For Shame

shame, n 1 a: a painful emotion caused by consciousness of guilt, shortcoming, or impropriety [Webster’s Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary, 1986]

***

I am not a member at the Middlebury Natural Foods Co-op.

There! It’s out!

I have absolutely nothing against the Co-op. It’s a lovely place filled with lovely food — much of it locally produced — and staffed by lovely people. I do, on occasion, shop at the Co-op; just last week I needed two cans of garbanzo beans and I had only one child with me and the Co-op was on my way.

When I took my two cans to the register, the clerk asked, “Are you a Co-op member?” I hung my head in shame and mumbled, “No.” She looked disappointed in me.

Most people are shocked to discover that I’m not a member at the Co-op. It’s a topic that’s come up a lot lately in conversations with friends and acquaintances from all walks of life: new neighbors, my husband’s colleagues at Middlebury College, and life-long Vermonters. We’ll be discussing some food product or recipe, and they’ll say, “Oh, you can get that at the Co-op. You’re members at the Co-op, right?”

When I confess my outsider status, jaws drop. Conversation screeches to a halt. At last, broken by their silent judgement, I start babbling an explanation.

Click here to learn why I don’t belong to the Co-op — and other shameful secrets — in my latest “Faith in Vermont” column for The Addison Independent!

On Writing, the Darkest Day, and the New Year

Last week, my oldest daughter found a copy of our Christmas letter – the breezy family update that I’d slapped together to send out with our Christmas cards. She sat down at the kitchen table to read it, without my knowledge. (It’s still new and surprising that there are members of our family who can read besides my husband and me, and I’ve yet to take the necessary precautions.)

I found her there, sitting at the table, laughing and laughing. This girl is not a big laugher; at seven years old she’s become shy and serious, with a tendency to ask questions that hint at the beginnings of existential angst (“Mommy, do you ever feel lonely?”) She’d never before read anything I’ve written. But there she was, laughing out loud over something I’d written about our family.

In that moment, I remembered why I write. I also thought, If I never write another word, it’s okay; this is enough.

Click here to continue reading the final “Faith in Vermont” column of 2014 over at The Addison Independent.

Mary & Me

Our pastor (trustingly and graciously) asked me to write and deliver a brief reflection on a Bible passage during our church’s Lessons & Carols service yesterday. She gave me a choice of two passages: one was the well-known, bare facts version of Jesus’s birth; the second was a little flashier, about the angels appearing to the shepherds.

I chose the less exciting Bible passage, because I felt like I would benefit from spending time digging into a story I’ve heard so often that I barely hear it anymore. What follows is that passage, and my reflection upon it.

Luke 2:1-7

In those days Caesar Augustus issued a decree that a census should be taken of the entire Roman world. (This was the first census that took place while Quirinius was governor of Syria.) And everyone went to their own town to register.

So Joseph also went up from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to Bethlehem the town of David, because he belonged to the house and line of David. He went there to register with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child. While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no guest room available for them.

***

I have a really difficult time relating to Mary.

Joseph confuses me, too, but I feel like Mary should be a kind of soul sister: she was a woman, I’m a woman; she was a mother, I’m a mother.

Still, I just don’t get her. Almost every other Biblical character turns out to have been a lot like us – or, better yet, worse than us. The big names in the Bible were liars, murderers, cheats, prostitutes. But not Mary; read the Christmas story for the hundredth time, and Mary looks exactly like she did back when I was in Sunday School: humble, obedient, and perfect. Too perfect.

This is a young woman who, when an angel visits her early in Luke and tells her that she’s going to be fodder for the Nazareth tabloids by being an unwed mother to God’s son, essentially says, “Huh? Okay!” Then she starts singing poetry.

That would not exactly be my response if I were in her sandals.

