Hooped! (repost:back next week!)

Not the hula I was thinking

Why didn’t you leave when you had the chance? I scolded myself.  I was staring into a wall length mirror with 5 other women.  Good job Karen, really nice work.  I stuck my tongue out at my reflection.  The woman on my right caught my eye and looked over her shoulder.  “You ready?” Her accent was thick, Russian perhaps?  I smiled weakly, “Sort of!” She leaned in, “Don’t worry, you are going to love it!”  She turned back to the mirror and started clapping, “Come on now!”  Hopping up and down, she pumped her arms to the music, “Let’s go.” 

She was clearly a keener.* 

Friday afternoon was grey and rainy.  The girls and I spent most of the day inside, reading and staying busy.  By tea time, they were getting restless and my oldest suggested we go to the YMCA for a quick workout.  “Really?  The Y? Now?”  One of the challenges of raising children is the constant demand to model functional adult behavior.  When a teenager says they want to exercise, health experts recommend you drop whatever you are doing and join them.  However, today I was sorely tempted to talk her out of it.  The fantasy of crawling into bed and having a nap was evaporating, I gritted my teeth.  “You know what?  That is a great idea.  Healthy!  Let me finish my tea and we can go.” 

I considered my options.  Running on the treadmill seemed too ambitious.  I was so tired if I got in the pool I would sink.  “Someone pass me the exercise schedule,” I shouted while I packed my gym bag.  “Maybe I can grab a class.” 

“The only class is hot hula fitness!” Yelled my daughter.  Hula fitness? I flipped through my mental dictionary and came up with nothing.  Dashing from the room I glanced at the class description “total body workout, isolates larger muscles groups…. Works your core. Sounds good,” I declared to the room and gathered my things.

There, my friend, was my first mistake.  Somewhere in my head, I was visualizing a gathering of people using hula hoops to workout.  People at my YMCA are an enthusiastic bunch of community-minded folk.  Exercising is a big deal to them and I have grown used to the myriad of ways they try to raise my heart rate.  I’ve even done some prayer work and forgiven them.  So when I read hula fitness, I didn’t even bother questioning it.  I just assumed I would be in a room full of women whose tank tops matched their water bottles.  I would be wearing one of my husband’s tee shirts and someone named Cheri would hand me a hula hoop.  We would do strange crunches together, sweat and I’d spend an hour feeling mildly self-conscious.  No big deal. 

That isn’t what happened.  

The small class size should have been the second tip off.  It wasn’t.  Walking into the almost empty studio I felt awkward and reverted to my best Canadian self.  I walked up to the instructor, apologized for being on time and introduced myself.  She was ridiculously happy to see me, suspiciously so. (Third sign seen flying right over my head.)  Four more women walked in the room, “Oh great, another dancer!” said a senior citizen in a tank top. 

Blind panic.

“Karen, if you would like, some of the ladies use a sarong tied around their waist.  It makes it easier to see your hip moments.”  The panic passed quickly and was replaced by delightful, euphoric hysteria.  I started laughing.  I was trying to pull it back but it was too late now, I was grinning like a dolphin and managed to reply, “Oh how kind of you.  My… that is yellow and …flowers...  Goodness!  I think I will stick with plain clothes today thank you so much for offering.  Oh look that one matches your sneakers, wonderful!  I don’t want to call attention to my beginner status.”  My protests were met with rounds of affirmation and then the music, which featured mostly drums, started to pound. 

I was learning the Polynesian hula.

Polynesian dancing is amazing.  It has been taught for countless generations and has been a means to pass on stories, legends and cultural identity.  Expressing the environment of the islands, the moments are fluid and representative of earth, sea and sky.  It is beautiful.  I knew this in my heart and despite this knowledge I was begging God to let me do crunches.   I can’t say I have heard the audible voice of Our Father, but I’m pretty certain I heard him laugh.  Let me be honest, Polynesian dancing is really about moving your hips…a lot….non stop really.

