What I CAN Tell You

I Instagrammed this photo right after our move across town a couple of weeks ago. I’m so excited about the potential of our new place (crystal door knobs! wood floors!) but it is not in showing shape yet. I thought that photo would give my friends an idea of what the place looked like without revealing all the moving mess.

I’ll try to do the language version of that photo now for how we’re doing:

  • We love our Dundee neighborhood. I walk the girls to and from school everyday. Even though it has introduced me to a new standard for how sweaty is too sweaty, I’m loving every earthy minute. My wish list now includes cute wellies (it rained on us Friday – 15 minutes in a downpour will leave you VERY wet).
  • We’re meeting soon-to-be friends. The community here is well-established and it can be hard to break into that (especially if you’re a 5th or 6th grader), but we’ve got some promising leads. We’re lucky to have made some connections before we moved and we meet new people each day.
  • We finding/making new normals and traditions. Friday nights out. Where shoes go. Laundry days. Dog walks. It’s all exciting but can also be tiring.

We’re trying not to worry about having it all figured out at once. We’re trying to be patient, let the rhythms find us instead of forcing them. We’ve committed to simplicity and that means not buying something for our wall just because it matches (great blog post here on that concept) but waiting for something we love, something that tells the story of us. Not everything is perfect. It’s kind of messy really. But we’re trying to enjoy every step of the journey.



My Strengths Finder Nightmare

logoIt’s finally here: our Dream Year Pitch Night in Omaha is this Wednesday at 7 pm. Will I see you there? (We might have a few tickets left at the door. Email omahapitchnight at gmail dot com if you are interested.)

My top Strengths Finder theme is Connectedness (Gallup). I am never more myself than when I am introducing my friends to my other friends (this is a somewhat conditional statement depending on which friends, but it’s generally true and especially true in this instance). That’s my dream for this Dream Year event. I’ve known the author Ben Arment for over five years via his STORY conference in Chicago. I attended the inaugural event and have spent the subsequent years as a volunteer. (I’m a charter member of the award-winning Greeters team. We are legendary.) Seeing the backside of an event is a great way to get to know the people behind the stage personalities. I can promise you Ben is as genuinely warm and encouraging as he seems.

Not only am I excited for my guests to meet Ben, I’m excited for Ben to meet them. Our presenters offer a wide slice of the Omaha experience. Our venue is The 402 in Benson, home of Aroma’s Coffehouse, one of the hippest spots in town. (I have it on good authority that the Cupcake of the Month is Cherry Limeaide.) I’m proud of our little city of Omaha. I hope she shows off.

Luckily, I’ve already had the nightmare where I’ve booked a venue that seats 1,000 instead of 100 and no one shows up on time, including myself. All the attendees bring babies and toddlers who keep them from listening to the presentations, one of which is a tubby adolescent who takes off his shirt for the interpretive dance portion of his over-the-time-limit pitch. Oh, and everyone is so spread out in their cliques of 4 or 5, they have no interaction with other attendees, the speakers, or myself. Yes, I woke up in a panic. Yes, thankfully, it was just a dream.

Our actual experience should be different. We’ll be cozy at The 402. We’ll be treated to a couple of songs from a band made up of 402 instructors and students (including my husband and son). We’ll eat cupcakes and drink good coffee. We’ll hear Ben share his vision. We’ll hear four presenters share their dreams. We’ll have a Q&A with Ben to close the night and then be free to mingle and chat.

And that’s a good dream.



Are We There Yet?!

Dan and I moved our family to Omaha two years ago knowing we weren’t sure exactly where in the city we wanted to land. Happily, we were able to find a great rental near his parents. We could not have survived the difficult transitions of those two years without their help with childcare and general life support. It’s been a gift.

As Dan has settled into a job he loves (Yay, Flywheel!) and I’m wrapping up the last year of my MFA program, we felt ready to start putting down some roots of our own. It’s not that we haven’t already been doing that to some degree, but we’re ready to settle into a neighborhood that we can call home while the kids are growing up. Jesse will be ready for high school this time next year. We’ve been comfortable in Dan’s old neighborhood in the burbs, but we didn’t feel like it was exactly where we wanted to be for the long term. And the thing is, the longer you keep talking about someday, the longer the doing gets displaced by the talking. Meanwhile, everyone is growing and changing and BAM! we’re parenting a house full of teenagers. (Within three years that’s us: 3/4 of our offspring will be teenagers.)

Dan teaches rock band in hipster-cool Benson and works as a Happiness Engineer in Omaha’s Downtown. Between these areas is Midtown and we’ve kind of fallen in love with its bungalows, restaurants, and tree-lined streets. We like a neighborhood feel where the skyline (even our small one) is just over the treetops and a short drive away. One afternoon last fall Jesse played on the football field at Central High School and we just saw ourselves there, felt like it was our place. We’d been looking for that feeling.

So after the dust settled on his new job, we started looking for housing in the Dundee area and found a sweet little town home to rent. I should emphasize the small in that sentence because we’re definitely downsizing, but we’re excited about the idea of paring down to the things we love or need (Hello, minimalists, I see you!) and finding creative ways to make our space work for us.

All of that is coming. But today I’m still sitting in a half-furnished house in a neighborhood I’m leaving. And as we sort through the toys we love and the things we need and try to keep them separate from everything else, we’re losing track of which pile is which. We’re eating meals on the couch. We’re sleeping in rooms that feel more like garages. And it has just reminded me again how tough it is to actually transition. It’s that place between here and there. Both places are good. It’s just that things feel better when you’re in one place or the other. The only really fun part of a road trip is the snacks, and at some point even that isn’t enough.