Then there’s this census trip to Bethlehem with Joseph. Mary and Joseph probably traveled about 90 miles from Nazareth to Bethlehem. And, although most pictures seat Mary on a donkey, the Bible never mentions any donkey, so she may have been walking. The trip would have taken them about a week, give or take. And Mary was in her last trimester of pregnancy.

During my last trimester of pregnancy, I was either buying baby supplies or on the couch watching Downton Abbey. I was emotional, uncomfortable, and impatient. If I’d had to walk or – only slightly better – ride a donkey 90 miles, somebody would have heard about it, loudly and often.

As for the actual birth of Jesus, it seems that our Western image of Mary and Joseph arriving in Bethlehem, finding no vacancy at the Motel 6, and spending the night in a barn is about as accurate as Mary riding on a donkey.

Many Biblical scholars believe that the word “inn” is a bad translation of the original Greek word “katalymati,” which is more accurately interpreted as “guest chamber” or “upper room.” Mary and Joseph were probably traveling with members of Joseph’s extended family, and because Bethlehem was Joseph’s ancestral home, they may well have been staying with his family. A truer description of what happened on Christmas Eve is probably: Because the home where they were staying was so jam-packed, Mary had no privacy and nowhere to put her baby. So she retreated to what was either – depending on the house’s setup – a cave in the backyard where animals were kept, or a lower room where the animals and servants stayed.

You want to see my husband’s eyes widen with fear? Just try presenting him with this scenario: Hey, Erick, how about if, when Faith was 9 months pregnant, she had to walk for a week to a house full of in-laws? And then, because the in-laws wouldn’t leave her alone and hadn’t gotten the crib on her baby registry, she had to give birth among animals and lay the baby in a feeding trough?

But in the Bible, Mary never makes a peep. Western Christmas culture has interpreted this to mean that she plodded along without complaint or resentment. Also: She was blonde, pink-cheeked, and beaming peacefully the whole time.

I can’t relate to any of that.

Then I re-read this passage in Luke, which most of us have heard so often that it barely registers, and I realized that we have no idea how Mary acted or felt. There’s simply not enough information. We get a brief outline of events – just the facts, ma’am — from the journey to Bethlehem through Jesus’s birth, but nothing about Mary’s reactions. For all we know, she could have nagged at Joseph the entire 90 miles to Bethlehem. She could’ve resented the heck out of her in-laws for not having a spare crib. She could’ve been terrified about delivery, and bitter that it wasn’t the birth she’d expected. (“I gave birth to the Savior, and all I got was this lousy manger.”)

Or maybe not.

But here’s what else I realized: It doesn’t matter.

I don’t have to understand Mary in order to be rocked to the core by the Christmas story, because Mary is not the point.

The one and only point is: That’s GOD lying there in the manger.

And my guess is, God was going to do his work through Mary whether she grumbled or humbly accepted it. When the angel told her God’s plan, he didn’t present it as an option. So maybe the most remarkable thing about Mary isn’t that she was perfect, but that she recognized God’s power better than I do.

This year, God has been teaching me in many ways, most of them uncomfortable, that I am not the point: that the world, the arc of history, and even God’s plans for my own life do not hinge on my personal comfort or convenience.

That kind of thinking’s not popular in our culture today. We think in terms of self- esteem and self-actualization. We say that God has a plan for our lives, and we assume that means a fairytale ending.

The Christmas story shows that God’s plan will be worked out through us regardless of whether we agree, complain, or are comfortable. We are not the point.

But not being the point doesn’t mean that we don’t matter. We know we matter, because that’s God in that manger. For us.

We can plan all we want for a comfortable birth, but God? God’s plan is to save us.

***

I’m now beginning two full weeks at home with all four children, all day long. So, aside from my regular obligations at The Addison Independent you probably won’t hear from me for a while. I wish you and yours a wonderful Christmas, and a joyful 2015.

