The Best Thing Ever

Motherhood

Photo by Balázs Benjamin from Pexels

It’s early January and yet the ground is green, just a bit of snow left from Christmas Eve’s stormy white. Snowperson fell over yesterday in the thaw, hat upside down next to its round base. 

More snow is on the way, I’m sure. This is the cycle, isn’t it? Snow, white & cold; thaw, muddy & wet, green. It stirs in me an emptiness. My body feels achy; I yearn.

Ah, I miss Sons. Maybe that’s my melancholy today, not so much the weather. I loved their laughter, joking among each other, their vibes in the house, in my space. It was yummy. Better than cookies, even. 

Is it a smallish thing that most of my adult life, my breath, my thoughts… has revolved around four Sons and Daughter? If you’d have told me thirty-five, forty years ago that my life would be narrowed to a sliver of BEing Mom, I’d have — well, I’d have been super curious about this, intrigued for sure.

“Me? A Mom? And all in? 24/7/365? Really? No shit? …..Wow!”

I’d have thought, “But that sounds like a ton of work, sacrifice, sleeplessness, surrender, other-ly-ness… and I’m selfish and weak and emotional and too tired.”

And yet.

They’ve been my best teachers, these five souls. They’ve raised me well, if I do say so myself. I’ve learned patience with others – and myself – and openness to so many ideas and vibes. They’ve helped me remember The Big Picture while maintaining a sense of Now. And gratitude. 

When they visit, I am so thankful to get the text: “made it home.” I fall to my knees, literally, and dry my eyes. I would ever have thought that I’d be capable of weeping with thankfulness that one of mine had safely returned. Or that my life would become so focused, so pinpoint on these tiny moments of gratefulness, viscerally experienced. 

In a time of history where life seems to be getting more and more complicated – like, I cannot understand half of the buttons on my phone and I feel silly getting out of the car to buy my groceries now – in the midst of all these electronics and new ways of doing things, I feel more simple than ever. Life has grown progressively smaller for me, zoom be damned. (It’s super convenient but hugging virtually is like eating plastic fruit. Uhm, no.)

I’ve never considered myself simple-needed, quiet, grateful. Always observant, yes, but ever anxious. Full of personal agenda. But lately, there’s this Simplicity, this Peace grounding me. It’s like I’m in the eye of the tornado or something. Like, craziness is all around me and I know it’s there and I can see it, feel it, even care deeply about it… but my Breath is within me, my Power is inside.

Sometimes I feel boring. Bored. Too simple. Pie-eyed. Too much of a dreamer, perhaps. A little crazy for stopping everything to enjoy Daughter painting my nails, Son coming in from his office in the den to give me a hug, Me dancing to a fave song come on the radio.

Thank you to all Powers That Be for allowing me to experience Motherhood, with all the stuff I figured on: work, sacrifice, sleeplessness, surrender, and other-ly-ness… as well as the I-never-woulda’s: the growth of my soul, the evolution of my consciousness, the opening of my heart to Love and Gratitude, and the grounding of my Being into Now.

And snow.

And Snowpersons on the green.

And Sons.

And Daughter.

And texts.

The storms.

The calm.

The complicated.

The simple.

Would that I continue to stay, to be here now, and to be grateful for it all.

Writing Every Day Down,

In gratitude & wonder.

Lisa

Blogger gratefully present-minded/Life Guide

YOUR JOURNAL PROMPT:

How life has opened up for me since I’ve begun seeing, feeling, writing the day… and so I hold space for conversation with you:

***What are you most thankful for? 

***What are you most surprised about about yourself and your journey? 

***Do you know how all the buttons on your phone work? 😉

Ode To FurButt

Gia

The alarm goes off.

It’s early.

But she likes to get out there before the sun rises.

With sweats over pjs, I open the bedroom door.

She’s there.

Of course.

Tail wagging fiercely.

Of course.

Fiercely, in love.

With me.

I’m her Person, Husband says frequently.

I think he’s right.

During our day, she’s never more than a few feet away.

We don our winter gear.

Well, I do. She’s full of furry fur and, part husky, loves the snow.

