Sayonara perfection

“When all the details fit in perfectly, something is probably wrong with the story.”  - Charles Baxter

This is not the photo for this post, but its the fastest one I could find before I run out the door to catch my boys who are heading down the driveway.  The ideal photograph for this post is probably residing on the hard drive of my good friend who lives in coastal North Carolina.  It is a professionally taken picture of her and her new husband just after their wedding, flanked by the children who assisted the wedding - the flower girls and the ring bearer.  My son was the ring bearer - and while the bride and groom and all the little girls were smiling properly with content, my boy was screaming and crying his little eyes out.  Best. Wedding. Photo. Ever. And testament to the fact that not everything goes perfectly, in fact, that maybe nothing ever goes perfectly.


Today I am getting mentally ready to have my first biopsy at MD Anderson, which is totally fine and totally strange all in the same moment.  As a new friend of mine reminded me "don't borrow trouble".  She is terribly right, and so to help alleviate my anxiety about the procedure I've been processing my thoughts and trying to catch up on old writing work.  Part of that was going through my blog, where I noticed I had several "draft" posts that had never been published.  So, I've posted several things today, all written within the span of the past few months.  


Sometimes I write stuff and I leave it there, as a draft, because I don't think its good enough, or I want to add to it, or I am concerned about putting it out there.  It is funny to think of how many things we don't just do because we are worried or scared or trying to make it perfect.  It's never perfect, folks, we know this, but we do it to ourselves anyway.  We tell ourselves what we have to offer or give or say or do isn't enough.  But it really is - it is more like magic than anything.  We are the artwork of a master creator - we live and breathe from a creative source.  Why do we pain ourselves with doubt and worry, instead of running full speed ahead?  I am reminding myself again today of this, and I'm giving up the anxiety and the worry and the fear and the paralysis that comes from these things.  Sayonara, perfection.

A little grace

"The Ultimate lesson all of us have to learn is unconditional love, which includes not only others but ourselves as well." - Elisabeth Kubler-Ross 

If you've ever been involved in recovery work, you've likely heard of the concept "progress, not perfection".  To me, a recovering Perfectionist, it is hard to let things take their natural course, hard to let go of things I am grabbing so tightly onto, hard to forgive myself and hard to let things just "be".  More recently, progress in my life looks as simple and basic as lowering my two feet down to touch the cold hardwood floor in the morning, telling my husband something on my brain, or crying when I really need to cry, instead of holding it in against all odds to stay put together.  I made progress today with example number three, of all things in front of my darling three year old son, who was alone with me at the time as his daddy had just left for school.  Yes, I cried in front of my son.  The minute I felt the emotion welling up in me like a hot air balloon, I realized it was going to come out whether I wanted it to or not, whether it was appropriate to cry in front of him or not, so I just went with it.  

After spending exactly 365 days on a prescription medication designed to bridge my depression stemming from the grief associated with my mom's death, I'm now medicine free.  This was the pact I made with myself from the beginning when I first debated back and forth with taking it or not taking it.  After trying running and even completing a half-marathon to try and dull the heartache, I realized that this grief stuff was hard work, too hard even for a runner to beat back on her own, so I committed to taking the medicine and promised that I would take it only a year.  That sounded great then, a well-thought out plan with an end date, but I had no idea what I would be setting myself up for at the end of the treatment.  You see, anti-depressants are a class of drugs designed to make the high and low parts of your day disappear like a rabbit in a hat. As the dimmer switch brightened suddenly, the skies were more blue, the flowers were more fragrant, the rain was more wet and the feelings - the feelings and emotions that come during day to day events were all coming back, fast and furious, similar to a roller coaster, if only slightly less terrifying.

And there my son was, in this moment of tears, assuredly and quietly this little voice, “mommy, can I hug you?”.  Just as quick as a paramedic to my aid, there was my little man ready with an embrace.  I took him up on it right away and then he asked me "mommy, are you going to have a happy day or a sad day?". 


