom?!” This child does not drop the drama bombs the other one does and has been very calm all day without a word of complaint. Don’t be fooled, however. The energy of this kid may not be dramatic, but it carries the weight of pre-teen intensity.

20 more minutes. I’m done.

“I’m getting the map, I can’t tolerate not knowing where we are any more!” Craig turned around to face us and I could tell he had no idea where we were. And he was feeling pretty contrite.

“I messed up. I’m really sorry.” My grouse softened. Jackson? Not so much.

“WHAT THE HECK DAD?! YOU GOT US LOST IN THE RAIN FOR AN HOUR?!” There it is. Maybe he’s not eleven, maybe he’s actually 14 and I’ve just lost a few years somewhere.

After a few minutes of map checking (had we totally walked off the map for God’s sake?) and asking for directions from people who don’t speak our language nor we there’s, we finally reoriented. We went way the hell out of the way, but we were actually only a couple blocks off our street. The Boy Scout did have us going in the right direction, just the long-ass way to get to the destination.

We hauled ourselves up the stairs and plopped down on the couch of our apartment, drenched in sweat and rain. About one minute into the silence Jackson popped up, unable to let the afternoon go without a few more words on the subject.

“I still can’t believe you had us lost, Dad. FOR AN HOUR. IN THE RAIN!”

Not the best day for Team Elliott. Nor Team Rome for that matter. Maybe we should have stayed home and remodeled our kitchen after all.

And then Tommy started giggling. Hand over his mouth, spit coming out, hand off the mouth and slamming on to the couch giggling. Jackson couldn’t stay mad. None of us could.

Tomorrow is another day. And it won’t suck as bad as today.

At least I hope not.

Categories : Joyous Madness, Relationships

The Curve Ball

May 29, 2021 · Leave a Comment

Screen Shot 2013-10-04 at 3.48.44 PMI’ve made it clear to the universe and my family and friends that this will be my last year teaching in a traditional classroom in a traditional high school. Something else awaits and, while I know not yet what it is, I know that something exists. Something that does not deplete this introvert’s energy so completely, something that does not weigh on this soft heart so heavily, something that, after 19 years of teaching high school, will offer me a new and exciting professional challenge and will allow me to use my gifts in a way that serves me as much as it serves others. It’s out there and I trust it’s bought a ticket to get to me and it will be here sooner rather than later.

And yet.

I walked to the computer lab from my classroom today, all the way down one hall, through and down the breezeway, and all the way down another hall.  The whole way there I was greeted with smiles and hugs and high-fives and kindness. Doors were held open, papers I dropped were picked up, offers were made to carry my bag. This relentless warmth from students past and present, sent my way for particular reason other than they saw me walking down the hall, filled my chest with breath and made my eyes wet with tears.

I met my third period at the computer lab where the big topic of conversation was the SAT’s most will be taking tomorrow morning. So many worried about such a high-stakes test, more so than the average set of seniors because these kids are almost all first-generation college students who see higher education as the way out of the struggle most of them live as a daily way of life. Their grades are great, their extra-curriculars are strong, their habits—considering they are still teenagers—are mostly solid. The only thing standing in the way between them and their dream school is this one test and they are scared to death.

So I did the only thing I knew how to do in a situation such as this. We set the study of leading economic indicators aside and we had a Life Skill Moment.

“Here’s what I know,” I said. “You are all wonderful, smart, capable young adults who will go on to make this world one I want to grow old in. My SAT scores were low and I didn’t get into the big impressive schools I wanted to get into as a result. You know what? I ended up exactly where I was meant to go. Exactly. I got an outstanding education at a beautiful school, made life-long friends, met the man who became my husband, and have gone on to live the American dream many of you so desperately want.

“Letting one stupid-ass test get between you and that dream is one stupid-ass choice. It’s one test on one day in your whole entire life. If it goes well, great; if it doesn’t, it doesn’t matter. Any school that is going to turn you away because of how you scored on one test is no school you want to attend anyway.”

They looked at me, eyes wide.

“Did she just say ‘stupid-ass’?” one student whispered.

“I think she did,” replied another.

Eyes wider. Mouths opened. And then the clapping. And then the cheering. It reverberated down the hall so loudly that another teacher came into see if we were ok.

Yeah, we’re ok, I mouthed and nodded. We’re actually great.

Who leaves this? Who walks away from kids who are so anxious to show you their love and appreciation? What kind of “something” could possibly give me more reward than this thing?

And yet.