She cannot wait to get out there.

I hesitate.

Me and cold, not a love affair.

Nevertheless, I push open the side door by the big tree and get pulled out into it, FurButt leading the way. I hate it.

For about ten steps.

By the time we’re down the driveway and heading up the street, I am breathing deeply and – true story – smiling. 

We travel the same exact route every morning.

Down the drive, across the street, down a bit and into the woods. Find the next street and head around the block, then just a bit more and we’re back home. One mile. 

The same trees.

The same potholes.

The same deer tracks.

The same puddles.

And yet.

She sniffs those same trees as if for the first time ever.

She leads me around those same potholes, glancing back over her leash to be sure I’m still with her.

She stops at those same deer tracks to munch on the poop.

And this is gross.

She splashes through the same puddles, rolls in the slush and snow with that tail wagging the whole time.

“FurButt, nothing here is a surprise. And yet, you approach every moment, every step along our stroll as if it’s the first time.” And we laugh. Well, I think she’s laughing. For sure, I am.

Like a kid.

She sees it all brand new every morning.

The excitement with which she experiences a simple walk around the block… has changed me. 

I have found myself seeing more lately.

Less looking, more seeing.

It’s magical.

If I had a tail, it’d be wagging.

Be here now. – Ram Dass

The power of now. – Eckhardt Tolle

Simplicity in being present.

(Though I think being present is not simple… for me. I’m yet remembering, becoming.)

Allowing.

Flowing.

Being.

Seeing.

FurButt, tail wagging, has opened me.

Reached in and showed me.

Just her breathing next to me makes me settle into my skin easier.

Her kisses are healing.

Deer-poop breath and all.

Writing Every Day Down.

My Favorite Things

Bestie.

I remember Julie Andrews’ singing  “raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens… bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens”  When I was a kid, I loved The Sound Of Music. I’m not a kid anymore and I still do.

… brown paper packages tied up with string, these are a few of my favorite things ...

Today started out rough for me. Cried. Sobbed, actually. There are days when life seems to grow so big and heavy and then fold itself around me like a cold, wet blanket. I can’t breathe. I can’t even remember a time when I could. 

I’m a feeler. 2020 has been a ride, like one of those old wooden roller coasters. 

And then.

Bestie.

She popped over and we played cards, finished a challenging crossword puzzle with minimal cheating, and enjoyed a nutritional lunch.

Egg salad.

Chicken salad.

Fruit salad.

Crackers.

Water.

And so much conversation. Maybe we cussed. 

Okay, we did. We cussed. 

We have plans to workout at her gym later this week.

She is excited to introduce me to a new friend… this is big for me. New people. New space. Big anxiety. But I trust her. 

We hugged. 

I feel better now. Like I can breathe again. 

I’m thankful. More often than Bestie knows, she is air. “The wind beneath my wings” as Bette Midler crooned. #truedat #songlyricsrock

I am breathing.

I am feeling more grounded.

I am planning on making dinner for Husband and Son3 and Daughter. Chicken alfredo from scratch. And Christmas cookies, because we have so many left over. 

So. Many.

In the midst of my life in which I spend so much energy in my mind, that sometimes- exhausting head space, because it’s easier than feeling into my heart space or down into my body, I am thankful to come back to earth and be invited into the little things like food, conversation, and hugs. 

Food.

Conversation.

Plans.

Laughter.

Cards.

Bestie.

My favorite things, indeed.

“…. And then I don’t feeeeeeel so bad ….”

Writing Every Day Down.

What’s In A Name?

Darling.

Photo by Vera Arsic from Pexels

“Darling, I suffer. I am trying my best. Please help me.” Thich Nhat Hanh

I was listening to a short video the other day… when I workout in the mornings, I headphone YouTube and listen to any number of teachers. It’s my treat to me for getting on the tready. I came across one teacher in particular who shook me to the core. So moved was I that I literally had to get off the treadmill and sit on the floor. The emotional processing was excruciatingly deep and my body was freaking out from the energetic download of this tiny monk’s holy-shit-truth. It took my breath away… and then filled me past the brim to overflowing with so much Love.

So.