Regrets (I’ve Had a Few)

October in Vermont is a month that tugs your heart back and forth. It is undeniably beautiful: peak foliage season, bringing busloads of “leaf peepers” and wavering chains of backroad cyclists into our town. Looking out the windows from where I sit at my computer, I feel like I’m inside a golden box. The woods are yellow and brown and red and just the tiniest bit of green, and they glow. It’s a breathtaking time of year.

But it tugs at your heart because you know it won’t last. It’s a quick transition between the emerald warmth of summer and the white freeze of winter. And, like all transitions, it’s not without mess: the green leaves mixed in among the autumn colors, the temperatures that swing wildly from the 30s to the 70s.

It is quite possible that I’m in the October of my life right now.

I spent the first part of the month looking backwards with some regret. “If I’d known then what I know now, I’d have had all the kids right away, in my 20s, and then gone to college,” I told my husband one night. Never mind the glaringly obvious logistical problems with that statement (like: How is it in any way easier to go to college AFTER having four kids?); what I meant was that it seems wasteful that I invested in my education when I was mentally young (i.e. immature), thus delaying offspring until I was physically older. Childbirth and rearing would’ve probably been less taxing when I was physically younger, and higher education would’ve been less wasted on my when I was mentally older.

That’s all beside the point; the point is that I didn’t know then what I know now, and that’s the crucial fly in the ointment of all regrets. If I’d had children earlier, I’d have been a very different mother with very different children. If I’d waited to launch my education and career (such as it is), I’d have skipped over some vitally important formative experiences. Flip-flopping my timeline doesn’t get me to where I am now, just younger and with a better vocational plan: It changes everything.

But there I sat, in October of 2014 and in my own emotional October, looking back with regret, wondering why I hadn’t made better use of my summer.

Blah.

Then the other night, my husband pointed out that this week is the 15-year anniversary of when we started dating. That news sent me into a completely different sort of backward glancing.

It sent me back to that Halloween weekend of 1999, when a young couple on their third date had just finished a nice dinner in Greenwich Village. As they crossed lower Sixth Avenue, they held hands for the first time.

This sort of backward glancing always makes me think about how much fun it must be to be God. Because I see this couple, as if from above, and I think: They have no idea.

We didn’t know then what we know now.

We didn’t know that three years later we’d get married, after a dating relationship that tested every bit of faith and commitment we had in us.

And then, when we were newly married, there was a certain little girl who lived in our building and who always made us chuckle when we shared an elevator with her and her mother. My husband called her “the sassy Asian girl.” He’d say, “It would be fun to have a sassy Asian girl someday.”

He had no idea.

So I’ve spent these final days of October looking back over the past 15 years with this “God’s-eye view.” Revisiting the quarrels and the make-ups, the trips around the world, the years of graduate school and jobs, the loving moments with friends and family, the illnesses and the childbirths. And the thing is, when I take this view, there’s just so much joy. Joy, and wonder at it all.

And yes, there were hard and sorrowful and horrible times. But when I take the “God’s-eye view,” I don’t see any of those times with regret. I just think: I didn’t know then what I know now. I didn’t know that it would be okay in the end. I didn’t know how those moments would become crucial pieces of the whole.

Where does that lead me?

Having looked back with regret, and having looked back with joy and wonder, the common denominator is: I didn’t know then what I know now. Our cosmic ignorance in each present moment can lead to regret, or it can lead to joy and wonder. And, like most things — like October — it’s a both/and. Regrets can coexist with joy and wonder.

But, given the choice, it’s probably better for your heart to try and take the “God’s-eye view.” It’ll keep you warmer come winter.

The Lost Girls

*Composite of video surveillance images of Hannah Graham on the night she disappeared from http://www.wtvr.com*

Last Friday I had a dentist appointment, or what I like to think of as: My chance to catch up on People magazine. So there I was, in the waiting room, flipping through a back issue of People, when I came upon an article about the disappearance of 18-year-old University of Virginia student Hannah Graham.