Next to parenting, this is the hardest work that exists in the world. To be a teacher, a great teacher, it takes the deepest and most honorable kind of intention and thoughtfulness—on levels both academic and human—not to speak of the hours both at home and at school.

I’ve been doing this work all of my adult life. Teaching is just what I do. It’s as natural and close to my heart as mothering. I don’t know how there can possibly be another job that is better suited to who I am and what I do.

I also don’t know that there is another job that is least suited to who I am and how I do it.

It seems there is no easy answer. It seems that just when I think I have it figured out, God throws me the curve ball called “Are You Sure?”

I am sure.

And yet…

Categories : Copy Room Conversations

Traveling Tuesdays, Part I: Barf and Bus Washout

May 29, 2021 · Leave a Comment

My family and I just got back from almost a month away from home. I’m an unabashed homebody so it’s fair to say this was the trip of a lifetime for me. A friend encouraged me to consider this differently, as to not imply it will be the only one. Still jet-lagged and struggling to reenter after a week of being home, I’m not sure there will be a second. For now I’ll call it Trip of a Lifetime 1.0.

This six-part series includes some of the highlights from my travel journey. If you can relate or have stories of your own to share, I’d love to hear them. It might even encourage me to take on another trip like this in the future. Just likely not in July.

***

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After navigating the Roman Metro (thank you Rick Steves, Italian Language Book, and Kind Strangers) we got on the train and all seemed well. So proud of ourselves, we were!

At the next stop, however, hoards of people entered the train and Tommy was squished in all directions. With his back up against Craig, his face was full frontal in the arm pit of a guy in his 60’s– polyester shirt, dress shoes, balding, smelling of cigarettes and a trace of must. Had I closed my sense of reality and put another face and a bigger belly on that guy, he would have been my Papa, circa 1992.

For Tommy, however, it was all he could do to hold it together. Three more stops and he started to sway. An elderly woman got out of her seat and said, “Bambino, bambino,” gesturing to Tommy and then to her seat.

Are you kidding me, lady? I’m going to be the ugly American who asks an old lady to give up her seat for an 8-year old boy? Hell to the no.

“BAMBINO!” Then I got scared. Ok, Focus. Bambino. I took Tom’s hand and had him sit down. Only she wasn’t done yelling.

“Acqua, Acqua,” she insisted, pointing at my water bottle and gesturing for me to put it on his face. It was only then that I looked at Tom for real. I’m processing all of this–cigarettes, must, polyester shirts and dress shoes, elderly lady yelling at me in Italian–it was like it was slow motion…

“Signora, ACQUA! ACQUA!”

I jarred out of my daze and said, “Tommy, are you going to…”

“BAMBINO VOMITARE! (“Vomit-AIR-ee!”) VOMITARE!”

My eyes scanned slowly from her flailing arms to my son who looked like he just might.

“…barf?”

Barf.

Sweet Jesus.

The teenage girl next to Tom jumped out of the way faster than a bat out of hell. The man next to her threw his newspaper at me just in time for me to catch the rest of Tom’s barf that wasn’t already all over his shirt.

From all around me on this super crowded train, hot and lurching from stop to stop, came tissues and water and soft murmurings. Not one turned up nose, not one huffy attitude. Only kindness.

And the old lady, shaking her head. She shrugged her shoulders, gave a head tilt and the eye brow lift, and then said, “Acqua, Capisce?”

“Capisce. Capisce.”

Although her eyes were gentle and her manner compassionate, she must have been thinking who in the hell is this fool woman who can’t even see her son is about to barf all over this train. Honestly, I can’t blame her.

So you see, I didn’t let Tom out of the house with a dirty shirt, that’s barf you see in the photo. (I put it in black and white to spare you the details. You’re welcome.)

What you may not see is how damp we are. The clouds above us as we sat on this open air bus were so full of rain that the tiny droplets had just started dripping from their seams. In about 22 seconds, the capacity will be reached and the bus that we (I) had to get, no matter the barfing, no matter the heat, no matter the lines, no matter the teams of pick pockets and shady sales people we had to wade through for sub par pizza to sustain us while we waited in line again, would be so full of rain that we could barely wade through it to get to the stairs.

And once down below, we may have been covered by a tarp, but the rain would flood under the tarp and down the stairs in such waves that I feared I’d lose my breath. They took Jackson’s feet literally out from underneath him and he slammed on his tailbone all the way down the stairs into the crowd of people standing in the aisle of the bus’s first level. The tourists on this bus tilted their heads in sympathy, but not one reached down to help him up. Curious.