Much.

Love.

“Darling, I suffer. I am trying my best. Please help me.” Thich Nhat Hanh

As I crawl into the last week of 2020, I have been spending time pondering the good, the bad, and the ugly of the year… for the purpose of gleaning lessons, growing wiser, maturing, evolving, and ultimately sharing these nuggets as energetic downloads with the Community in which I thrive. A particular tidbit which has moved me deeply is this precious monk’s perspective on COMMUNICATION within a difficult relationship.

Who among us has been hurt by another’s remark or action? Who among us has been on the receiving end of another’s bad day, bad week, bad life? And, honest to goodness, who among us has been the giver of a hurtful remark or action? If we were being honest, who among us has been the holder of low vibes which have severely harmed those around us?

I’ll start. Me. I’ve experienced both the giving and receiving of harsh behavior. #alwayslearning #beenknowntofuckup

“Darling, I suffer. I am trying my best. Please help me.” Thich Nhat Hanh

Just so quietly, Thich Nhat Hanh taught me. He opened my heart – which I’d thought was already wide open – yes, opened my mind and heart to Truth. When we have been hurt, perhaps an effective mode of spanning the gap between us is to COMMUNICATE simply, authentically, with big grace. 

“Darling, I suffer. I am trying my best. Please help me.” Thich Nhat Hanh

From our hurt place deep within, it is understandable that we lash out. “How dare you!” We spew. “You piece of dirt!” We grind our teeth. “Just you wait!” Or we say nothing. But, oh yes, we stew. We carry hate, resentment, bitterness, confusion. And, if you’re like me, you don’t even realize you’re carrying such a heavy backpack of anger. You think you’ve forgiven and gotten past it all… but wait, where’s all this depression and overeating coming from? Hmmmmm.

What if I were to tell you that Thich Nhat Hanh envisioned a very different world? One in which the hurting party would go to the offender and gently offer connection. Maybe not resolution, but at least a niggle of communication. A start. A non-accusatory beginning.

“Darling, I suffer. I am trying my best. Please help me.” Thich Nhat Hanh

(Gah, it’s damn daring, isn’t it? To put yourself out there, in all your naked truth, your vulnerable heartache. It could blow up. You could continue to be aching, unheard, unjustified. You could be laughed at, beaten down, humiliated. Absolutely damn possible.

“Darling.”

This first word is what snagged me immediately. “Darling.” My heart skips a beat even now as I type it. “Darling.” What is it about this word that feels soft? Approachable? Open? Curious? Tender? There is just something about this word that invites conversation, denies fisticuffs. “Darling.”

And so, as 2020 ebbs, the waves pulling much of the sands back into the waters, I too dream of a 2021 in which I begin each sentence with “Darling.” Alongside my teacher-monk, I pray for an attitude in which I approach each relationship with the vibration of “Darling.” Oh, that my countenance would buzz at the frequency of “Darling.” That I would hold myself and all others in the sweet, delicate space of “Darling.” And believe that they would do the same for me just as soon as they knew how to do so. And that together, we would embrace a brave (read bravely vulnerable) new (read now) world (read experience.)

And this, Darling, is our destiny. I’m sure of it.

Writing Every Day Down.

Humongous, magical Love and great big hugs,

Lisa xx

Life Lesson No. 857, 351

…No Lily Pad sighted, but how about those thighs?…

YOUR THIGHS! Oh my God, your thighs! 

… this blurted like I was some kinda star walking the red carpet …

YOUR THIGHS!

There I was, quietly making my way through the fresh veggies section of a little store in South Carolina where I was on sabbatical. Trying to figure out life in the last half of 2020, I took a trip from my home state of New York and landed on the beautiful east coast side of SC. Gorgeous. No doubt a trip I will repeat. Hopefully with less angst, but one never knows what life will unpack.

I had recently retired from teaching exercise. A personal fitness trainer for 28 years, I felt the nudge to close up shop in late 2019 and venture into lands unknown. It was a scary jump. Owning my gym and crunching-sweating-sometimes-cussing beside others was all I ever knew. It had been my primary income as well as my main source of social interaction.