This is the big question at our house and it all revolves around our power to choose for ourselves.  Mark has drilled this whole concept of choice into Ryan's very being from a very small age.  And Ryan knows that he can choose for himself - happy, sad, silly, mad, you get the idea.  I told him once if he ever got just this one concept about life, that you can choose how you will respond to something outside of you, that he would really have it made.  And I really believe that, but actually doing it is sometimes another story.  I know all too well that life trips us up, sad things happen and the day can get hard in an instant.  As a reminder, there is a sign that hangs above my kitchen stove that states in black and white, as clear as one could possibly state - "its' never too late to start the day over".

The whole concept of a new day resounds so powerfully with me.  And to have my son of all people, speaking truth in love to his mama, was just the grace I needed today.  It's a wonderful reminder on my daily journey to forget perfection altogether.  I'm not sure where the whole perfect habit came from, but I certainly know its not attainable.  A little bit of grace never healed so much as it did coming from the soul of my little boy.

Stillness of God

Mark and I have been married ten years, soon to be eleven.  In our life together we have moved a lot, as we are now in house number eight.  In the corner of the brick paver patio in the backyard of this house lives a terracotta pot.  I can't recall if anything was alive in that pot when we moved in, though if there was anything there, I did not tend to it and it died.  For the entire summer, fall and winter, this pot must have known I lacked a green thumb, because it sat with trepidation as I glanced at it from time to time, my mind wondering if I should throw it out - give it to my neighbor - or leave it.

The crazy pace of this thing called life allowed the pot to remain, untouched, fruitless and empty on the patio as a million other things were placed ahead of it in the neverending to-do list of all things "urgent and important".  It sat, dormant, quiet, still and barren.  I never touched it, never watered it, never pulled the weed-looking sapling that began to grow out of it out.

Yet this past week when spring came a bit early, visiting with warm winds and wet rains, the little terracotta pot yielded its bounty - a cluster of small, but vibrant purple flowers. 

As I surveyed the landscape this morning, I noticed even more green shoots coming up through the forgotten soil, pushing the baby tree out of the way as they came thundering out of the dirt.

Recently, I've begun the practice of meditation and silent prayer.  It has been a touch and go habit, because sometimes I think I really can't waste that ten to twenty minutes doing nothing.  The pace of life and of our society informs us that stillness and and quiet are not to be rewarded.  In beginning the practice of meditation and prayer, my own body and soul, quite attuned to the busyness factor, detested the uncomfortableness of it all.  It's easy to think that if you don't see any action, that nothing is happening.  Somehow we equate stillness with nothingness. Except in the terracotta pot, with months of no water, no food, and the coldest of weather, purple flowers have bloomed out of that stillness.

My church

This is the most profound spiritual truth I know: 

that even when we're most sure that love can't conquer all, it seems to anyway.

-Anne Lamott

I think it was my fault completely.  I must have drawn attention to myself after volunteering in a ministry that formed at my church just after hurricane Katrina made landfall.  I got myself noticed (in good ways and in bad ways) during that time.  I rolled up my sleeves and got my hands dirty working with fellow Christians who shared a heavy heart over the disaster, and were dedicated to helping those victims with traumatic tales who were surviving in devastating conditions.  Somehow the timing of the next vote at our church crossed with the fateful day of this hurricane, because my name got added to a list of candidates for Deacon at the church, a list that I was completely unaware of.  And you know what? I got voted in to the club.  I was ordained as a card carrying member of the diaconate at a Baptist church.  Talk about grace.  These people give it in spades.


Me, who hasn't invested years and years into organized church life. Me, who hasn't tithed for decades and only recently started tithing with regularity. Me, who has never attended a Youth for Christ rally or a Young Life event. Though I know the name, I don't know any Billy Graham campaigns. And I've never regularly attended midweek prayer service nor ever woken early to participate in sunrise services on Easter.  My life, both now and as a child, has never been defined by the church calendar.


I attended summer camp once in my life, during junior high, at the invitation of a friend whose family was quite involved in the church.  I walked down the aisle at the end of services one night and accepted Jesus as my Lord and Savior and was baptized soon after we returned from camp.  The rush of feelings I had at camp quickly dissipated as I re-entered regular life, and soon it was a distant memory.