When finally, finally we were able to get off the God-forsaken double-decker bus we were soaked to the bone and found that even parts of the Metro had flooded because so much rain came so fast.

In the interim, however, between the barf and the rain, we were able to see some glorious sites as I continued to marvel at this city. Rome is at once loud and peaceful, not dirty but not terribly clean, full of people who are hustling and bustling with no time for tourists, unless of course your child needs help and then everything stops until all is well. New city structures are built up against centuries old ruins–the juxtapositions are everywhere and it left me excited to explore most of them in the days to come.

Barf and rain, not withstanding.

Categories : Joyous Madness, Relationships

Courage or Comfort

May 29, 2021 · Leave a Comment

Note: This post was originally written in July of 2019.

I write this post at a very particular moment in time. The leaders in positions of power in my country are perpetuating hate in ways I could not have imagined three short years ago. It is a time of both reckoning and rumble, a time when we walk our talk or we hang our heads.

We can choose courage or we can choose comfort for, as Brene Brown so aptly says, we cannot choose both.

A young girl goes home to her mother to tell her a story. Her teacher, she says through tears, wears a shirt with the words “Teacher Tribe” on them. She chose courage and told her teacher that, as a young girl from an indigenous tribe, the fact that her teacher took on the tribe moniker and put it on a t-shirt hurt her feelings. It felt like it discounted just how sacred that word is, just how sacred that entity is.

Unlike the girl, her teacher chose comfort. “Don’t be so sensitive,” she replied.

The child went home that day and, through tears, chose courage again. She told her mother what happened at school. I do not know the exchange that occurred between daughter and mother but I do know it held enough pain that the mother could not stand by and say nothing. Like her daughter, she chose courage and called a meeting with the teacher where she shared her concern as well as reiterated the sadness of her daughter.

Again the teacher chose comfort, dismissing the concern with, “it’s just a shirt. She shouldn’t be so sensitive.”

As a child repeatedly told I was too sensitive, reading this felt a knife in my heart made doubly problematic because, in the last several years, I have built a community of over five hundred teachers called “The Teacher Tribe.” This is not the same community that this teacher belongs to, but we carry the same name and from that I can not hide.

I have built my career on the fact all children deserve to be seen and loved and valued for who they are and the gifts they bring to the world. All children. And I run a long-time community that co-opts the word tribe.

This, my friends, is a reckoning.

As a straight, white, able-bodied, English-speaking, Christian woman born in the United States, my cup of unearned privilege runneth over. I have always worked very hard, starting at age 13 and not stopping since. I am kind and generous. I love freely. When I get something I share it. All that said, I encountered no stumbling blocks on my life’s journey related to my race, my sexuality, my language, or my religion. I never once had part of my identity subject me to othering; I never once had part of my identity appropriated, maliciously or not, by others.

Here I am, in service to our children and the national treasures who are our teachers, doing just that. Not maliciously nor intentionally, of course, yet it’s been several months since I read the blog post that details the story of this little girl hurt by her teacher, and I have been “too busy” with work and family to make a change of my own.

What a luxury it is for me to be too busy to change something that causes pain to others.

At the current moment I am also enjoying another benefit of my privilege. I write this post from a coffee house in Hong Kong, where I have come to work with teachers on the name and dime of the prestigious university for which I work.

This week the Hong Kong government is poised to debate a bill that would allow the extradition of citizens to mainland China, something that has created visceral and palpable fear in my new friends and their country people. One million people, literally 1/7th of the population, have taken to the streets. The teachers in my care are bound by their schools and their commitment to children to remain with me during the day and so they take to the streets at night. They do so in courage, despite the cost to their comfort and safety. No fellow brother or sister will have their freedom taken on their watch. Not without a fight.

Courage or comfort, Hong Kong. Not both.

In the meantime, back in my country, refugees fleeing violence of the worst kind are carrying their babies as they walk for months to our border only to have their babies taken from them and put in literal cages. Cages where they are allowed to be sick and alone and, in the cases of eight children so far, die. Our country chooses comfort, despite the courage of the millions who came before us who stood in the shoes of refugees and then fought to the death for the ideals we purport to hold sacred.

Courage or comfort, United States. Not both.

And me, too busy. Telling my new friends from Hong Kong how imperative it is to allow our kids to see themselves in their curriculum and instruction. How it is our duty to work into that curriculum and instruction all the cultural and linguistic assets of all of our kids. How we must nurture each child’s particular genius in service to a greater classroom, a greater school, a greater country, a greater world.