I found myself in the last half of 2020 uncomfortably sans income, sans community, sans any freakin’ clue as to the next lily pad’s whereabouts.

YOUR THIGHS!

As I pondered over whether to get two or three avocados, the store clerk nearly dropped her step ladder (I’m not exaggerating… she was very theatrical) as she proclaimed to, well, e-v-e-r-y-o-n-e in the fresh foods section of the market: YOUR THIGHS!

God bless her outgoing self, she threw her arms out to the sides and started waving her hands… YOUR THIGHS! And she pulled down her mask — true story — and began to dance around the oranges bin.

The woman was celebrating my thighs.

Celebrating.

My.

Thighs.

This was profound to me… as I had never celebrated them before, always seeing them as “big, muscular, kinda guy-ish.” Ashamed, I’ve been. And have lifelong walked around with this vibe of apologizing for them. Like, “hi, I’d like to mail this package and I’m just so sorry about my thighs” and “hey there, here to pick up my order and, yes, I am sorry about my thighs.”

It was what I knew to do. Feel guilty. Remarks made to an impressionable child hold fast, don’t they though?

Jesus (that’s what I’ve come to call her as she performed some kinda miracle in me) stepped in close to me. “What do you do to have such awesome thighs? Squats, right? I mean, like, tons of squats, amIright?”

I proceeded to agree, somewhat lightheaded and giggly. And then the personal trainer in me emerged (which just goes to prove that you can take the girl out of the gym but not the gym out of the girl) and we began a lesson on how to squat properly. (She enthusiastically – of course – promised she would and thanked me as I left in search of hummus.)

She may not have strong thighs (yet) but she did single-handedly bust something wide open in me, though. My thighs…

I started feeling proud of them. MY thighs.

I felt their strength. MY Thighs.

I could finally see their beauty. MY THIGHS.

“Hi there, I am ready to check out… yep, me and my delicious thighs.” (This did, in fact, garner an odd look from the cashier and the dude behind me in line. I’m super okay with it.)

There’s been so much that has changed in my life – in  all of our lives – in 2020… this shift in the perspective of my physical form is high on my list. I have come to better respect and honor my body. No longer do I try to mold my form into some acceptable shape (according to who?) I have come to understand that the value of my body is in its allowing me to experience my life here on earth. Without this body, well, I’d be dead and not here and thus not experiencing taking FurButt for her walk, making cookies with Daughter, making love to Husband, weeping with In-laws, playing cards with Bestie, hugging Sons 1, 2, 3, and 4. And that would suck.

And so, I’m not so surprised that the way I have been exercising in the past couple of months has shifted as well. I find myself kinder, gentler, a better listener (how do you want to move today, bod? And what do you want to eat?) With this in mind, I attach here a video I created to strengthen the core. I like my upbeat but gentle approach. I still run, lift weights, eat cookies. But I listen now. And feel like I’m allowed to be here.

All of me. Even, and perhaps most especially, my thighs.

Amen.

Writing Every Day Down.

Hugs,

Lisa

Lisa Augustine, Life Guide

Available By Appointment

Betty, A Box, & A Card

Joy.

December 18, 2020 – Want to see/hear me read this?

It’s that time of the year again. Baking holiday cookies. And lots of them! This year, it seems especially important to me that I create an atmosphere of joy so we hopped into the truck early, headed to the local tree farm. We found just the right tree (which the birds will enjoy during January and February in our backyard… be still my heart, it pains me to sever a tree from Mother Earth but it is Husband’s desire to have a tree inside during these holidays and so, well at least there’s the birds) and got right to decorating. Then we dressed up the outside of the house with so many white lights and red bows and greenery, and an additional (plastic) tree. Next up, throw every decoration in the bin onto the walls and bannister – and hang those stockings under the sill going up the stairs. We are a sight to behold! Joy, indeed.

Cookies. More joy.

I usually bake a few kinds, but this year we’re going all out. I’ve got nine different ones on the list. We have planned numerous trays to be compiled and dropped off Christmas Eve. There’s Son1’s next door neighbors, neither having families. A platter each! (And hats and scarves, ‘cause everyone needs to open up a gift on Christmas Day.) And there’s Aunt Rita, Husband’s side. No extended family holiday gathering this year, so if the aunt can’t come to the cookies, the cookies are coming to the aunt!

