Using Our Words

I took my two-year-old and my five-year-old to a playground this afternoon, while my two older daughters attended their little homeschool History Club.

After a while, my five-year-old came up to me and said, “Mommy, I want to play with somebody. Somebody new. Somebody who’s not my sister. I want to make a new friend.”

There weren’t many other children at the playground: a handful of babies, the rejected two-year-old sister — and three girls who were, from the looks of them, about two years older than my daughter. Of course, these were the girls my daughter was eyeing.

“Go ahead and ask if you can play with them,” I prompted, praying silently that these “big girls” would be kind.

“I’m feeling a little shy,” she said. “Will you come with me?”

So I said I would hold her hand and come with her, but I wouldn’t speak for her — she had to do the asking.

Hand-in-hand, we approached the big girls.

Here is what my daughter said, completely on her own, in her tiny voice:

“Hi, I was wondering if I could play with you? Because I don’t have a friend here, and I’m feeling lonely.”

They were kind: They said yes. (Thankful prayer from me.)

I walked away from this exchange marveling at the beautiful request my daughter had made. It was simple, honest, and vulnerable. This is not because my daughter is anything special — of course, I think she’s something special, but really she’s just a regular kid. She said what she did precisely because she’s a regular kid, and to say anything else wouldn’t occur to her.

And then I realized that the days when my daughter can make this sort of request are numbered.

Think about it: If somebody approached you and said, “I was just wondering if we could hang out for little bit, because I don’t have a friend and I’m feeling lonely,” how would you react? I know how I would react: I’d probably make some excuse and dash off. We adults are generally too busy for this kind of neediness. If we’re honest, vulnerability freaks us out a little bit.

It’s funny: I’ve spent the first five years of each of my daughters’ lives — what will amount to twenty years’ worth of effort — encouraging, begging, pleading with them to use their words. “Please, stop screaming and just tell me what you want,” I exhort them.

But then, not too long after — by about mid-elementary school, by my estimation — we (the big “we:” society, culture, all of us) begin implicitly teaching our children to stop using their words. To put up a brave front. To not say what they want. Because in our world, to be vulnerable, to admit loneliness, is to be weak. It freaks people out. It’s tantamount to an admission of failure.

It occurs to me that a great deal of trouble — emotional distress, interpersonal strife, political discord — might be avoided if we hadn’t somehow been discouraged along the way from just using our words.

California Sabbatical: They Paved Paradise

It’s late afternoon, and I’m looking east through the big picture windows of my favorite café in Berkeley, California. I’m used to seeing the Green Mountains when I look east, but today I see the Berkeley Hills.

There’s no confusing the Berkeley Hills for the Green Mountains. The slopes of the Berkeley Hills are covered with more houses than trees; the electric lights in those houses are blinking on right now, and will outshine the constellations tonight. The hills’ summits are ridged with cell phone towers. And to see the Berkeley Hills I must look across a parking lot, past six lanes of traffic and the BART train tracks, and beyond a network of power lines and street lights.

A refrain runs through my head that’s been haunting me since we arrived in Berkeley for my husband’s sabbatical. It goes like this: What have we done?

Click here to continue reading this week’s “Faith in Vermont, California Sabbatical” in The Addison Independent.

California Sabbatical: Where The Heart Is?

When friends and family from Vermont ask how we’re doing during our five-month sabbatical in Berkeley, California, I usually answer, “It’s been a good experience. But it’s not home.”

The funny thing is, it was home.

I’ve been contemplating this concept of home: What is it that makes one place clearly home, and another place – a perfectly nice and familiar place filled with beloved friends and family – so clearly not home?

Obviously, home is where your house is, in the physical sense. But I am talking about the more spiritual sense of “being at home.”

The old platitude claims, “Home is where the heart is.” One of my daughters drew a picture and captioned it with this saying. When my husband asked, “Where’s your heart?” she didn’t miss a beat: “Vermont.”

Click here to continue reading my latest column, “Faith in Vermont, California Sabbatical,” in The Addison Independent.

An Open Letter to the Citizens of Berkeley

Good People of Berkeley:

I’m here from out of town, although I used to live among you. So, I’m prepared to tell you how the rest of the country thinks of you. Mention “Berkeley” to most people, and they immediately conjure up an image of progressive, liberal, peace-loving descendants of the 1960s hippie movement, eating artisanal whole foods while dressed in tie-die and smelling of patchouli. It’s a stereotype, sure, but in my experience it’s a stereotype that the population of Berkeley does little to discourage.