Courage or comfort, Nicole. Not both.

On our last day together I asked each of the teachers to write a six word story, modeled after Earnest Hemingway’s original:

Baby shoes for sale. Never worn.

As each teacher read their six word stories I felt the invisible weight of the little girl and her mother whose pain was ignored by that teacher. I felt the weight of the children in the United States who learn how to duck and cover before they learn how to read. I felt the weight of the children from Latin American who cry for their parents and the weight of their parents who are carrying the absolutely unimaginable fear and pain of their children being taken from them and put into cages in the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave.

I feel the weight. And so I write.

Tribe. Another thing taken. No more.

Categories : Copy Room Conversations

Traveling Tuesdays Part III: Finally a Holy (and Happy) Day

May 29, 2021 · Leave a Comment

We didn’t sleep well last night, which actually lead to a bit of sweetness between my eldest boy and me. Tom was playing musical beds following Craig around last night and at some point my bed ended up empty when Jackson wandered in not being able so sleep himself. It seems to be the 230am burden at this point, each of us have been up in varying combinations at this hour every night. Jackson and I decided to read for an hour, during which Craig intended to come back into bed but found his spot taken. We all had a giggle and he went back to the kids’ room and Jackson and I back to our ipads. Thankfully we were able to go back to sleep at some point, but no one woke before 10am.

We started our day with a positive attitude, aided in part by this breakfast at a local bar. (“Bar,” is to Italians as “coffee shop” is to Americans. I’m pretty sure I like their version better.)

IMG_0020After a very trying day yesterday we decided to keep things very simple today: Saint Peter’s, our favorite pizza for lunch, a stop off at the Roma soccer store, and then back home–all of us getting one thing we wanted, including getting out of the heat and inevitable rainstorm before the late afternoon.

Saint Peter’s was the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen constructed by humans. Awe inspiring, truly. It felt holy the moment I stepped into the square (which is actually more of a circle). The line was in the shade and moved quickly, we were in within fifteen minutes and, although crowded, it was nothing–NOTHING–like  the vatican yesterday. For me, the biggest difference was that at Saint Peter’s there was room to move and be inspired, even room to pray which I did with great gratitude. I brought my journal with me that had a photo copy of Rick Steves’ walking tour through the basilica and I learned and saw and shared with my family really interesting things. When Tommy wasn’t stressing about how high the ceilings were, a new fear of heights has emerged on this trip, even he was taken by the beauty of this place, including the gold inlay of the latin words that joined the walls of mortals and the ceilings of angels.

The one thing I wanted to see was the Pieta, Michelangelo’s masterpiece depicting Mary holding her dying son. When I was confirmed my grandparents gave me a replica from their trip to Rome many decades prior, Papa’s handwriting on the bottom now faint with age. Even before I had sons of my own this sculpture spoke to me of the deep and un-fillable hole that I imagine comes with the loss of a child. To me, knowing that loss was coming and choosing to mother him anyway…that is the greatest sacrifice I can ever imagine. It moves me to no end and the original statue did the same. I sat many minutes in quiet reflection and gratitude for what it really means to be entrusted with the life of a child and the great call God puts in the hearts of parents to care for that gift.

Having the opportunity for some quiet that day reminded me that, like it or not, I am an introvert and we are a people who need quiet to find peace and peace to find Grace. We took this family photo outside when we were done and I think it really captures how happy we all were today. Maybe the old adage, “If Mama’s happy, everybody’s happy,” has some truth to it.

IMG_7042As it turns out, my internal shift was not the only epiphany of the day. It was on the way to the trattoria that I noticed something remarkable: my external self matched the external selves of those who call this city home. Everywhere I looked were big noses. Mine was no longer the biggest of the bunch, either, and that’s something to note in and of itself. Like me, men and women had bountiful, big hair, none of it smooth and silky, none of it tamed and controlled. My propensity for dramatic displays of affection or frustration were child’s play compared to the people of this city and I marveled at how, for maybe the first time, I was more the same on the outside than different.

I know it to be true by stories and records, but was it possible that my heart also recognizes this as the place of my biological origin? As city of my people? As I glanced across the street considering this very question, my answer revealed itself. Even my middle name, pronounced the way my mom says it, not the way most people assume, belongs here.

IMG_7051 We stopped at a few tourist shops, got some gelato once back in the neighborhood, and then hit the market for a few dinner items. The walk was lovely, in part because the clouds had moved in to cool things off but it had not yet rained. Also because we weren’t lost. Mostly, however, because my family was in that sweet spot of a place where all was well.