Although Hannah Graham had disappeared over a month earlier, this was the first I’d heard of it. My life is like that these days. Many of you are probably more familiar than I with the details of the story: the beautiful, bright, and athletic UVA sophomore who disappeared after a party, the video footage of her wandering downtown Charlottesville alone, the man who was taken into custody with possible links to the disappearances and deaths of several other beautiful young women. When I came home from the dentist, I searched the news and learned that human remains that were found on an abandoned farm had just been positively identified as the body of Hannah Graham.

These are the kind of stories that I can’t get out of my head.

As it happens, I have some tenuous personal connections to this particular story: Hannah Graham grew up in Alexandria, Virginia, which is just a few miles from the Northern Virginia suburb where I grew up. My family has a deep affection for UVA — both my father and my cousin attended UVA Law School — and I visited Charlottesville often as a child.

Common geography aside, this sort of story always haunts me. It takes my mind to the darkest places I can imagine. What must it be like to be abducted, subjected to horrors, and killed? What must it be like to be the parent of a daughter who disappears? It’s unfathomable, and my heart breaks for Hannah, for her parents, and for too many other daughters and families who’ve suffered similar ordeals.

But there’s an aspect of the Hannah Graham story that I find especially chilling, and that’s how alone she was. I gather that there’s been some unhelpful criticism on this point already: “Why was she walking alone after midnight?”, “Was she drunk?” Before I go on, I want to be clear that I am not sitting in judgement of either Hannah Graham or her friends; there but for the grace of God go most of us when when we were 18, 19, 20…. No; the fault for this injustice lies squarely on the shoulders of whomever took and killed her.

Still: Video surveillance images from at least three separate cameras showed Hannah Graham walking or running alone through Charlottesville for over an hour. Why was she walking alone? Where were her friends — the friends she’d met for dinner, the friends she’d seen at a party?

This is where I think the Hannah Graham story becomes a commentary on our culture.

My husband and I tell our four daughters that, if they ever find themselves lost and alone — and if there’s no police officer or other obvious authority figure present — the rule is: Look for a mom. Ideally, this would be a mom they know; failing that, look for anybody who appears to be a mom or grandma. (This is not intended to be sexist, it’s just a matter of statistical safety.)

Where were the moms for Hannah Graham? Was she looking for one?

In my opinion, the most heartbreaking image from all of the news coverage on Hannah Graham is the last recorded image we have of her just before she disappears from view forever. She’s walking through a pedestrian mall; the man who was later arrested and charged with her disappearance is several yards behind her.

And between them comes a small crowd of people, walking in the same direction.

When a young girl who is possibly inebriated and probably lost can wander for an hour late at night through public places where there are groups of people out and about, and she ends up dead, that is an indictment on our community. It implicates us all.

She was so alone, but there were people around. And that’s what it’s like to live in our culture today, where it’s possible to have 500 Facebook friends whom you never see in person.

It appears that Hannah Graham did reach out for help at least once: She sent a text message to some friends saying that she was heading to a party but was lost. The technology was there; the technology worked. She had a cell phone. There were surveillance cameras. They didn’t save her.

She needed actual people. She needed the community. Where were the moms?

This is a tragic story. Unfortunately, this side of paradise, there will always be tragedy and crime. But it seems to me that some tragedies might be preventable if the community is aware, and if our children see the community as a trustworthy place to turn for help. If there’s anything to be taken from the tragedy of Hannah Graham, maybe it’s this:

We — all of us, the human community — need to keep our eyes open for the lost girls. And we need to tell our girls that if they’re lost, they should try to ask the right people for help, before the wrong ones offer it.

The Disappeared

This is a ghost story, except that the ghosts were never living; they were things that humans built assuming they’d endure: roads, houses, towns.

I used to read with fascination about the disappearance of ancient civilizations. In a world where Google Maps allow us to access satellite views of anywhere we please with a mouse click, it seems incredible that entire cities — all those Biblical locales like Ur of the Chaldeans, or the settlements surrounding Stonehenge — could have simply vanished, returned to desert or grassland.