Except for the “peace-loving” part.

Berkeleyites, never have I been among a more stressed-out, rage-filled group of people.

How do I know that you’re stressed-out and rage-filled? Because never in my four decades of life have I been as scolded by complete strangers as I have been in the past five months that I’ve spent among you.

I have been chastised for my driving (usually for not being aggressive enough.) Other people have scolded my children for minor offenses, and then turned and criticized my parenting. And, just this morning, I was barked at for not realizing that the proper system in the bakery where we had taken our children for breakfast — where the line snaked out the door — was not to select your items from the open bins first and then take your place in line (which, confusingly, is the system when the line is shorter), but was instead to wait on line first and select your items as you passed the bins.

Now, I recognize that angry, stressed-out scoldings of total strangers are not unique to Berkeley, but the fact is: I’ve only experienced them here. Sure, I come most recently from a small town in Vermont where everyone knows everyone, which tends to encourage kindness (in public, at least.) But I also lived in Manhattan for seven years. And never once, in all that time, was I lashed out at the way I have been in Berkeley, where I’ve averaged at least one scolding a month.

Let me also say this: The people I actually know in Berkeley are kind, and peace-loving. These scoldings all come from people I don’t know, which, frankly, makes them worse. I can take correction from my husband and close friends, whom I trust to know me, but scolding from a stranger who has no idea of my struggles (although they are generally apparent in the four wiggly young children surrounding me) seems completely unjust.

And do you know who the worst offenders are? Affluent-appearing Caucasian men and women in their 60s and 70s; in other words, the very people who were alive during the Summer of Love and “Give Peace A Chance” and “Imagine” and “I’d Like to Buy the World a Coke.” The very people who gave Berkeley the stereotype it still bears.

I understand that it’s stressful to live here: You have to sit in traffic and wait in lines for everything – even if you wake up at 8 AM on a Saturday, the bakery line still stretches around the store. I understand that this degree of congestion fosters the idea that other people are aggravating impediments to your own personal muffin consumption, in much the same way that you might take compassion on one ant in your house, but when there’s a line of ants marching across your floor you have to annihilate the suckers. I understand that, in order to live in a city where the median home price is in the $800,000 range you probably work long hours creating technology that encourages human relationships to be played out over screens. I understand that living in a place with a reputation for progressive thinking might encourage a certain aggressive self-righteousness. But here, as an ambassador from small-town Vermont, are two simple suggestions for you, Berkeley:

First, let’s just agree that we should never, ever, EVER take it upon ourselves to correct other people’s children or give unsolicited parenting advice. I think most parents of young children would agree with me that the only times we welcome interference or advice are: 1) If we’ve asked for it, or 2) if death is imminent (i.e. my child is running into traffic.) Otherwise, not to put too fine a point on it: BACK OFF.

No, my children are not perfect. That’s because they are children – they are works in progress. And guess who’s responsible for raising them? ME, that’s who. I’m doing my best to raise responsible adults, but we’re not there yet, and it’s hard work.

My children aren’t perfect, but neither are they monsters. And, if you stopped a moment, you might think that they’re kind of cute. Maybe you could even smile at them, because one thing my children and I have both noticed is that nobody smiles at them here. You might feel better if you did.

So, lady in front of us in line for the gas station bathroom, next time you see a mother surrounded by four young children and one of her children neglects to cover her cough: Before you lash out at mother and child, perhaps consider that this mother has a lot on her hands, that maybe she was about to remind her child of proper hygiene before you stepped in, and also this is a gas station bathroom and those germs are surely not the worst ones around.

BE KIND. The people around you are just as complicated and sensitive as you are. They have hopes and dreams and struggles, just like you do. It behooves us all to consider one another’s humanity as we interact. The things you say and the way that you say them have an impact on people.

Back to my bakery experience: When the man in line barked at me for what he perceived as my cutting the line, he had no idea of my story. And when I apologized and explained that we were from out of town and hadn’t known the system, it made absolutely no difference in the tone he used with me. When my eyes strayed behind him in hopes of finding sympathy elsewhere, I saw that the man behind him was snickering at me, presumably at my stupidity.

These were grown men, and they made me feel like I was back in junior high.