My commitment to Christ, as well as my desire to know and understand his teachings, has grown and changed since that ordination in ways I could never have imagined.  I'll save those stories for another day.  But I still only know two bible verses by heart.  One taught to me as a child by my grandmother, the other I picked up as an adult after befriending a woman at my church, who is more like my surrogate grandmother. John 3:16 and Jeremiah 29:11, if you were curious...  I don't know the difference between a hymn and a chorus, and I still do not know the books of the Bible in sequential order, or in any order at all, as a matter of fact.  I don't know the words to "Great is Thy Faithfulness" and I don't sit in the same seat in the pew each week, or every week for that matter.


There seems to be a lot of talk in my 55 year young church about change, and I know that with change - good or bad - comes loss and stress and worry.  I'm probably lumped in with the younger set, the troublemakers who are out to rip tradition to shreds and spit on anything holy.  Well, okay, not exactly.  But I am not really sure that I detest the current traditional offerings of my church, and by traditional I really mean "traditional to the 1950's".  I see value in tradition and in meaning and I see value in change and reform.  I don't presume that Those who followed Jesus the Nazarene worried if he wore a necktie when he preached, or argued about which musical instruments were used to praise God.  And this goes two ways.  He probably didn't concern himself with who published the hymnal, the hairstyles of his disciples or whether or not communion was performed by intinction.  For the record, I just learned what intinction is, and that some people take issue with it.  I think the main difference for me is that I wasn't raised in a church like this, and it might even more be the fact that I wasn't raised in a church at all. I'm like a mongrel lacking proper pedigree, an outsider unfamiliar with the tradition and the culture.  It doesn't mean it's wrong or even that it has to change, it simply means I don't understand it.


As I seek to understand the politics and traditions that are so heavily steeped in church, I tend to ask myself in the cliche "what would Jesus do?" or better "would Jesus even care?".  So many of the issues I see and hear about seem to be a matter of personal preference, not doctrinal position.  I'm not even sure that Jesus would quibble on some of the doctrinal points of the church.  He would probably not be rambling on about whether or not we have gay members or black members or non-Christian members - he would be asking if we are inclusive, if we are outwardly reaching and if we have been tending to the damned plank in our own eye.


My church has people in it who are struggling with these heavy, church-y issues.  And it honestly makes me sad, because I can see the hurt that happens when you lose something you love, something you are used to.  And sometimes, the struggles I hear about make me confused because they don't line up with the stuff of Christ and his parables.  What's with those darn parables, anyway?  I probably don't share their struggles because I don't share the deep and lengthy history that they have with this particular church building and set of practices.  


All of this got me to thinking about my own struggle with "organized religion".  So here is where I am with my church struggle...  The things I crave to know include how to build a stronger marriage with my spouse, how to raise my kids with a faith that can make it in a secular world and how to love my neighbor like I love myself.  And I want to figure out how to share my faith with the lady stuck on the street and to get some encouragement for how to be a better friend.  For me, the bulk of life and of action occur outside of church.  I mean, we're only there for two hours, tops, once a week, right?  I need those two hours I spend in the church building to catch me on fire so that I can take those teachings out into the world, as I re-enter the world of faith issues, of discovering how to serve my community, and of learning who my neighbor really is.  I am of that generation where "authenticity" and "truth" ring a loud bell, and I don't want any of that fake, pretend stuff.  I come from a line of life gone wrong, and so I don't want any of the platitudes or simple answers, either.


The one thing I know to be absolutely true is that the people that I've met in my church have shown me a thing or two.  They've invested in me and my husband.  They've hugged on my son and encouraged my stepdaughter.  They ponder my questions and they engage my doubts.  They come calling when they don't see or hear from me in a week or two.  And I love these people, even if we don't share the same love of Sunday morning organ music.  I love some of them like they are my family.  My experience of this whole church thing, the tradition or the style or the dress code has shown me that these things do not in and of themselves make church.  If I had to "do church" in the breakroom of a warehouse with standing room only, or in the living room of someone's home with their dog jumping up on my lap, I would still seek out that time each week, regardless of place, conditions, or looks because I need my church - I need my connections with my brothers who are seeking what's true, noble, right, pure, lovely and admirable.  The church, my church, is the people, the commitment we make to each other, and the ways we choose to love each other and our neighbors, the ways we seek to flesh out what matters in this life.  