Well, that’s what happened thousands of years ago, when everybody built with wood, I reassured myself.

Until recently, when I realized that things still disappear. Even in Addison County, where change is slow and many buildings date from centuries past — where old houses become inns, old churches become houses, and old mills become shopping centers — things have vanished from both landscape and memory within the past 200, 50, even 10 years.

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

Rest: Why You (Yes, You) Need It!

I would love to hear about your process in realizing you need to “step back” and care for yourself. What happened to cause that? What has changed in the way you go about doing things?

Those lines are from an email I received from a college student we know.

I laughed when I read her email. I’d just been up half the night before having a panic attack. I’d laid in bed, mind racing, breathing hard, every muscle firing. Finally, so as not to disturb my sleeping husband, I went downstairs and walked around, forcing myself to breathe deeply.

Click here to continue reading my latest post over at “On the Willows.”

A Morning at the DMV

I spent the morning of my 39th birthday in the waiting room of the Middlebury DMV.

Here are a few things that you should know:

-The Middlebury DMV is a “mobile” DMV, which means that it’s not in operation every day. It’s open for business in the Middlebury Courthouse every Thursday, and alternating Wednesdays. That’s it.

-I needed to renew my driver’s license. And, since my license expired on my 39th birthday, I needed to renew it that day. (I found out later that I had a two-week grace period to renew my license, but I’m a good girl who likes to meet the deadline.)

-My birthday is on September 11.

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

In Memoriam

“Writers are always selling someone out.”

So wrote Joan Didion in her preface to Slouching Towards Bethlehem.

I recalled this quote last week at breakfast, when my husband asked me over the head of our crying daughter, “Is this going to become a blog post?”

“Of course not,” I replied, indignant. “It’s too sad.”

Three hours later, I sat at my computer and composed this blog post.

Writers are always selling someone out.

Our daughter was crying because she missed Pink Sweetie.

She missed Pink Sweetie because she’d received a letter from Pink Sweetie.

Let me back up: Pink Sweetie was — is — a “lovey,” a soft little blankie with an animal head (a bear, in this case.) Pink Sweetie was a baby gift for Fiona, but Fiona passed her — along with her companion, White Sweetie — to Campbell after her birth. Campbell never passed Pink Sweetie on; she clutched Pink Sweetie, buried her nose in Pink Sweetie, brought Pink Sweetie everywhere — including the ferry across Lake Champlain, where, one fateful summer Saturday, the wind swept Pink Sweetie out of Campbell’s grip and into the water.

Campbell went through all the stages of grief in the course of 30 minutes, from denial to acceptance. We told stories about how Pink Sweetie was having a great time hanging out with the mermaids and Champ the Lake Monster on the bottom of Lake Champlain.

This was over two years ago. Nothing ever fully replaced Pink Sweetie; not White Sweetie, not even the new Pink Sweetie that Fiona bought Campbell for her next birthday. Every six months or so, Campbell would stare into space, tears welling, and say, “I miss Pink Sweetie.”

Last Friday, an envelope addressed to Campbell arrived in the mail. In it was a typed letter from Pink Sweetie, reporting that all was well under the Lake. Like Campbell, Pink Sweetie had started Kindergarten. She’d made a new friend. She’d even visited Burlington, on a seagull joyride. And she promised to wave if Campbell called her name by the Lake.

(This letter wasn’t really from Pink Sweetie, of course, but from my husband, with whom I fell deeper in love as I read it. When asked what inspired him to write and send it from his office, he replied, “My research wasn’t going very well that day.”)

As I read Campbell the letter, her mouth dropped open in amazement. She smiled. She asked, “Was that really from Pink Sweetie?” She said, “I should write back.” Then she got quiet. She stood up, walked out the screen door into the back yard, and sat on a rock. When I found her ten minutes later, she was crying quietly. “I miss Pink Sweetie,” she sobbed, when I asked what was wrong.