And you know what? It ruined my morning. My scone felt like sand in my mouth, my heart rate was elevated for the next hour; I felt like a bad person. And all we were trying to do was to take our daughters out to a special breakfast.

Berkeleyites who read this might be thinking: Grow a tougher skin. Don’t let one jerk ruin your breakfast. To which I submit: Is that really how we want to be with each other? Grow tougher skins so that others can spew their rage all over us without consequence?

Berkeley is one of the most innovative and creative regions in our country right now. You don’t have to let people steal your muffins, but don’t tell me you can’t come up with more polite methods of correcting people.

There are signs up around Berkeley now that read, “Drive Like Your Kids Live Here.” My daughter saw one of these signs and misread it: “Mommy!” she laughed, “That sign said, ‘Drive Like Your Kids!’ They want you to drive like your kids!”

It was a hilarious misinterpretation that’s become a family joke. But I can’t help thinking how it’s indicative of the Berkeley way of life. All of the signs – the face Berkeley presents to the outside world – seem to encourage responsible and kind cohabitation. Yet in reality, many Berkeleyites are driving like their kids – both literally on the road and metaphorically in their interactions. They bash into each other and cut each other off and honk their horns like a bunch of preschoolers on the playground.

Because the truth is, your politics don’t make you a peacemaker. Neither does your money, your intelligence, or your success. Peacemaking comes from recognizing that every single person out there was created special and deserving of respect. That’s what we teach our kids, right? So let’s drive like our kids live here.

California Sabbatical: Journey to Points South

In mid-February our family left the house we’re renting during my husband’s sabbatical in Berkeley, California and drove south for eight hours.

Our destination: Orange County, a sprawling collection of suburbs just south of Los Angeles.

Our purpose: To visit my husband’s brother and his family…and Disneyland.

Click here to continue reading the latest update from California in my “Faith in Vermont” column in The Addison Independent.

Current Events, Common Sense, and Craft Fairs

It is difficult for the human mind to commit itself to one thing, and to maintain focus upon that thing in order to see it through to completion.

This is particularly true for parents of young children, who may have only two uninterrupted hours each day (in our house, we call this “nap time”) during which it’s possible to focus upon anything other than fetching snacks, locating toys, and mediating sibling disputes.

And it’s even more particularly true during the holidays, which add another layer of complexity to our already full lives.

A partial list of things I should focus on today: packing my family for our 5-month sabbatical in California; cleaning out our current house in order to put it on the market while we’re away; choosing bathroom countertops for the new house that we’ll move into when we return; holiday baking; organizing Christmas gifts for family, friends, and teachers; watering the Christmas tree; reading my monthly book club selection; writing this column; answering that email about the Christmas pageant; being an engaged wife, mother, daughter, and friend.

What I do during nap time today: bake sugar cookies.

It occurs to me that the way I respond to my life is similar to the way in which I – and, I suspect, many of us – respond to the world at large.

A partial list of things we should focus on: Syrian refugees, climate change, human trafficking, domestic terrorism, mass shootings and gun control, the 2016 elections, buying local, ISIS, instability in the Middle East, Starbucks cups, racial inequality, the economy, police brutality.

What we do: critique Donald Trump on Facebook.

Click here to continue reading this week’s “Faith in Vermont” column in The Addison Independent.

Five Misconceptions About Sabbatical

And just like that, Thanksgiving’s over. Before we had a chance to toss out the dried-out autumnal gourd decorations and boil the turkey bones for broth, there were wreaths around town, Christmas carols playing in the stores, and – could it be? – Christmas trees blinking in our neighbors’ windows. With a mere two days between Thanksgiving and the start of Advent, the holiday season seems to be upon us in an even more breathless rush than usual.

But that’s okay: I can keep breathing. It’s not like I’m also preparing to move our family across the country for five months, during which major renovations will be happening on the house we’ll move into after we return, while at the same time our current house goes on the market.

Oh, wait a minute! That’s exactly what’s happening!

Click here to continue reading my latest “Faith in Vermont” column in The Addison Independent.

Hold the Pie (A Thanksgiving Wish)

The other day, our Campbell said: “Mommy, I’m thankful for everything in the whole entire world. Except for pie: I really don’t like pie.”

It’s been a rough month for the world. So here is a Thanksgiving wish from the Pickle Patch: Today, may you find rest in having an entire day set aside for gratitude. No matter how rough the month may be, there is always thanks to give. (Except for pie). I think gratitude is often what keeps us going; I know it’s what keeps me going.

