Things that happen when you plan to move to Canada...

Oh, the madness.
Clearly impeding my ability to write much. Or at all.
I'm busy lamenting the impending changes I must endure: finding new doctors, new schools, a new house, new stylist, new dry cleaner, new phone company, new Church, new friends, new stuff to do with the boys all summer.... (If we weren't moving, I'd have them already enrolled in at least three different summer camps! WHAT am I going to do?!?) So, yes, enjoying my last few weeks of respite work.
And. I'm grieving the loss of Denver's many treasures: My twin baby nephews, my friends from way back, my Sunday rituals, the hiking, the liquor stores (open all the time!), the many houses I can drop in to visit without notice, and Nordstrom....
And praying that our new neighbors aren't stupid, messy, creepy, or too loud past 10 p.m. Or before 6 a.m.
These are little things. Inconsequential in the big picture of it all. Granted. Yet. I still think about them, worry about them, and pray about them.
Truly, I am trying to imagine the best--a bright future filled with wonderful people, great opportunities, and memories that will help ease the pain of the ones I'm losing now.
But people really are stupid. I've heard the most ridiculous things of late.
First of all, everyone that hears we're moving has a relative that has visited Canada. That they must tell me about. This smacks about as asinine as someone telling me about their recent bowel movement. I really don't care.
Better yet are the people who like to name drop. "You're moving to Canada? Ohhhhh! I LOVE William Shatner!"
Or, "Sara McLachlin is my favorite singer. I listen to her all the time."
Yes, undoubtedly I will be in book clubs or go to Church with both of them. I am seriously questioning the ability of the American school systems. It is as if none of these humans I've recently encountered have ever seen a map.
True story: Crying about losing my easy access to Nordstrom, one of the sales clerks said, "Oh, don't worry, you can just drive down to Seattle."
Ya, that'll only take me about four days.
I know. You are likely debating which is more pathetic: Me crying over no more Nordstrom versus the idiot who failed geography.
A bit bitter here perhaps. But trying to be honest. I'm not going to pretend to be all perky about this monumental shift in my life. That would be a lie. Yes, I'm looking forward to it, but also yes, I'm sad. Really sad sometimes.
I spoke to our new mortgage lender on the phone yesterday. He said, "So, you're move is getting really close, eh?" And I did. I giggled.

worthy logic

After a recent Kindergarten school field trip, my five-year old came home delighted.

"How was it bud?"
"Good."
"Were you tired on the way home?"
"No."
"Did you fall asleep on the bus on the way home?"
"No."
"Then what is this a picture of?"
--Teacher had texted me a pic of him snoozing on the bus--
"That's me."
"What are you doing in the picture?"
"Not sleeping."

So. By that logic, I will say that currently, in the wake of the big move:

I am not grieving.
I am not scared.
And.
I am not excited, as well.

Who can resist the logic of a Chinese cutie in a Fedora?

Who, btw, wrote this recently:

Is it just me, or does this say, "I play soccer, wtf, my bruises"

?

To be worthy, not respectable

The fourth line for the fourth month.

I like the first part of this line, but the latter scares me as much as the latter part of my own body does--the implications and truths are getting too big to handle.

I am ready to take my first step toward worthiness. I am finally going to admit who I truly am. I am so sick of hiding it--the time it takes, the societal pressure to conform, the longing to fit in, the desire to continue to live in denial... These naggers have all kept me from being who I was designed to be.

Here it is folks. I confess:

I am grey.

And. I've decided to let out my roots (which are 99.9% grey) and start a college fund for my boys with all the money I'll save on my colorist. I don't mind the look of it. Yet. The reactions I get from people are fascinating. Many react as if I've decided to get fat.

They won't admit judgment, but the disapproval and fear that registers on their faces is as unmistakable as a naked person running through a restaurant.

But. Grey is sometimes a sign of worthiness. My father always claimed that his white hair was "a crown of glory" as it says in Proverbs 16:31, or beautiful, also from Proverbs: "the beauty of old men is their grey hair" but wait, that seems to apply to men. Damn double standard again.

I do like this verse though: "Even to your greying years I will bear you; I have done it, and I will carry you; and I will bear you and I will deliver you" Isaiah 46:4.

Perhaps I can buy some wisdom by not dying my hair any longer. Perhaps people will think, "wow, that old woman must know some stuff" or "Damn, that hot grey-haired old lady must have some tough kids," another thing my father often blamed his white head on.

As if I can earn respectability by an appearance that defies the common.

Yet. No doubt I will lose the throng of 20-something-year-old boys that hit on me while I'm at the bar. Wait. That only happens about once a year when I actually attend a bar, which rarely occurs by choice. And it happens only when I'm out with other women my age and mistaken for a cougar. So I think I'll survive. Even though, honestly, it is a bit flattering.

And let me be completely honest: I've been overcompensating for my flaw-filled skin with my long mane. And allowing it to cover up my back acne (thank you, genes!) so that I could once again wear strapless dresses. The hair draws attention. And, I'm not going to lie: Sometimes I love said attention. That clearly does not make me worthy, it only makes me enviable, if only to women that have no hair... but it also makes me a ridiculous, narcissistic ego-maniac. And I don't want to be that. Or even remotely resemble it.