The crying and missing continued at regular intervals over the next few days.

One month earlier, it was Fiona who was teary after a trip to California to visit her paternal grandparents. “I miss Grandmommy!” she wailed daily.

And two weeks ago, we had 16 trees taken down in our yard, a concession to our gradual realization that the huge, beautiful trees growing mere feet from the house prevented other vegetation from surviving, brought swarms of mosquitoes, and ruined the roof and deck — in addition to being potentially dangerous.

But our daughters, who’ve read and watched The Lorax numerous times, were indignant. They were especially grief-stricken over an enormous hemlock they’d named “Evergreen,” which shaded their favorite rock and had low-hanging branches from which they could swing. Before Evergreen was felled, our three oldest girls went out to hug him and tearfully say goodbye. They saved one of his branches as a memento. Whenever they play outside, they mourn, “We miss Evergreen!”

“There’s been a lot of missing in our house lately,” I observed.

“Do you miss anything, Mommy?” Fiona asked.

And thankfully the conversation suddenly shifted gears, because I had no answer.

I’m still not sure I have an answer, unless “Yes, and no” counts as an answer.

Missing, in the way that my daughters miss, strikes me as a luxury. It’s the domain of the very young and the very tenderhearted. I am neither. I don’t shed tears over inanimate objects, trees, or people who are far away. I may wish that a favorite shirt hadn’t been trashed because it developed too many holes, I may wish that certain plants had survived, I may wish that I saw distant friends and family more often. These thoughts flit through my mind like gnats and are gone seconds later. But that’s just wistful thinking, not deep missing.

I’m also fortunate, because most of the people to whom I’m closest, the people who will leave un-fillable gaps in my life, are still alive. At the moment.

So, what do I miss?

For a little over a year now, I’ve felt my heart acutely. Not in a medical sense, but an emotional one. Throughout the day, a moment will strike me and I’ll feel my heart ache, swell, bleed. I’ve never been much of a cryer, but now I cry at happy endings, sad endings, church sermons, and especially while reading children’s books.

I thought this might be postpartum hormones, but I think a more accurate term is: missing.

I miss everything, all the time.

I miss the present, even while I’m experiencing it.

Because unless you’re in the middle of a crisis, the present can be heartbreakingly beautiful, crushingly joyful.

Sit with your children watching a sunset, and along with the loveliness of that moment you’re aware of how fleeting it is. You recall previous sunsets, maybe sunsets before children, before you knew all that you know now. You think of other people in the world — those you know, and those you don’t — who are watching the same sunset while suffering pain and loss. You realize that the next time you watch a sunset with your children, it won’t be the same; you’ll all be older, and maybe pain and loss will have found you in the interim. You think further into the future, to when you’ll watch sunsets alone, to when your children will watch sunsets alone.

And you miss it all: the past, the present, and the future. Because it’s all a series of sad and happy endings, all the time.

But you don’t miss the you who didn’t think this way about every moment. Because maybe this is what it means to finally be a grownup.

“Do you miss anything, Mommy?”

That’s what I would have told her.

The Circus Way of Life?

Last weekend, our family made what I called “our second annual trip to Caspian Lake.” A year ago, we spent a weekend at the Highland Lodge in Greensboro, a small lakeside town in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom. It was the first trip we’d made as a family of six (our fourth daughter had been born two months earlier), the sun shone brightly the entire time, and the weekend left me feeling restored and hopeful. We can DO this! We can take four children to the lake and enjoy our time together!

This year, the experience was no less fun, but very different. This time, friends were with us: two parents, their combined four children, and one child’s friend. If you’re keeping track, that makes four adults and nine children in all. It rained almost the entire weekend, with the temperature never exceeding the 60s.

But thankfully, our friends had realized that Circus Smirkus was going to be in Greensboro the same weekend, and had gotten tickets for our entire group.