(isolates major muscle groups works your core – IDIOT!  How did I miss this!)

Turns out, I was about to destroy the hula.  I started by turning beet red.  It is not physically possible for me to gyrate in public without feeling some form of shame.  I think this is a good thing.  Not like I gyrate in public much, but you understand my point.  However, the tiny woman with the microphone was starting to teach the dance, I had to put aside my mortification to keep up with her.  She was fast and really wiggly. 

I did a great job of matching pace with the instructor during the teaching part.  Then the tempo increased and things began to get dangerous.  My instructor sounded like she was calling sushi orders, “Ami, ʻAi ʻami, Ami ʻôniu!” It was horridly awesome.   All the time, hips are flying everywhere.  The instructor looked fabulous, sensual even, radically inappropriate but amazing.  I on the other hand couldn’t recall the last time I had tried to move like this. 

(Totally untrue.  I had a flash back to being 20 and intoxicated, tripping over a sprinkler while being chased by geese on my sister’s friend’s farm.  Half of me was rolling down the hill and the other half was staying still due to a hose that had me pinned.  This was mimicking the pain and humiliation quite nicely.)  

Every now and then she would shout out confusing requirements like, “Make a square with your hips!”  What does that even mean?  I wondered to myself.  Nothing about my hips are square.  In fact, there are no angles on my person whatsoever.  I’m mostly curves and wrinkles.  I tried to turn off all self-analysis.   I was in it to survive. 

Sixty minutes I endured.  I could write you through the entire mortifying class but it would be unfair. There are some things you can’t share with people.  Things you don’t want to share but you end up sharing because wherever there is an embarrassed middle aged woman in exercise gear there is a 14 year old boy peeking in the window and mocking her (demon child, I hope you trip.).  

By the time the hour was finished, I was euphoric.  My time of penance was over, I had conquered.  Oxygen deprivation will do strange things to your self-esteem.  The instructor assured me I was fantastic and she was thrilled to have another dancer in her class.  I lied my face off in order to get out of there. I was so delighted to be done I thanked God as I staggered to the waiting room to find my girls.  “Wow, Mum!  That was a totally weird class, were you actually doing the hula?”

“Yep, pretty much, did you watch it?”

“No, it was too embarrassing.”

“Chicken!  You should have stayed and learned something.  I was totally amazing.”

Praying that you too, are totally amazing this week.

xoxKaren

Hooped= caught in a situation that has no obvious solution

*Keener= Canadian term informal

a person who is who is extremely eager, zealous, or enthusiastic.

Broken Beauty

My feet generally stay dry when I drink water so I was surprised when my socks got wet.  It’s complicated but the entire month of May has been confusing for me.  No matter how I try to move forward, I am one step behind other people.  All that from managing my calendar; add the demands of my children’s lives: sit back, grab a drink and watch me implode. 

Is there anyone else out there with school age children trying to get by?  Children know when the end of the school year is in sight don’t they?  I’m friends with women whose entire prayer life is now focused on beseeching our God their child is not expelled in the last month of school for intellectually stunning behavior such as smoking loose leaf Earl Grey tea on school property.  It’s full time I’m telling you.

Four weeks left people, just hold on...

Back to my confusion. 

My last kitchen adventure consisted of stepping on a shard of glass and bleeding out on the linoleum.  (Yes, I am fine now, thank you for asking.  ) When the kitchen was cleaned, I managed to put the broken Mason jar back in my cupboard, where it sat on the shelf, lurking until I grabbed it again.  Pouring myself a glass of water and procuring wet socks makes sense when you watch the dramatic reenactment.

This Mason jar is not an actor.

Have you ever known someone who has been broken, my friend? Have you been kind to someone who was unable to cope with the hurt of life brings?  Have you ever walked through times so painful, you knew you would never be the same? 