I would boast that it’s my humanitarian side shining… and perhaps there’s some of that… but, truth be told, I am a cookie whore. I don’t do cakes or pies or pastries, but there is seldom a cookie that I’ll turn away. Get in mah mouth, you! And so, it is with great excitement that I pop open the Betty Crocker cookbook and don my apron.

As I thumbed through the cookbook, I had to be careful of the falling-out pages, those with the holes that no longer hold fast. Oh, the number of times I have opened this cookbook and poured over it for a dinner idea or to bake the same ol’ thang. Hundreds. Yes, hundreds of times. 

I got the cookbook (I believe from Mother-in-law) at my wedding shower. August of 1988. This precious book is 32 years old. Hundreds of times, indeed!

Joy.

As I reach high into the cupboard for another recipe holder, a little box that says “PEACE & Plenty” on it, I smile. My whole body warms with the happy feeling of spending time with MomJuls, a wonderful friend of mine (gone now two years.) Motherless my life long, she received me into her home and — best yet! — deep into her heart. She taught me to appreciate food, to enjoy cooking and preparing meals for self, family, and friends. We spent countless hours together at the kitchen table, discussing everything from “which is best, semi-sweet chocolate or the dark stuff in this recipe?” to “it’s okay to cry when you’re sad” to “here’s how to do a double crochet in this pattern” to “life is hard but it’s still really good too.” These were deep chats, and all shared over a cup of tea and a plate of cookies. 

When I married and began my own kitchen practices, she gifted me with her recipe box. It is this same one that Daughter places her recipes in and anticipates receiving upon setting up her own home and kitchen life. 

Joy.

One more, please?

Within the box are numerous recipes, tried and true throughout my baking life. There is one index card  in particular which has been slipped out and leaned onto the flour canister only about a hundred times. (Okay, not a hundred, but fifty? Surely, fifty.) Our family’s fave Christmas cookie: peanut blossoms… a blessed hershey’s kiss atop a yummy peanut butter cookie. A holy thing, indeed. (Pause. Lower eyes and thank the heavens for taste buds.)

This year, as I drag the index card out, I notice its ratty edges, the crispiness of its age, the various stains which have left some of the print illegible. For just a split second, I thought to recopy it and toss this old card away. But just holding the recipe card, I noticed, brought a warmth to my body and a smile to my face. Joy. I was feeling joy. 

Yes, creating the cookies is going to bring joy into our atmosphere – and surely, in this end of the year 2020, we are in desperate need of all the high vibe sugar-and-spice-and-everything-nice can offer us… but, oh, who would have thought that an old (Daughter called it antique-ish) cookbook, a hand-me-down recipe box, and a used index card could bring me even more joy than the cookies themselves? 

Joy.

And now, I don MomJuls’ apron – feeling her hug – and sigh. Peace & plenty, indeed. Amen.

Writing Every Day Down.

Hugs,

Lisa

Lisa Augustine Glasier

Life Guide

Available by appointment

What 2020 Taught Me

… go ahead, use the Special Occasion dishes …

Question. Is it just me or does anyone else recall there being two sets of dishes in your home growing up: one for everyday and one for Special Occasions. Anyone else? I remember as a kid not quite understanding the logic behind this, and as an adult buying completely into it!

Not anymore, thank you 2020.

… and, just as an aside, which I do frequently and unapologetically – you’ll get used to it – how special does the occasion have to be to warrant the best dishes? Like, neighbor stopping in for tea? This does not sound terribly special to me, but I’m not that social so… I mean, what’s the specialness factor? How special is special? This all is confusing to me as I have “awakened” in 2020.

Anyhoo, yes and thank you to 2020! No more wondering if something is special enough anymore. (You can’t see me but I’m doing the Snoopy-dance.)

Now I use the best dishes I own to serve FurButt her chow mixed with tortilla chips. (For all y’all saying, hey don’t feed your dog human food… look away. She is a whore for my chicken soup and has never met a salty-crunchy she’d say no to. She’s healthy and happy so we’re going with it.)