Our last stop was this tiny shop dedicated to one of Italy’s soccer teams, AS Roma. We have been staying out of the center of Rome, in a neighborhood of locals where tourists are uncommon. Accordingly, this shop was not the typical tourist spot, but rather a place young men would gather around a tiny TV set to watch their team play not because they don’t have a bigger or better TV at home, but because here they’d be together as AS Roma family.

I say all this because, as it turns out, Romans take their soccer *very* seriously. This man in his late twenties was stuffed in this tiny shop overflowing in maroon and orange, and looked like the happiest person I’d ever seen. His shop was his great source of pride and to have people in to shop was like having people into his home. Gracious and kind, excited at the prospect of an American boy taking home a Roma jersey in celebration of his city and his team, this was one happy and contented man.

We headed home to load up photos, chat with friends on Facebook, and make another humble dinner of cheese, salami, prosciutto, bread, salad, and fresh cherries for dessert.

2013-07-06 18.18In it’s purest sense, the day was delightful.

Categories : Joyous Madness, Relationships

Word of the Day

May 29, 2021 · Leave a Comment

My first thought as I wake up these days is “What’s the word of the day, God?”

It’s been an interesting practice because I often get words I didn’t anticipate but, as the day wears on, turn out to be just right.

Quiet.

Patience.

Presence.

On this gorgeous fall day I woke up in the majestic Yosemite, a trip I take twice a year with a group of women who are my personal and professional mentors. Women who at once make me laugh and cry, who will always tell me the truth, who will always honor my truth, who lift me up to the light with pride in the knowing that they are as a part of me as anyone else I know.

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And, like all other mornings, I woke up this morning with my question, “So, God, what’s the word today?”

Mediate.

I have been working almost two years on meditation. I go in spurts, sometimes every day but often not. Lately, I haven’t meditated at all. It wasn’t a surprise, this word, because I know in my heart it’s what I should be doing. Like writing. Like exercising. Things I know to be at the core of my soul and things I resist with great intensity.

I’ve known for many years about resistance, but I thought it a passive thing that existed in the form of excuses and complaints that masked fears I knew were there but could not quite explain. This weekend, however, I’ve come to a whole new understanding of Resistance.

A couple months back I heard an interview with author Steven Pressfield about his book called The War of Art. I only heard bits and pieces of the whole interview, but what I did hear stirred me deeply. I ordered the book right when I got home.

It sat on my desk ever since.

Then early Thursday morning I started packing for this weekend. I usually bring three or four books with me on this trip; this time, though, I thought I’d only bring one (because that’s all I usually read anyway).

I looked from my book shelf to my desk at this book, sticking out from under a pile of papers yet to be dealt with, papers with lists of ideas and partial outlines and articles—all the writing I want to be doing but am not yet doing. This stack of papers with the book at the bottom sat on my desk under a picture of a woman running, exercise I want to do but am not yet doing, next to a candle I light when I mediate, something I want to do but am doing no longer.

A theme, you say? I agree.

That’s the book I want, I thought. As I pushed the papers aside to grab the book, I knocked over the unlit candle with the rough edge; it caught the picture of the woman running and tore it. I did not see that as a domino until now, three days later, writing this story as I sit in a bed in Yosemite with the window open and the river running by me not twenty yards away.

Why now? I was obedient to the word God gave me: Meditate, the first action word in the weeks of words that have come. Before I got to this bed by the window to write, I spent the afternoon in the warm sun of this most Divine place doing just what I was told to do.

But three days ago standing in front of my desk with the book in my hand I swore at the knocked over candle and the mess of papers and the torn picture. Then I stuffed the book in my bag and put the bag by the door because I was late for work.

When I got to work my friend, also my boss, also a woman on this trip, uncharacteristically approached me in the office about writing. She said she was ready to publish her book and asked me to help her do it. Honored, we chatted briefly and I mentioned, pretty much off-topic and definitely unprompted, that I was waiting to publish the memoir I’ve written because it didn’t yet feel quite right.

“That’s Resistance. You need to read The War of Art.”

Are you kidding me?

So I’m here writing this story, having finished The War of Art an hour ago and having finished meditating down by the river just minutes ago. I’m writing because out of my mediation came one word.

Write.

Interestingly enough, I initially went down to the river not to meditate, but because these women I love are so damned loud this weekend I just couldn’t stand to be in the house one minute longer. We’ve been coming here for sixteen years and never in those sixteen years have I been down by the water. I even had to ask how to get down there.