I want to remind you that a broken glass is not the same as a broken life. A broken glass should be discarded so that it doesn’t cut someone else.  A broken life should never be discarded. A glass when broken, stops being useful; a life when broken, can become more useful than ever before.

Are you broken in places my friend?  Are you aware that your healing has value?  Are you aware your life still has purpose?

I never would have survived the heartache of the last few years, were it not for those have experienced brokenness yet persevered.  People who cried with me, accepted my pain without explanation and could help me rebuild from a place of ruin.  I was blessed with those who understood that brokenness is precious, grace is a gift and that healing takes time.

So I am praying for the broken among us this week; that you would be surrounded by those who would not discard you.  That your life will contain people who walk alongside you and speak truth to your broken heart.  That you will be given a precious few who believe in confrontation, knowing that the cost of confrontation is commitment to the healing process.  I pray that you will be brought surgeons of the soul, whose gift is to invest in your healing so you can once again bring refreshment to those who follow after you.

xoxKaren

In case you missed it.

http://itstartedwithalion.blogspot.com/2018/04/footprints.html

Mother's Day (Repost 2015)

Happy Mother’s Day Friend.

Oh how I have missed you!  Are you well caffeinated?  How is your heart today?  I ask because Mother’s Day can be rough.  Like many holidays, the Hallmark card misses many of the real heart issues behind the calendar event.   I was praying for you last night.  Trying to post on any special day is a bit of a nightmare, because inevitably I will say something stupid that might upset you.  By the time I fell asleep, I was hoping that the start to your day would be a good one.  That somehow, by God’s grace, you wouldn't feel alone on a day that is intended to bless.

I have been on the phone a lot this week.  In fact, by the time Friday hit I was utterly unfit for human interaction.  Too much talking and not enough prayer or sleep caught up with me.  I sniffled my way through the better part of the afternoon until my husband came home, made me tea and then insisted I have a nap.  He is a wise man. The point is, there is a lot going on in the world of motherhood.  It isn’t a place for cowards.  Maybe it would help if I shared what Mother’s Day looks like for some of the wonderful people in my world.

My first interaction this morning was with a darling cookie of a woman who has just come back from an extended time away.  She flew into town only to realize her family had come into contact with some evil form of stomach virus on the flight home.  In the early morning hours, her husband (chief chef of mother’s day) became ill.  She was last sighted in her kitchen, feeding her children, wandering in circles, tending to her man, with no sign of celebration on the horizon.  Motherhood involves trenches.

Another call last weekend had me speaking with a favorite person in my world.  At 46, she has been happily married to a lovely man for decades although they have never had children.  That is until God pulled a fast one and blessed her with an unexpected gift.  Later this year, at the age of 47, she will become a mother for the first time.  Talk about an unexpected turn of events.  Motherhood leads us into new territory.

One of my closest friends had me rethinking motherhood two months ago.  Every six months or so, I go out with two friends for dinner.  We share food, fun and get the Spark notes on each other’s spiritual lives.   We consume chocolate, salt and laughter.  While navigating roads in the U district, my friend exclaimed, “Oh, look!  You guys can see the building where I was inseminated.”  I would have said something, but my jaw had gotten lost somewhere on the floor in the back of the car.  This darling heart waited 13 years to have children.  Turning to alternate methods, she now is the mother of a beautiful family.  It is safe to say, that the memories she holds of getting pregnant are radically different than mine.  There are different roads to motherhood my friend and not all of them are laced with daisies. 

The beach is the first place my friend “Tina” goes on mother’s day.  She gets up early and sneaks out of the house.  At the beach, she walks and prays.  It is an annual pilgrimage.   There, under grey skies, the cold waters of the Sound wash away poisonous childhood memories.  Every year she chooses to be thankful and every year she adds beautiful new memories to the word Mother.  She sneaks back into the house a couple hours later, and waits in bed until a pajama clad little brings her coffee and burnt toast. 