I use the best dishes I own to serve popcorn to Husband.

I use the best dishes I own to share cookies with Bestie and family.

I use the best dishes I own to burn one of those big fat candles on. And I have even used my best dishes to stick a few flowers from the garden in.

My best dishes are no longer just for dinner, for special occasions, for just every so often. And not because my best dishes are no longer my best dishes. They still are! But because I see now that every single day, every meal, it’s ALL worthy of the best dishes.

And this is my big lesson of 2020. Every moment is special. Every moment is amazing and noteworthy.

In 2020, the mundane revealed itself in a new and beautiful way – a way I’d never seen before – the everyday showed up as extraordinary.

I have stopped rating each day. I have begun wearing makeup to clean the tub. I have started donning my favorite shirt just to sit on the couch and watch a movie. I now embrace every day, every moment, as the best one ever. Worthy of makeup, my hippie tee, and my best dishes.

And this has made all the difference.

(For her part, FurButt will eat off of any dish at all. Or even the floor. Or out of the toilet. She’s pretty flexible this way.)

Writing Every Day Down.

Hugs,

Lisa

P.S. I’m here as a Life Guide and PSH (Professional Space Holder ;-)) because everyone deserves someone to listen to them, to share guidance with them, and to remind them that they are loved. Make an appointment here. Where there’s life, there’s hope. Together, we got this. 🙂

The Sound of Cards

“…it’s the simplest things that bring me the biggest joy.”

Cards.

I know, sounds so simple. So basic. But the sound of cards shuffling is on my list of faves. When I was a kid, my siblings and I were card players. We came from card-playing stock. I have few memories of early childhood, but one of them includes me sitting at Nana’s big table, Dad playing “high-low” with all us kids and piles of pennies in front of each of us. You’d guess if the third card he was about to draw was “higher, lower, or in-between” the first two. I’m telling you, between the cards and the sounds of Christmas music, the smell of cookies and the taste of egg nog… well, life doesn’t get much better than this.

Over forty years later, and I’m still listening to Christmas music, smelling cookies (I’ve made them, though, and not Nana), and the taste of egg nog….

Okay, I gotta tangent here………. egggggg noggggggg! (When I was a kid, I remember thinking that it tasted so good that when I got to be an adult, I would allow myself to drink AS MUCH AS I WANTED… now, as that adult, I limit myself to a small glass a few times per season… ’cause I am all healthy and shit.)

Aaaaand I’m back…. well, the sound of those cards shuffling brings back such good feels. It’s no wonder that I taught all five of my children to play cards. Of course. No pennies involved, and we play all year long and not just at the holidays. But, heck yeah, cards please!

Son1 visited this past weekend and asked Son3 and I if we would join him in a game of cards. I couldn’t find my place at the table fast enough. Is there anything much better than cards, with two of my most fave peeps in the whole wide world?

Life is good. It’s simple. Or maybe it’s just that I’m simple. But this weekend was rich with memories of my childhood and full of joy with two of my babes.

Cards. Just cards, man. And yet. Swoon and thank you God for this day.

How about you guys? What are some of your happiest memories? What is something so simple that brings you gobs of joy?

Writing Every Day Down.

Hugs,

Lisa

P.S. Need a shoulder to lean on? An ear to listen? I am a Life Guide and PSH (Professional Space Holder ;-)) so please connect with me. Here for you. Where there’s life, there’s hope. Together, we can. 🙂

Ode To Our Delivery Peeps

Counting My Messy Blessings

There was a time when I would have looked around my office and sighed, dismayed and anxious at the enormity of the mess. Today, I sigh… but with gratitude. Just look at this mess! Isn’t it positively awesome?

I have five children. At Christmas-time, life can get a little chaotic what with all the gift purchasing and boxes coming in. (FedEx delivery dude and dudess, you’re here so often that I feel I owe you dinner or a bed or my firstborn or something… thank you from the bottom of my “yes, I did order again from Amazon” heart.)

