A Letter to the Children of America

Dear Children,

I am so sorry. I am sorry you are living in a time when you are unprotected from the ugliness of the world; where hate and racism and fear is at your very fingertips, inescapable on your iPhones and in the forefront of your days. I am sorry that we as adults have failed you. We have failed to protect you from the divisive and greedy underbelly of our country, and it has bled into your psyche and your ways of being. There is no shelter from the news and the fallout from our short-sighted decisions and lack of action.

I am sorry that you are scared to go to school. I am sorry that your lives have been and forever will be shaped by the overwhelming presence of guns in our society. I am sorry that you will jump every time a fire alarm rings or a lockdown drill is scheduled. I am sorry that when my 13 year old goes to soccer practice and an emergency evacuation takes place due to a false alarm, that the team will cooly assume it is due to a shooting in the building. This is the new normal. But it is not by any means normal. It breaks my heart that you are growing up in this kind of culture, and it is not, by any standard, ok.

We have failed you. Our collective greed, political stance, desire for profit and grandstanding has driven us to the lowest level of existence, and it is just plain wrong. We have lost our way.

A a mother, I cannot sleep tonight. I keep thinking of those poor parents who had to identify their children's bodies, ransacked by bullets, ripped apart and blood drained, rendered unrecognizable and lifeless. I keep thinking of their classmates and friends who were firsthand witnesses to this horror; who have to somehow go on and find strength to continue with their lives seeing things through the filter of violence and bloodshed. I do not have words that even come close to the kind of strength and courage that impossible task requires.

Today, across this country, thousands of you walked out of school to draw attention to the senseless murders of your classmates and to those who you did not even know, but who were, like you - at school, sitting at desks, getting ready for practice, looking forward to going home, accepted to colleges, going to a party, growing up and taking on their own lives - when they were randomly and senselessly mowed down by someone with an assault rifle. Some of you saw your best friends get their faces quite literally blown off, watched their warm red blood flow onto your classroom floors, heard their screams and were paralyzed with the most unimaginable horror and fear ever possible on this planet, and screamed those screams yourselves. And still, you survived.

You are, impossibly and unfairly, our hope in these dark times. Your sense of right and wrong is steadfast and unbroken, and you acted upon it today. Please know that we adults watched you with a curious mix of awe and amazement, of anger and hope. Your impassioned and fiery speeches, your angry and intelligent signs, and your willingness to show up and step out is a true testament to the human spirit at its very finest. We need your fierce, unadulterated and undiluted passion. It washes over us - stripping us of the layers of numbness and impartiality we have built up just to cope over years of fear and pain. Your energy and spirit renews us, and inspires us to not give in, to not give up, but to move ahead step by step through these dark times and to seek brighter days ahead. We are amazed by your resilience and your indignant and justified rage. It reminds us of who we were before we became numb, and of all the work yet to be done.

Dear Children,

You are our light and our truth and our way. I am sorry that this burden is yours but I cannot imagine entrusting it to anyone more brave, more passionate or more worthy than you. Lead us and we will do our best to follow.

Love,
The Adults of America

American Stew

This is the view from our kitchen window. Every morning as we stumble to our coffee maker we see that American flag flying high. It reminds me of the great hope that our country was built upon, and the frightening uncertainty of its future. Today, despite a light breeze, it appears to be tangled and stuck, a visual metaphor for how many of us are feeling these days.

I spent my childhood on Long Island surrounded by neighbors of all colors and cultures, ranging from the kind Haitian family who lived down the street to our Icelandic friends whose last name contained an fascinating combination of vowels and was mesmerizingly beautiful. With my high school youth orchestra, I was lucky enough to travel to places like Indonesia, Singapore, Australia, New Zealand, Scandinavia and Thailand. The bulk of my successful horn playing career was achieved on an instrument made in Japan. My husband provides for our family by playing a clarinet that was handmade in Paris out of rare African wood, after studying in Berlin for two years to learn from a German master. The super for our first NYC apartment was a kind and feisty Irish woman. My sons study with a brilliant Chinese piano teacher. My children love all kinds of foods from around the world, which we can order through our smart phones and enjoy at the touch of a button. Indian, Chinese, Thai, Japanese and Mexican are favorites, and we enjoy them all with abandon and without a second thought. Yesterday, my 13 year old son attended one (of many) Bar Mitzvahs to celebrate this important and time-honored rite of passage with his Jewish friend. The incredible craftsman who singlehandedly remodeled our upstairs bathroom hails from Mexico. I love Spanish wine and Argentinian steak and German beer. Masterpieces from Russian and French composers are played here in Chicago every week under the impeccable ears of the great Italian maestro who hired my husband and who leads his great orchestra on its musical journey around the globe. 