But Twizzlers and Diet Coke do help. As well as pizza delivery and ready-to-pack boxes. There are ways to ease the transition and part of that is trying to make good preparations for the coming adventures. Keeping the goal in mind helps more than anything. Here’s to transition: the long flat land between where you are and where you’re going!


The Alure of an Uncrossed Intersection

Wednesday is workshop night. Each week of summer break our little tribe of MFA students gathers at the Panera Bread on Saddle Creek Road. We order cups of soup and tall smoothies and then get started on the task at hand: responding to the poems or stories up for workshop that week.

I’ve been extremely thankful for our group this summer because it’s kept me in the habit of writing. I’m a deadline writer by nature, but knowing I have a workshop coming up has also trained me to write quick drafts wherever I am. Last week I dashed one off while the reading students I tutor were busy with a group project. Surprisingly, the poem was inspired by something I see while I’m in workshop on Wednesday nights.

While I’m sitting in the too-cold air conditioning, I often look out the big widows toward an intersection that connects the Panera parking lot with Saddle Creek and a cross street I don’t have a name for. It’s a tidy intersection: our small plaza on one side, a Walgreens (the kind with lots of green space and boxy shrubs) on one corner and a mid-sized apartment complex (the kind with white wrought iron balconies) on the other corner. To get onto Saddle Creek you’d take a left or a right. If you drive straight through the light you disappear as the street goes up a slight hill and the large over-hanging trees obscure any further view. And every week I think, “I wonder what kind of street is just over that hill. It must be beautiful.”

But every week after the workshop has concluded, I don’t detour to find out. Because I kind of like the not knowing. I like imagining what could be and I hate being disappointed by an alternate reality. I’d rather keep it a secret from myself and just live in the pleasure of not knowing instead of being disappointed by dilapidated rentals or empty store fronts. If that’s the view I’ll find, I’d rather not find out.

On the weeks we workshop my poetry I leave the parking lot with at stack of edited and commented upon poems. I set them in my backseat like the child of mine that they are and I take them home, load them into the appropriate file folder, and tell them I’ll be back to finish them up later.

Except I don’t want to finish them. I like them as they are: full of raw potential and encouraging comments. In this state, even the critical remarks don’t sting because they are followed (by my generous friends) with “a quick fix” or “just something to consider in revision.” Different than the comments I see on the published work of others online. Those comments are directed at the finished work, the work that has no further hope of renovation. Those poems are finished. But my poems full of green marker edits and ball point commentaries are pure possibility in their unfinished state. They might turn out to be perfect.

I like them that way. And I’ve yet to take that unnamed street just to see what’s on the other side. Because I fear being disappointed. But it’s crazy, right? Because what if on the other side of the intersection is the street of my dreams? A house just the right size and shape for our too-large family? A historical marker that will engage my imagination and prompt another poem?

So, I’m planning to dig into that box. And I’ll take the detour, too. Eventually.

This is Good Work: Claire Update

Claire is in the middle of lots of good, hard work right now. Her hour-long physical therapy sessions start with several minutes of stretching. We’ve surgically lengthened her hamstring and Achilles tendons and still there is a daily fight against her body’s natural tone that pulls and tightens muscles in her leg (and arm, but that’s another day’s battle). We noticed she wasn’t being able to pinpoint where her pain was coming from and realized this is probably yet another issue with the way CP works on a body: the brain-to-appendage connection is damaged, so messages just don’t get where they are supposed to go at the right times.

After stretching, the games begin. She plays washers or Don’t Spill the Beans or dominoes, all of them just fronts for the real work that her therapist is doing with the way she asks Claire to stand or lean. Squaring hips, stretching flexors, and bearing weight. The funny thing is how often I’m surprised by what her body can’t do because of how well she compensates in daily life. Her therapist was the one to notice the way she didn’t extend her left (troublesome) leg behind her in her stride. When asked to isolate those hip and butt muscles in an exercise, she barely has any strength in them at all. To walk, she has figured out how to over-use and contort the muscles that respond to her. It isn’t always pretty, but it gets the job done. In therapy, the PT does a kind of deconstruction, finds the holes and the manipulations, and addresses them head on.

Most sessions include extended time on the treadmill. There is usefulness in the quick repetition required of her muscles when the ground is moving under her feet. The therapist adjusts speeds and inclines to find a spot that produces the best gait. We work from there.

At the end of her time, she usually gets to choose a fun activity. The indoor zip line is a favorite. Another is a contraption called a Pedalo. By the time we leave, she’s feeling good but tired. At home we try to follow a routine of daily stretches and strength exercises. Sometimes I try to sneak a stretch in while we’re standing in line at a restaurant or store. That doesn’t always go over well.

One of the tough things this go-around is how much more aware of other people she seems to be. She’s worn a brace off and on for years, but it’s been several since she’s worn it daily.This time, though, she isn’t as likely to want to run in with me at the store or take the dog for a walk, and it isn’t because she isn’t able. “I just feel like everybody is looking at me.” I remember feeling that way when I was 11 and probably no one actually was. In her case, they usually are.

So she works. Strengthens the parts that are weak, stretches the parts that are tight, coaxes the non-responsive parts into action. It’s good, hard work. I’m incredibly proud. Sad, some days, that it has to be her this way. Sad, some days, that I’m filling my Instagram feed with filtered shots from the Rehabilitation room at Children’s Hospital instead of a beach vacation. But thankful, every day, that she’s mine. Thankful for what she’s taught me about what it really takes to be important and special (hint: none of the things I would have told you before Claire). Thankful that when I think of Claire, the analogy of Christ and the Church as a head and a body makes more sense in a practical way for someone still being surprised by how tough and how great this faith community thing can be. This isn’t perfect. It sometimes looks awkward. But the beauty isn’t in an elegant, flawless product. The beauty is in the trying. The beauty is in the being. The beauty is in the work.