In years past, I have become overwhelmed with the number of boxes strewn ohmygod everywhere but today, as I sit to type… I look around at the boxes and smile. I smile. Because all these boxes mean that I have all these beautiful souls to buy for, to share my life with, to witness becoming… and what is better than this?

Nothing. That’s what. Nothing.

Not chocolate.

Not a good massage (though, come on now, that’s close.)

Not a surprise visit from Liam Neeson.

I have five children! Five amazing souls to fill up my heart and my days: to prepare dinner for, smooch booboos, listen to stories, help with homework, threaten with grounding, cry about, worry over, dream with, and spend money onnnnnnnn! Yep, lots and l-o-o-o-o-ts of boxes… gifts to wrap, cookies to bake, stockings to stuff.

For those of you who know that my children are pretty well all grown up by now… I’m here to report that much of my nurturing hasn’t changed. I still prepare dinner for them, hug them, listen to their stories, help them with homework (that’s a lie – I cannot help Son3 with his Master’s Economics class), threaten them with grounding (yea, no… I do not in fact do this.) I do still cry about, worry about, dream with, and spend money on them. There are still boxes strewn all over my office today.

And, sorry Liam, but I wouldn’t want to have my life any other way.

Writing Every Day Down. 🙂

Hugs,

Lisa

P.S. As a Life Guide, I am here to listen and offer guidance. Please feel free to contact me for a remote/virtual appointment. Where there’s life, there’s hope. Together, we can.

What’s In A Box?

To Box Or Not To Box,

That Is The Question

Every year, since all five of my children were wee ones, my husband goes out a few days before Christmas and creates for each of them their very own “food box.”

Food box, you query? What is a food box and, more to the point, why a food box?

Wellllll, there are five of them. Five beautiful, wonderful, hungry little souls. When you’re one of five — and I was one of six, so I totally get this — it’s first come, first served. You snooze, you lose. Get while the gettin’s good.

All this to say: more often than not, the snack you wanted was gone before you had a chance to nab it. Thus, a food box. A food box in which all your favorites snacks are packed and – drumroll please – you do not have to share any of them with anyone.

This, folks, was a big deal in our house. I ran a tight ship and sharing was a nonnegotiable. “Share or Mom’s taking it and then no one gets it.” I’m not advocating this parental advice, but it is how I rolled back then. To this day, my children are very generous with their resources, both with each other and outside of our little tribe. Maybe it was my parenting or maybe it was a whole lot of grace. Likely, a sprinkle of me and a heap of Goodness.

My children are now grown, Son1 is 31 now (how did that happen?) and my youngest, Daughter, is 21. This past week, I got to pondering the whole food box thing. Maybe this year, we’d skip it. They live in their own homes now. No one to share with, no need to have your own stash…. and yet:

“Mom, be sure to tell Dad to pack plenty of jerky in the food box… and remember that Brother4 is into that vegan protein drink so include some of that.” — Daughter

So, food boxes it is.

Is it the comfort of tradition? Is it that, though they are old enough to buy their own favorite foods and single enough not to have to share them, they still enjoy the warmth of waking up Christmas morning to Dad’s handiwork?

Or maybe, somehow deep inside their precious hearts, there’s a knowing that Dad and Mom look forward to preparing food boxes for them. That WE anticipate the tradition of it, that it helps us to remember when they were little and young and life was simple and predictable. The days may have been long, but oh the years have been short.

Life has changed in some ways. Their stash used to be mostly chocolate and soda and this year, it’s jerky and vegan protein. All five would play games til Mom and Dad went to bed – and then they’d creep down the stairs, check stockings and food boxes. Now, they drive in Christmas Day… check their stockings and food boxes.

Oh, if I’d have known all these years later how much pleasure hearing “about those food boxes, Mom” would bring me. And Husband.

Such wispy moments. Such great big joy.

What’s in a box? Chips, soda, pudding… jerky and vegan protein… and gobs and gobs of lovely memories.

Writing Every Day Down. 🙂

Hugs,

Lisa

P.S. Need someone to listen to you? to offer you some guidance and perspective? I am a Life Guide and PSH (Professional Space Holder) 😉 and am available for appointments.