“Um, the stairs?”

There’s stairs?

The main floor of the house sits up high with an expansive deck that looks over gorgeous rocks and flowing water. I sit out on that deck quite a bit, especially when the weather is as perfectly calm and warm and beautiful as it is today. But because these women I love are so loud this weekend, the deck was not far enough away. And, come to find out, there’s a set of stairs that will take me right down where I want to be.

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Meditate.

It hit me as I got to the bottom of the stairs, the stairs that were always there waiting to bring me down here, stairs that I had never known existed.

Right, today’s word is meditate. So off I went on a walking meditation to contemplate this entity called Resistance. According to Pressfield, I need to call on the angels to help me wage war against this very active source of energy by virtue of hard-ass work. In return for my openness to the words that come not from me but through me, the angels will reward me not only with inspiration, but also with the sustenance that comes to me only through writing. It calms me. It fuels me. It nourishes me.  In order to earn those things I have to be a professional and to be a professional I have to work like a professional.

Interestingly enough, the question of how did not surface. Instead, a knowing came to town. A knowing that these concepts are ones I’ve innately understood from the beginning but instead of acting on them I’ve allowed Resistance to take charge. For the last two years I’ve been an amateur writer. I’ve also been an amateur athlete and an amateur meditator. Three things that I know will turn the volume up on my life, things that will make the birdsong more clear and the sky more blue, I’ve left those things to the whim of Resistance. I’ve grappled and lashed and cried and yelled because I knew what I had to do but for some reason I just couldn’t do it.

Then, in recent weeks, I got quiet. I didn’t meditate or write or exercise, but I did stop fighting. I realized all that lashing was doing nothing but locking me into unhappiness even harder. Like struggling with the finger trap you get out of a child’s vending machine, only when you stop fighting can you truly be free.

In recent weeks I’ve started to say out loud that this is my last year in a traditional classroom. More surprising, I’m saying out loud “I don’t know” when people ask what’s next and I calmly add, “but I know something just right is out there waiting for me.”

What kind of triple-type-A person have I become? I’m a planner and a doer and a go-damn-getter. Recently, though, I haven’t been. I’ve been doing things like asking God what my word is for the day and, instead of panicking about the ridiculous amount of things I have to do in any given day, I just trust there will always be enough time to get them done. I’ve been floating like a leaf in the river, slow and steady, the back of my head cool and light with my ears just below the surface so I can hear the calming water pull me along ever so gently, ever so gently, ever so gently.

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When I stopped walking I found myself on the river’s edge. My eyes adjusted and my gaze landed on a place where the calm, slow water starts to pick up in this spot as it slides still gently but with more speed through the rocks. A blue-gray squirrel with a tail longer and fluffier than any I’ve ever seen bounced from rock to rock across the river and up the bank as I realized that God brought me here to look back and see my path. God brought me here to look forward and see my direction.

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God brought me here.

And here is just right.

Categories : Community, Conscious Self-Care, Relationships

Traveling Tuesdays Part VI: No Cameras Allowed

May 29, 2021 · Leave a Comment

Today we went to the beautiful d’Orsay Musee. On this, our last day of our European adventure, 23 days of foreign country madness with all of its high highs and low lows, we finally figured out the best way to start the day.

Get there before it opens.

And we learned that on accident, frankly, because I thought it opened at 9am and we were there right at 9am. Turns out, it opened at 9:30. This allowed me to get in line and the kids to run their fool heads off. Turns out, that’s the kind of thing that makes everyone happy.

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(Should you be curious about my children’s personalities, you can find them pretty much summed up in this picture.)

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(To the untrained eye I may not look happy, but the fact that you see no sweat dripping from my brow nor complaining child hanging from my bag–just me leaning on a pole considering the beautiful breakfast I had just eaten and the beautiful art that awaited me inside–that’s glory right there, baby.)

Once inside we found the architecture remenicent of the Grand Central Station, gorgeous tall domed ceilings with a huge clock on either side.

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Immediately we started taking pictures. Until we couldn’t.

“Excusez Moi, Madame. La caméra, non, si vous plait.” the docent said, shaking her finger and smiling gently.

No camera? What the hell?!

(Pause.)

Really, Lusiani? Have you learned nothing in the last three weeks? We’re talking about a camera, not your life’s bread. Dial in the perspective.

(Reset.)

It must be because they can’t control who uses a flash and who doesn’t, and I’m guessing that could legitimately damage the art over time. We have one of those big cameras with far too many settings for a lay photographer and I found myself breaking the rules all over the Louvre because I couldn’t get the flash to not pop up.