Picture: Month ONE. I know, you can barely notice the grey roots peaking around my temples. And my hairstylist's answer for a slightly less drastic transition period: make me even blonder. So yes, folks, you can witness right here: me going from blond to white in the next year. I promise to post a pic each month and tell you about the transition and new reality. I even promise to post the forthcoming comments. That is, if I can hack it.

Truly, this decision is in line with many other decisions I've made of late: To allow the natural be revealed, to be who I was designed to be, to cut the extras and the excess that all too often inhibit my true spiritual growth, to stop hiding behind a mask... Yet, to do all of this in a very real physical sense is as challenging as the unseen ways. In some ways more.

So. My new blog titles might even be chosen from the following:

Kimberly The White

Kim The Grey of Canada

Canada's Kimberly the White

The Chronicles of Kimberly The White of Canada

Any other suggestions?

Refine This.

Post-Spring-Break Blues.

I decided to do what every self-respecting English teacher does during the holidays: Bring home several files of essays to grade and then let them sit in the corner collecting dust, peanut butter, and a few Avengers stickers.

Instead of grading, I played 50 games of Settlers of Catan, did lots of cooking and lots of dishes, went hiking and hurt my back, cleaned rooms while wishing I had a servant in the house, and then traveled 100 miles away only to do the same thing but with a different view--the windows there revealed lots of trees instead of lots of neighbors. Which would have been boring (because I actually like most of my neighbors) except we had invited the two of our friends that are stupid enough to vacation with us. They have a 9-month old. Watching them tackle all the naps and feedings and 5 a.m. wake-up calls and diaper changes was kind of like doing a victory lap. And refraining from "naa naa na naa naaaaa" while listening to them recall the near disasters that have attacked their young family was a huge test of my patience and maturity, the things I pretend to have when we have friends around who are stupid enough to vacation with us.

The ugly tales: the ones every parent knows by heart. Those of misunderstandings that happen on 0-3 hours of sleep, the lists of obligations and responsibilities that get doled out (or not) and resented, the realizations that the guilt- and obligation-free personal time you once had is gone for at least 18 years, the digestion that your body is not your own, and the admission that parenting really sucks sometimes. And. How these beautiful tiny humans make marriage extra hard. Like trying to run a marathon, only without your legs. The only encouragement we could offer was that we somehow still have two living children. And we are still married. And we offered our friends lots of alcohol.

Parenting cannot be refined. Or shortened. Or rushed through. It must be endured. And at its best it is delightful, like when those cherub faces smile and snuggle in that special crook of the shoulder and tell us they love us, or every night when they fall asleep. And. Parenting at its worst tests of our very character, like when we discover that ounce of kindness to our spouse even after getting vomited on all night long, or when we cheer on our child's assist even though two hours ago he screamed that he hates us.

Parenting refines us. A marriage that can withstand it (and grow through it) will certainly be refined as well. Either that or it will kill us.

Refined Table Setting

Recently, I challenged a dear friend with the question: "Who would be at your table?" Meaning, if you could invite ANY person from ANY time in history to sit and eat and talk with you for a few hours, who would you invite?

It's a tough question, for a few reasons:

1. People will often adjust their answers depending on their audience, like mentioning "Jesus" to look holy and spiritual, or saying "Rush Limbaugh" to look like an asshole, or "Brangelina" to look socially and environmentally conscious, as they throw their Styrofoam lunch-cases in the trash and drive away in their Hummers.

2. Others delve into instant fantasy world and conjure the dreamy objects of their affection, thereby revealing their sexual un-fulfillment or shallowness... These are the ones who go home still believing that this game may have a piece of reality attached to it--where is George Clooney? I ordered him an hour ago. They then become rabidly depressed in a few days when they hover back toward reality.

3. Few will allow the best, purest, and most influential folks in their lives. It's a tough list to narrow.

I struggled myself when I first wrestled with the question. I cannot post my list for fear that those NOT included will be offended. I know it though. And I know who's at my dream table: The humans that have challenged me to live fully and without regret, those who've pushed me past materialism and shallowness, past surface congratulatory life circumstance, those who've met me at the deep center of myself, those who've ignited my desire to be the best possible person I can be, those who've spoken to my soul. They are there. And it's intense. And marvelous. It's one fine dinner. Oh, and it's catered.

Refined Poetry

No offense intended to the writers of these lines, but I've chosen (for selfish purposes, like most things I do) to trim your lines down to the few that have meaning to me right now: to "refine" them. Special apology to K.D. Lang since I have been channeling her songs lately to inspire a "Canadian vibe," which is sort of like trying not to sneeze: a valiant and creative effort that inevitably ends up defeated.

In fact, it's as if I've been having my own sweet conversation with K.D. and she has no idea. Or perhaps I've gone off the deep end... you decide.