My family’s life is literally defined by (and depends upon) a brilliant medley of global flavors, music, religions and cultures. Being immersed in and having access to this dizzying array of choice and variety is what it MEANS to be American. Imagining our lives without any one of these influences is nearly impossible for me. In this day and age, the world is a very small place. However, as I am constantly trying to explain to my Googled, instant gratification-ized children, this was not always the case. Before the days of easy travel, the internet, and FaceTime, learning about other places meant you had to read about them in dusty World Book encyclopedias, watch exotic scenes on National Geographic, or you had to actually go there. Going there was an enormous, expensive privilege and always a life-altering experience. 

Here is what I learned by going out into the world: 

Shutting out color only makes for bleaker landscapes. Excluding differences flattens our emotional, intellectual and physical experience. Refusing to respect other cultures and fear of new things diminishes our potential individually and collectively. 

I believe that our diversity make us better; that each yarn we weave into this vibrant human tapestry supports and complements the ones before. I believe that our individual religious backgrounds give us strength to spring into unknown waters, only to emerge with a deeper understanding and compassion for those swimming alongside us in the murky depths, searching for truth and meaning and magic and something bigger than ourselves. I believe that our colors layered and combined create the richest of canvases and the most luscious and poignant of symphonies. I believe that each one of us has a vital ingredient to add to the pot; to the rich, complex, gorgeous stew that is America. Ours is a unique and treasured recipe so worth fighting for.  

Please, my friends, let's keep on cooking.  

The Knowing

In the darkness
Under the frozen
An invisible shift begins.

Defying the weight
Despite the cold
Unseen forces dance beneath our feet.

A break in the solidness
A crack in the wall
A pushing forward
Stretching irrepressibly towards the light.

An unstoppable yearning
Seeking upward.
New shoots unfurl
Stronger than ice
Bravely pushing into the world through layers of old.

All we can see are new bits of green
But the true magic lies in the muck.
It always has.

The Space Between

In the gap between stones
Within the deep canyons of old stories and new
A rich stew of memory and the unknown brews.
Trust this fertile ground ripe with possibility.
There is no brighter surprise than a tender dandelion blooming through the crack.

Mother's Day

Ah yes, Mother's Day. Criticized by some as being simply commercial, cherished by others as a chance to celebrate revered mothers, aunts, grandmothers and other important women in their lives. I am not going to lie - as the mom of three beautiful boys, I relish the sweet homemade cards, gorgeous flowers and special morning breakfasts proudly presented to me each year.  But as I get older, I find myself thinking of my friends (growing in number, sadly) who no longer have their mothers on this earth to celebrate, or who have complicated and painful relationships with their moms, or those who are not in the biological sense mothers themselves (by choice or by chance), but who love their friends and fur babies with the fiercest and most tender of hearts.

So today, I choose to celebrate love.  Love that weaves its way around the rocky places and takes root.  Love that co-exists with hurt, love which thrives in the shadow of doubt, love that blooms in spite of withering scrutiny.  Love that carries on, love that bears the burden of grief and doesn't break. Love that peeks shyly around the corner, love that trumpets from the rooftops. Love that squeezes through the narrowest of veins and gushes from the most open of hearts.  I celebrate love that is messy and complicated and exhausting but always and forever true.

Mothers give life and with life comes love. We all experience and show and share it in different ways, but there it is, at its most flawed and in its greatest glory.  And that is always worth celebrating.

Lessons from a Little Tree

A few weeks ago, a dear friend showed up to drop her son off for a playdate.  We were talking in the driveway when her eyes filled with tears.  I asked if she'd like to come in for a cup of tea and a chat, and she accepted my invitation and told me her story.

My friend and her husband planted a little tree.  It stands by the corner of their house next to the driveway and the front walk, so every time you go to or from the front door you pass it.  The gutter has been leaking down onto the tree, and its thin branches became covered with ice, weighing it down like an elderly lady carrying a heavy pack.  Fearing the worst, her husband asked her not to touch the tree - to let it be and bear its weight, trusting the strength of the boughs.  This request was too much for my sweet friend to bear - her concern overrode his wishes.

She wrangled a huge long extension cord through the window and outside, plugging in the hair dryer to melt the offending heavy ice.  She tried to prop up a giant ladder to install a tarp over the corner of the house, hoping to alleviate the incessant dripping water that threatened to suffocate and break the tree's branches. The ladder fell twice onto her head and once onto the family car, both of which she was grateful for because at least it did not hit their beloved tree.  She gladly bore the brunt of the injury knowing the tree was unharmed.