Circus Smirkus calls itself “Vermont’s Award-Winning International Youth Circus.” It’s the offshoot of a circus camp that’s been training children in the circus arts for 24 years; children from this camp and around the world audition to be part of a summer touring company. The 2014 troupe was composed of 30 youths, ages 10-18, who traveled around New England from June through August performing a show they’d spent three weeks putting together.

It was easily one of the best circuses I’ve ever seen. The clowns were funny, the feats of balance and coordination were impressive, and the aerialists were breathtaking. All nine children in our group, ages 1 through 12, were riveted.

Circus Smirkus is based in Greensboro, and the performance we witnessed was this summer’s final show, a sort of homecoming. At the end, the Circus Smirkus Executive Director stood to address the troupers. He exhorted them to carry the lessons of the summer — the “circus way of life” — with them wherever they went.

As we drove away, my husband grumped, “’Circus way of life?’ Why does everything have to be a ‘way of life’ these days?”

An aside: My husband did enjoy the show, which is pretty remarkable; usually he dislikes the circus. For that matter, he dislikes parades and cupcakes and just about any form of pre-planned joyful celebration. He prefers his happiness a little less showy. He aspires to become a grumpy old man.

But as I pondered his question, it occurred to me that maybe there is something to be learned from the circus, a certain “way of life” that appeals to us. Otherwise, why do people choose the circus for entertainment? Why are Circus Smirkus shows so quick to sell out? Why did I enjoy the show so much?

The story that every circus tells, it seems to me, is: What we think is impossible may just be possible. Each circus act builds upon a concept until it passes what an audience considers the “normal” limits. Toss one more ball to the juggler. Add one more person to the human chain dangling from the trapeze. Balance on the tightrope upside down. Don’t just ride your unicycle; hop on it up a series of steps – two at a time. Twist your body in ways it isn’t supposed to go.

This circus narrative appeals to me because it feels a lot like real life right now. In less glamorous, less public ways, life seems always to be asking for just a little bit more from me, until I’m teetering on the edge of the impossible. Life throws me one more baby, a dog, a husband’s business trip, houseguests, illness. And I’m supposed to manage all those things in addition to the normal everyday things, like getting out of bed in the morning and putting on clothes and making breakfast.

But the circus tells us: Yes! You can do what doesn’t seem humanly possible! Because if a human can swing from the ceiling hanging by the back of her head from a silken rope, then YOU can care for four sick children while your husband’s away!

I noticed one other thing at Circus Smirkus that I’d never noticed at any other circus: Every aerialist performing amazing feats in the air required human ballast. Each trapeze, ring, or rope that was the platform for a performer’s acrobatics was attached by a cable to a non-performing (and heavier) member of the circus company, and this person served as a counterweight, raising and lowering him- or herself in order to raise or lower the performer. They stayed in the shadows, on the sidelines, unrecognized, but the performance depended on them.

Like life, again. It’s hard to test the limits of possibility without support. When we’re hanging by a thread, there’s usually someone – more then one, if we’re lucky – holding the rope for us. If, like me, you subscribe to a higher power, you may have your people and your God keeping you aloft.

Watching Circus Smirkus, I couldn’t help but wonder: What’ll happen to these kids? What’s next for a teenager who’s supremely talented in the circus arts? My conclusion: Vegas.

But who knows? I’m not sure exactly what Circus Smirkus’s Executive Director had in mind when he referred to the “circus way of life.” Maybe he meant facepaint and unitards and ten performances a week. But maybe some of those kids will take away from their summer what I took from their performance: That the limit of what’s possible for you is probably further out than you think, especially if you have someone holding your rope.

And in between those breath-holding moments when you’re standing on your hands or keeping the balls in motion? That’s always when the clowns come in. Because when life is hard, that’s when it’s most important to remember that moments ago you were laughing, and you’ll laugh again after this act is done.