K.D., do you know what it feels like to leave a place filled with family and friends that you love and know deeply? To leave the people that have suffered the dark nights of the soul with you, and also dropped everything to celebrate life's simple joys, like when your child scored his first goal? People who've driven your drunk butt home or ordered you to get a taxi? Who have laughed at your weight gain and celebrated your stylist's choices? People you've called bitch and ass in the same sentence as "I love you," both of which you meant sincerely? Who have known your kids since before they were conceived? Who have answered their doorbells at the most inconvenient times when you were afraid? Or just really sad? Do you know? Could you know?

"Sometimes it feels all that you wanted... has been taken away."

And what if you chose this new venture in spite of the pain to rediscover something in yourself, to prioritize your family, to connect on a deeper level with your spouse, and to hopefully contribute (through that powerful connection) to your children: How must one feel about a spouse in such a situation?

"I love the best in you. You love the best in me."

Ah, the best. That commitment I made when I was 19 years old. The one that tied me to the man that does indeed see the best and most hopeful in me. In spite of myself. That vow that provides the anchor God knew I would need to get me through... Yes, I'm willing to move with that.

But. Then why was I planted here in Denver for the past seven years? What could the purpose have been? Right now it seems like a wasted effort.

"Maybe it was to learn how to love, how to choose, or how to fight, to how to lessen our pride, how to laugh, how to cry."

Yes, I've learned those things. And it's hard, K.D., it's rips out my guts some days. Feels like I just found out a party of my body was going to be severed. Creates gallons of tears at the worst of times, like in the midst of a family dinner. At a restaurant. Prompts my dear husband to ask me: "Are you pregnant?" Do you realize the agony?

"And though it's not always easy, lovely, lovely..."

Certainly not lovely. This is kind of ugly, in fact. I feel needy, and I abhor needy.

"We will walk in good company."

So you promise, K.D. I have my doubts, but I'm trying to be hopeful. I like to think that I did something meaningful here in Denver: that I've left a legacy, or at least left something more lasting than a few laughs. That I did more good than harm.

"I gave my love, didn't I? I gave it big sometimes; I gave it in my own sweet time"

I tried; I did. And I confess I didn't do it well or consistently. I know I did it full of my own weaknesses and darkness and insecurities. But I did give my love. As best as I knew how. As much as I was capable.

"I'm just leaving."

Yes. But not as in, I'm giving up. But...as in, I'm moving on. Though not without tremendous loss.

refinement rather than fashion

This is the third line of Ellery's poem. And since it is the third month of the year, perhaps I should venture here next.

Refinement vs. fashion.

Well, since I am not much into fashion, this one isn't too tricky for me. Refinement sounds cheaper, which I like.

First, let me prove that I am nowhere near a fashionista: I went shopping with a friend of a friend, who is a model, and a gorgeous one at that. I guess they all are. And we tried things on in separate dressing rooms, but then stood side by side looking at ourselves in the mirror. Well, really, I think we were both looking at her. Her tiny bod, and her perfect face, and the whole package of it would vault any woman into the dangerous land of coveting. Ya. Stand next to that. She did, however, offer several suggestions for me and my "closet" to which I responded:

-no, too much work

-nope, too many layers

-no, I'd look like I'm trying to look 20, which I'm CLEARLY not

-nope, ridiculous, even if it IS in style

-no way, TOOOOO expensive! Seriously?!?! 150 dollars for a t-shirt!?!?

So, I will wear what I like, what is relatively inexpensive (unless it promises longevity, then I'm all for spending a bit).

But refinement inspires a different dilemma: On first impression it smacks of British snobbery, like you should say it with an accent. On further thought, it brings about images of breweries and processing plants. Or maybe that's refineries I'm thinking of. Lastly, I conjure things I don't particularly care for, like fancy teas, perfect table settings, all the things my Stager (meant to be pronounced with a British accent btw) made me do to my house that took 1,000 hours. (But they worked, btw, first show = contract. Damn, we really are moving to Canada. I'm not ready.)

I suppose that refinement means taste. Proper stuff. Even though I associate it with snobbery, it does indeed have its place. I know I should teach my boys to eat with utensils instead of their fingers. But. I do make them wash their hands beforehand. Okay, most of the time. When I remember. Okay. Really not all that much. So, they'll be miserable failures on their first dates.

Perhaps I'll break it down: "re" means again, repeat, back to the original place, again, as in "reincarnation," reinvention," "remember." And "fine" equals delicate, finest quality, highest good.

The word implies things/peoples/ideas that are improved, excellent, polished, and this process involves the removal of impurities and unwanted elements, clarifying by making small changes...

Like the solar flare which is currently causing us to rid ourselves of bad stuff, according to some of my metaphysical friends who believe in the energy levels this solar flare is creating... apparently it is challenging us to rid ourselves of extra baggage, and only a few of us will. And those of use who do rid ourselves deal with the discomfort of it.

Yes, it a pain in the ass to rid myself of all the extra stuff in my house,
Yes, it is painful to cut myself off from people I love and know who love and know me,
Yes, it is uncomfortable to look honestly at my own weaknesses,

Yes, it hurts to examine my faults, bad habits, selfish tendencies,

Yes, it sucks to admit that aforementioned weaknesses cause other people harm.

But. If I want to be refined, I fear I must.

The truth will set you free... that was Jesus.