That, and laughter. So may you also laugh today.

Towards that end, here is Fiona’s pre-Thanksgiving prayer, offered up at our dinner table this week:

“Dear Lord, Thank you for the turkeys that are about to sacrifice themselves for us. And I pray for the farmers who are about to slaughter them: that they will have given their turkeys good lives and that they’ll be careful with their knives.”

She knows where her food comes from, that girl.

On second glance, maybe that’s not funny; maybe it’s profound. Maybe the point is that whether you’re the turkey or the farmer, it’s important to be kind, to be considerate of others. Let’s be kind this Thanksgiving.

But you don’t have to eat the pie if you don’t like it.

Trading Up

A few weeks ago, a friend invited me to go to the Trader Joe’s grocery store in South Burlington.

Although this Trader Joe’s – the only one in Vermont – opened in May 2014, I had never visited it. I had, in fact, resisted opportunities to visit it, just as I generally resist chances to go to Costco, or Home Depot, or WalMart.

For one thing, a visit to any of these chain stores requires me to drive to the Burlington area. Listen: If I’m loading multiple young children into our minivan and driving an hour or more, it’s certainly not going to be in order to buy things. I’d rather save my money and stay home.

For another thing: I’ve been to Trader Joe’s, and Costco, and Home Depot, and WalMart. I’ve even been to Target and Ikea, neither of which exists in the state of Vermont at present. I went to all these places and more when I lived in the San Francisco Bay Area. So I know that, although people like to shop at these stores because they’re full of “good deals,” what they’re really full of is stuff that you don’t know you needed until you were surrounded by thousands of square feet of “good deals” crooning your name. These stores are not your friends; these stores, like all others, just want your money.

I didn’t move to Vermont to shop at Trader Joe’s; if anything, a major selling point of Vermont was its dearth of chain stores. Shopping shouldn’t be that easy; I’d far rather navigate the miniscule aisles of the Middlebury Natural Foods Co-op, with people judging me for allowing my toddler to stand up in the basket of our shopping cart, in order to pay four times what I’d pay at a big box grocery store.

I’m serious.

Click here to continue reading my latest “Faith in Vermont” column in The Addison Independent.

How Long?

News of the terrorist attacks in Paris hit our house yesterday — a house already weary after weeks of processing the racial tensions flaring up on campuses across the country (including our own, Middlebury.) It felt like we’d been hooked up to a steady drip of pain.

Too often, life feels like being hooked up to a steady drip of pain.

The thing about having lived four decades is that, when news breaks, it takes me back in time; I remember.

I remember being in New York City when the planes hit the towers: hearing the news from the headmistress of the school where I was teaching, who pulled me out of class to deliver the still-hazy details and instruct me to keep my students calm. I remember the terrifying days that followed, when we all walked around with broken hearts, smelling the burning towers, seeing posters of the missing, looking for someplace — anyplace — where we could donate blood. So maybe I understand a little about how helpless it feels to be in Paris today.

I remember being at college — a liberal arts college much like Middlebury. I had, and still have, friends of color. I don’t remember anybody talking about racial tension on campus. I thought it was wonderful that so many people from so many backgrounds could live together in peace, exchanging ideas, on one campus. I thought we were all privileged to be there. But when I hear about the discomfort experienced by students of color on campuses today from our “honorary-Gong-Girl-for-a-year,” who is working on the front lines at Middlebury, I wonder if maybe I’m remembering wrong; maybe I thought wrong.

I feel powerless in the face of things like terrorism and racism.

But when I consider how to respond, I keep returning to this advice, given to the Israelite exiles in Babylon thousands of years ago:

“Build houses and make yourselves at home.

“Put in gardens and eat what grows in that country.

“Marry and have children. Encourage your children to marry and have children so that you’ll thrive in that country and not waste away.

“Make yourselves at home there and work for the country’s welfare.

“Pray for Babylon’s well-being. If things go well for Babylon, things will go well for you.”

(Jeremiah 29:5-7)

If you wish, substitute “the world” for “Babylon.”

Because aren’t we all exiles here, really? Who among us feels comfortably at home in this broken world?

We are all strangers here.

But I can’t think of a more subversive act, a better way to beat back the darkness, than to make ourselves at home. To plant gardens. To form loving relationships and to nurture children. And, above all, to work and pray for the good of this place in which we find ourselves.