The most somber thoughts I had this week revolved around a woman who successfully invested in her family her entire life.  My thoughts branched from there, to the many mothers who are now in their seventies, eighties and nineties.  As end of life issues present themselves, we are overcome with emotions and memories that span lifetimes.  How can you possibly thank someone for pouring their life in yours?  How do you quantify the tears, heartache and dedication it takes to raise a child?  More than that, how do you possibly begin to appreciate the discipline of denying self in order to invest in another’s life? 

Thankfulness is my first guess: gratitude and thankfulness.  My own Mummy raised 6 children and I have no memories of her grumbling as much as I do.   Which brings us to one of the defining characteristics of great mothers.  Great mothers love.  They teach us how to love, to serve and to live.  There is so much for which to be thankful.

Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends... so now faith, hope and love abide, these three: but the greatest of these is love.  

1 Corinthians 13:4-7,13

I am praying for you today my friend.  I don’t know if you are on the mountain or in the valley, but I pray that God’s love will find you there. 

xoxK 

  

An Audience of One

Aesthetically pleasing and economically viable sea urchins 

He stared at me in amazement and I stared back. 

“Where were you?” I scream whispered at a fresh faced youth donned in a skirt, wearing long haired wig bedecked with a crown of seashells. 

“I was helping my friend!” He whispered just as intensely, “He was upset!”

“THAT…IS …NOT…YOUR…JOB!” I scream scolded, “You almost missed your cue!”

“Yes, sort of …” Was the reply from the King of the Sea. 

“I love you!  Go away and pay attention,” were my last words before I turned away and grabbed the headset from the table.  While turning, I bumped into a 9 year old pulling a curtain roughly 10 times her body weight.  “Sorry little one,”  I whispered patting her shoulder.  “Good job.”

Yes indeed.  I am navigating the world of backstage drama and no, I’m not using metaphors.  It’s show time in my community and I’m having a bit of trouble keeping up with the giftedness swirling around me.  On the night in question, I managed to:  lose a stagehand  during intermission because socializing with friends is awesome, misplace another on stage, where he rode out a scene under a kitchen counter, leave a banquet chair in an undersea lair, zip a stuck zipper on a fish and injure myself on a delightfully constructed toothpick sea urchin.  And that was Act 2.  I’m choosing not to remember Act 1.   

Community life is not for cowards.

My summary statement is that drama is a very dramatic medium, where souls are bared and so are attitudes.   Observation is a powerful teacher and how someone gets along with others during times of heightened anxiety will teach you a great deal about a person. 

Days before the show opened, I had the joy of chatting with a dear woman who knows a lot about prolonged anxiety.  I asked her to meet with me because I needed two things; logistical help solving a problem and some spiritual input on a problem that wasn’t going away.  Her words stuck with me this week, as opening night came and went, applause rang in the air and people enjoyed the harvest of hard work. 

“During the times I was suffering, I spent a lot of time focusing on the concept of an audience of one.  When it is hard to do the right thing, I remember that I do have an audience and what He sees is the only thing that really counts.”

It was an interesting statement to contemplate as the curtain opened to a sold out show. 

I go through many of life’s dramatic moments wanting to be understood, heard and seen.  I prefer a speaking part, where I can control the narrative and paint myself as the sympathetic hero.  But what happens when the dialogue is overtaken by someone whose interests are not the same as my own?  Or who doesn’t speak the truth?  Am I able to continue to act in a way that is pleasing to the Lord?  When the scene changes and my audience has moved on to other things, do I have the character to continue unseen?

You my dear friend are seen by your Creator.  What you do matters.  When you refuse to return evil for evil, heaven notices.  You are playing to an audience of one.  Don’t give up your role.  Don’t go silent.  Continue to praise, continue to worship.  When the audience leaves, keep going, stay onstage, fulfill your responsibilities and , be all that your role requires.

I’m praying for you,

Break a leg.

xoxKaren