Despite her efforts, during the rescue attempt, the ice-laden branch broke. Heartbroken and ashamed, she drove to my house knowing she had tried valiantly to protect it from harm and make things better, but had inadvertently caused more damage in the process.  My heart broke for her, and I admired her concern and care for the poor tree.

Several days later, I was shocked to hear that a car lost control and careened into my friend's house, directly into the corner where their tree stands.  The exterior was broken and shattered in places, and her family (who was home at the time of the accident) was shaken and scared.  Their cherished tree was pinned directly under the offending car, surely flattened and damaged beyond repair.

Of course, in the aftermath of the incident, attention was paid to the family and house, as it should be.  The tree was, well, simply not as important at that time. But here's the amazing thing...

When the vehicle was removed from the accident site, the tree simply popped back up to its original position - a little bent, slightly skewed, but standing.

That precious tree became my hero, my example, my inspiration.  It was flexible, yet strong.  It was slammed into, helplessly trapped under tons of metal, yet it rebounded and stood back up.  It bore great weight and drooped and dragged on the ground, but it did not snap under its load.  It bent and groaned and hung low, but this very act ensured its survival.  Its resilience and flexibility under great pressure were not signs of weakness, but characteristics of enormous strength, trust, patience and fortitude. Had the branches stiffened and resisted, pushing against the weight, irreparable damage would have occurred -- the tree would have been hugely disfigured and quite possibly not survived.  But it bore the trauma with grace and patience, somehow knowing that its very limbs were designed to carry the stress and burden of wintery days, trusting that this too shall pass.

Fixed yet flexible.  Challenged yet calm.
Burdened yet capable.  Damaged yet intact.

We all face wintery days.  May we bear them with the graceful strength of a tree. Know that you are designed to withstand impact, bear the weight and to eventually, inevitably, feel the sun's warm rays melt away the ice that encases us.

Our roots run deep.
Trust and receive their wisdom and nourishment in challenging times.
They will not fail you.

To the Soccer Coach of the Opposing Team

Dear Sir,

I don't know you.  I don't know your name or where you live, how many kids you have or what you do for a living.  I don't know what happened at your house this morning before you left for our game.  I don't know what kind of childhood you had, or what your father was like, or what unspeakable pain you may be carrying in your heart.  I don't know what dreams of yours were shattered with one word, or what disappointments you faced, or what bitter failures litter your path.

You don't know me.  You don't know that I am the mother of three boys who love to play soccer.  You don't know that I was tempted to blow off today's game because our weekends have become so laden with activity that all I really wanted to do is stay home with my kids to bake cookies and play Mad Libs, but we came to the game anyway because we are part of a team and that matters.  You don't know that I look at the world with a glass half full; that I believe in the good of humanity almost of the time; that I have been accused of being a Pollyanna but I take that as a compliment.  You don't know that I don't care if we win or lose.  I care that we play well and that we do our best as a team.  You don't know that my youngest son is always the first to run to an injured player - his team or not - to make sure they are ok.  You don't know that this simple action matters more to me than any goal he will ever score.

Perhaps you know that you yelled too much (like, the whole entire game).  Maybe you know that you insulted our team numerous times and encouraged your players to "crush" us while we were "sleeping."  You must have had some sense of remorse when you approached our coaches after the game to apologize for maniacally screaming at one of our players for "tackling" one of yours (even my 8 year old knew this was not true.  "Why did he yell at him, Mom?  ____ just tripped over the ball and fell onto that other guy!  It was an accident!").  I saw that teammate's mom confront you (in the classiest of ways) after the game, and I was so proud of her for standing up for her son with such grace and composure.

You, sir, like so many others in our country this week, are an adult behaving badly.  You have forgotten that by agreeing to coach, you have shouldered the huge task of being a leader, and you have somehow lost your way. Along with leadership comes responsibility.  It takes bravery and character and intuition.  It means focusing on the positive, while working to strengthen the weak spots along the way.  It takes rising above and being better than your regular self.  It takes character, backbone and humility.  Your son, along with all the other little boys on the field, had your (unbelievably loud) voice ringing in their ears for 90 minutes today.  It was not encouraging.  It was not inspirational.  It was, quite frankly, embarrassing and destructive, for children and parents alike.  Next time, please do us all a favor.  Leave your unfulfilled adolescent athletic fantasies next to the remote in the La-Z-Boy and show up to the game with an open mind and a clean slate.

Recognize that you have a rare chance to be a powerful role model for a group of impressionable 8 year olds who look up to you every week for guidance and support.  Being a winner is not always reflected by the numbers on the scoreboard.  Raise the bar.  I dare you.

You can do better.  If you volunteer to be a coach who works with our children, you must do better.  They deserve more.  And so does your son.

Sincerely,
A Soccer Mom on the Sidelines