Without my church, I lose the relationships in my life where people call me to task and where people encourage my faith.  I lose the ability to worship my God in community with others, to stand in awe of Jesus Christ and his sacrifice for my life and their lives.  I lose my connection with the teachers, the dreamers and the doers of the world who are committed to making a difference in the lives of others.  My church, with its snarls and snares, its love and its grace, its boldness and its fear, is where the root of my faith has grown and flourished.  Much like my life, the biggest lessons I learn are in the struggle.  I hope we do the same. 

When time slips away

When we least expect it, life sets us a challenge to test our courage and willingness to change; at such a moment, there is no point in pretending that nothing has happened or in saying that we are not ready. The challenge will not wait. Life does not look back.

- Paul Coelho

Real estate has been really crazy lately.  I mean I have had more than one conversation in the past week about how busy we are and how it seems like every single household in Houston has made a concerted effort to buy and sell every piece of real estate they own in a 20 mile radius, and all on the same day.

I am not complaining about the crazy though, trust me.  After a year like 2011, anyone who clung with me to the threadbare strands of what was left of our industry is likely thrilled to be working 60, 70 and 80 hour weeks.  This year just has a much brisker pace to it than years past, and I have a lot more little details spilling out from my brain and onto my calendar, and I have to take the rest and scribble it onto a little notepad that sits next to my bed, just so I don't forget anything.

My style of administrating all the details usually happens best when I weave clients in between all my other life stuff.  No two days in my line of work are the same - its coffee, write an offer, bank, check a house value, then research a tax bill, lunch (sitting down if I'm lucky), negotiating a repair, gym, mediating between heirs, and so on.  I have gotten very well versed at flexing my time so that I can get the little stuff in my life taken care of, and still be available whenever my clients need me - which is really the name of the game in real estate.  Showing up  - answering the phone, making the call, saying the hard thing, meeting the client.  99% of real estate is just showing up.

So anyway, yesterday I was trying to see what I could sandwich around a client's request to see a townhome in Dickinson at the tail end of Houston's rush hour.  This is typically a 30-45 minute drive for me, but at 6:30 pm, its more like an hour to an hour and a half drive.  One way.  So, I roped my husband and my boy (affectionately termed "my boys") into making the trip with me, because the little country town of Dickinson is just a hop, skip and a jump from the really fun town of Kemah.  The Kemah boardwalk is a man-made destination, just 30-45 minutes outside of downtown Houston, an ace in the hole of Tillman Fertitta enterprises.  Anyway, I had visions of sunset, cocktails, dinner and fun on the boardwalk on a quiet Tuesday night, and thankfully my boys threw all their chips in with me on this plan.

So the showing didn't work out - turned out Dickinson is almost a two hour commute for my buyer, so we wrapped up the tour and headed onto Kemah.  Part of the fun of the Kemah boardwalk, as most Houstonians know, is the midway.  Full of rides and games, ice cream and funnel cakes, the midway is right on the border of the entrance to Galveston Bay, so the views aren't too shabby.  From the top of the Ferris Wheel, the bay is clearly visible and dotted with sailboats and speedboats.  It takes you up high over the Kemah bridge, the Waterfront Harbor Marina and the massive waters spilling in and out of the gulf.  And on this particular night, the Ferris Wheel was the only preschooler friendly ride left open when I made my way to the ticket booth at close to 8pm, the train having closed just minutes before.  I wondered if this was in fact the ride my boys would've wanted - its kind of slow and steady, and they can be kind of fast and speedy.  They had really wanted the train, after all.  Walking back towards them with the three tickets in hand, my husband asked which ride, and with my reply came excitement because that was, in fact, the ride they were hoping for.