Annoyed, I was at least satisfied with this explanation of why I couldn’t take photos of my favorite paintings and sculptures in this most magnificent space. Wandering through the bottom floor (not the first floor, mind you, because that is up one level; we are on floor zero at this point), many docents were reminding tourists, mostly Americans, that photos were not allowed. Our kind-eyed rule enforcer was not so kind-eyed as she had to repeat herself several times to people who said they understood and didn’t (or, more likely, said they understood and chose to break the rules anyway).

Once up on the second floor (floor one must have been storage or some other set of rooms not open to the public, another reminder that maps in this country are very misleading to the average American) I began to feel the difference between traveling through the Louvre with a camera and d’Orsay without one. I was seeing more but more importantly I was feeling more. I found myself more moved by the art as I viewed it through my own eyes and not through the viewfinder of my camera.

Further, I spent more time with each piece of art instead of fumbling with the camera to turn it on, focus it, take the photo, put it back, realize how far my guys had advanced and then hurry up to catch them. We strolled leisurely-ish together, stopping to admire things like the thickness of the paint on a canvas (Starry Night Over the Rhone by Van Gogh? WHOLE NEW APPRECIATION) or the way a sculptor had captured the energy of the man in addition to his likeness (I will never again hear Beethoven’s music in the same way after seeing that wild-haired bust).

The flash may be the logistical reason cameras weren’t allowed, but the experience was the artistic reason.

Sorry, my kind-eyed docent friend. Now I know, and now I understand. I had spent much of the last 23 days behind the lens of a camera. Today I didn’t. D’Orsay gave me perhaps the best gift of the whole trip.

Still, one picture had to be taken. On this, our last day in Paris, it just had to be taken.

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Categories : Joyous Madness, Relationships

Traveling Tuesdays Part V: Mind the Gap

May 29, 2021 · Leave a Comment

(Author’s Note: I’ve since rediscovered where I got the idea for “Mind the Gap.” It’s from Brene Brown’s Daring Greatly, Chapter 5. If you don’t yet have that book, I highly recommend it!)

Paris and Rome are very different places. Both cool in their own way, both fashionable in their own way, both beautiful in their own way, both have kind people who, when they see you in need will come to your aid with their culture’s version of kindness which, while different, is both kind in its own way.

Notice in the repeating phrase “in their own way.” That’s because, while they are similar, they are, in fact, *very* different places.

After ten days in Rome living in the neighborhoods and eating in the restaurants and delighting in the gelaterias of locals, were were feeling pretty Roman. Imagine our surprise when our four American-Roman selves landed in Paris. No coffee on the bus? No old women on the metro? No chain smoking men whistling at me as I go up the stairs? What the hell is going on here?

Another big difference? This city is crazy clean. And by crazy clean I mean, crazy clean. There is no complaint here for gone are the polluted skies and graffiti and trash in the gutters. Everything sparkles like new, even when it’s hundreds of years old. It’s absolutely beautiful. But different.

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The metro system is also so different; in fact it took us several days to figure out how to navigate it. We were told Paris has the best metro system in the world but for those few days it just felt like the most confusing one.

And then one day I started to feel like I was getting a handle on it. We had walked for two hours–two hours–the night before because we couldn’t figure the transportation situation in relation to the construction going on at several train stations where we could have transferred.  As you can imagine, my sons just about lost their minds on that two-hour walk, especially considering it occurred after walking all day in Versailles.

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Here’s one clear similarity: crowded and hot. No difference there. July in Paris is just like July in Rome with regard to those two little gems.

“What the heck, Dad?” is how our two-hour walk began, but I couldn’t let Craig take the fall. There was construction everywhere and our geographical challenge, this time, was a mutually created problem. As we began the trek home that we thought would be only about a half hour–maps in Paris, different–soon enough we separated into our usual walking pattern. Craig and Jackson head down and leading the charge up front while Tommy and I took in the sights and entertained ourselves in the back.

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After about an hour, we started go get punchy.

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“Too legit, too legit to quit! Bau, bau!” I was lead singer. This doesn’t happen very often in my family so I was making the most of it. Soon enough, Tommy cut in on my action.

“Too legit, bau, too legit to quit! Bau, bau, ba, ba, bau!”

“Tommy, I’ve told you three times, that’s not how it goes.”

“Well, maybe that’s how it should go,” he responded. “Let’s call MC Hammer when we get home and suggest it. Hey, wait, did his mom name him ‘MC?'”

“I don’t know. What do you think?”

“I think that’s AWESOME! I’m Hammer MC Hammer, go Hammer, MC Hammer! Too legit, bau, too legit to quit! Bau, bau, ba, ba, bau!”

It went on like that another hour. Craig and Jackson tried to be annoyed, but they couldn’t because our way of getting through this torture was far more fun than theirs. About a half hour into our show they laughed but soon after got very quiet. We tried to mind our manners, but we just ended up laughing even louder which irritated them to no end. The did manage to keep their cool, though, and when we finally got back to the apartment they went straight to bed without dinner. MC Tommy and I, exhausted and blistered, went back out to get a burger.

The food. Let’s pause for a second about the food. With the exception of the burgers, the food was not so great. Not terrible, but not great. Not even in its own way.

At any rate, this traumatic/entertaining two-hour walk stiffened my spine and the next morning I set out to make the metro work for us. No more is it going to take down my family. I OWN this metro.

Turns out, attitude is everything. We rode that thing like pros from then forward.

Once the stress loosened it’s grip I noticed something new. Every time we get to a stop on the metro a recorded voice asks me to mind the gap. She’s speaking of the space between where I step off the train and where I step on to the platform. I heard her today and felt strongly that I had heard that phrase before, at least I thought I had. I searched Google when I got back to our apartment because I didn’t want to write something that has already been said.

After 3 pages of searching I came up with nothing familiar so I write with this crystal clear notion that may or may not be original: Mind the Gap.

To me (or maybe to this other person) (or maybe that other person is me and it’s one of many things I intended to write about but promptly forgot) “Mind the Gap” applies to everything in life because it’s about being aware.

Mind the Gap between cultures. Recognize that my version of what’s real is not everyone’s and that, in fact, it’s a construct made up by the people who came before me and then was followed by me as gospel. When in someone else’s home follow their rules; when others are in my home, remember what it feels like to be in theirs and cut them some slack. 90%(ish) of frustration is based in one’s own perception.

Mind that Gap.

Mind the Gap between what it means to be 8 and 11 year old boys and what it means to be their parent. Don’t get so caught up in shoulds. Hold a line but do so in a way that teaches, not preaches. That shares, not controls. Keep clear about how my voice is becoming their inner voice and be even more clear just what exactly I want them to grow up telling themselves. Remember there are many gaps between them and me–in age, in gender, in individual personas-–and that they are to become a grown up version of themselves one day, not a grown up version of me.

Mind the Gap.

Mind the Gap between my husband in myself. We are not one fluid being, but the fluidity between two individuals. Remember I have a dam at my disposal that can come up to stop the flow of his frustration before it enters my heart and he can do the same. The gap is a gift in that regard, use it. Just remember to hang on the bridge where the fluidity flows more than the shore where it stops lest I forget that bridge exists.

Mind the Gap.

Mind the Gap between discomfort and joy to be sure one does not invade the other too often. Discomfort has it’s place, but it’s not a place that has to be tenated very long because whenever I choose to leave it there is always a gap over which I can walk back into joy. The inbetween is indifference and never a place I’d like to roam. Or fall.

Mind the Gap.

Mind the Gap between myself and my extended family and friends. It’s good to be on my side of the gap alone to recharge and refuel, but if the work I am doing has me there all the time, take that as a sign to change the work, not avoid crossing the gap. Family and friends remind me where I come from and who I am; they need to be visited often lest I forget who I am and from where I came.

Mind the Gap.

Mind the Gap between work and self. Work is wonderful but without a gap between the work and the heart, even when the work is of the heart, perhaps especially when the work is of the heart, everything else suffers. Remember why I do what I do but don’t let it define me to the point I can do nothing else. Involve myself in work that refuels and recharges, not work that I have to run from to find the refueling and recharging station.

Mind the Gap.

Mind the Gap between anxiety and Truth. This is a place where imbalance is healthy and spending more time on one side than the other is the right thing to do. Anxiety has ruled me most of my life and, while it’s protected and served me in many wonderful ways, the time for it is over. Visiting its side is inevitable because it’s part of who I am, but staying there is a choice I will actively choose against. Staying in Truth is where God is and where I want to be.

Mind the Gap.

Mind the Gap means living mindfully, honestly, making active choices and being aware of the consequences. I must be aware of what lies on both sides as well as the space in between. In all things and in all ways.

Mind the Gap.

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Categories : Joyous Madness, Relationships

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