It was our first "family" ride - and the Wheel was deserted, cars totally empty except for ours.  Which we didn't mind at all, as we had just spent dinner outdoors on the boardwalk surrounded by attack sea gulls.  In contrast, The Wheel was quiet and serene as it lifted us around and around its center.  My son loved it, my husband even snapped some photos of us, but the best little thing that happened yesterday was thanks to the ride operator.  Innocently, he asked as we made our journey down towards him, if we wanted him to slow down the machinery while we were at the top.  We said sure, why not, and as we wound around again the machine began to slow itself down, and by the next revolution, there we were, on top of the Ferris Wheel.

And I could actually more accurately say that we were on top of the world.  Floating in the cool night air, still.  It was a magical moment.  I glanced across the car at my husband and it was like we both knew the gift that we'd just received.  The sudden, deliberate freezing of the ride was an analogy for that which I have been secretly wishing for - a sudden, deliberate freezing of time.  Kind of like where a character in a movie gets suspended over their real life and gets to peek in at life, unbeknownst to others in the plot.  Time stopped, and for just a brief pause there we were, suspended in a gently rocking car, the three of us.  And I totally got what Brian Andreas so eloquently states when he says "time stands still best in moments that look suspiciously like ordinary life".  The inner turmoil that has come from some recent discoveries about possible issues regarding my health and contemplation about how things might shake out for our future were both silenced as the gift of the current moment frozen in time spilled out through a few tears.  It was a moment unlike any other that I have ever had.  And in it, I think Mark and I both drew a deep breath and some deep courage about who we are and where we are headed.  Sometimes, it really does take a complete removal of one's self from reality to get a grip on what's true - what's unchanging - what's deep and meaningful and filled with soul.  And to think we got that for $12.99 plus tax at a carnival ride just makes me smile a little bigger.  The little things really can be way more amazing than the big things.  This moment was way more amazing.

It felt like forever until the wheel budged our car in its descent back into reality.  I have never wanted to thank a ride operator so much in my life - really I wanted to jump over the railing, run down the ramp and hug him for the little gift he gave us.  We exited the little ride and went on to walk the boardwalk one last time before heading home.  After that experience I couldn't resist Ryan's request to run through the sprinklers at the end of the walk.  With a renewed vigor for being daring and for celebrating moments, he reached out and grabbed each of us with his hands, and exclaimed "ready, go, now!" (which I think meant ready, set, go), and off we were, the three of us, tempting fate as we dashed wholeheartedly into the randomly timed sprinklers again and again, trying to avoid getting totally soaked, laughing like crazy through the entire length of the run.

Avery Can

Death is more universal than life; everyone dies but not everyone lives.
- Alan Sachs

Dear Avery Lynn Canahuati,

I found out from a friend that you died yesterday. Barely five months of living and you're already gone. And to think I just found out about you a few weeks ago... But you've been on my mind since I first learned about you and your sweet mom and dad. Unable to move much of your body or speak, but you've been teaching me the whole time. I want you to know how grateful I am for your mom and dad.

My husband always says that situations don't create character, they reveal it. I think your diagnosis surely did this in your parents' lives. Avery, you may not have been able to fully realize it, but your dad and your mom are very selfless people. Courageous, and honest and loyal. Fun loving, and willing to hope and not afraid to feel. When they learned of your SMA, they chose to zig when others probably would've zagged. They chose to make each day count. Instead of embracing bad news, they chose to embrace hope.  Who could have ever known last year, leading up to your big birthday, that your life would be so short? That you wouldn't even make it to your first "half birthday"?

Avery, It is with heartfelt and tear-filled gratitude that I write this. Thank you for reminding me that little moments count and that life is both amazingly precious and amazingly short. Your mom and dad's choice to share you with the world has made such an impact on my life. Thank you for living wide open and out there in front of everyone. Thank you for your smile, and for showing me about really living, even in the midst of dying. I took a deep breath, wiped away my tears, and went and grabbed my boy, just a few years older than you, to hug him tight and tell him he's loved.

Another thing to wipe off your bucket list - make a difference in the life of a stranger.

Well done, baby girl. Rest in peace.

With love, Susan

For more about Avery, please visit her blog at http://averycan.blogspot.com/