On Stopping

We just returned home from our 4th consecutive night of baseball.  And by “just” I mean an hour and a half ago.  It takes that long for kids to be bathed, showered, snacked, tooth-brushed, put to bed and put to bed again after descending the stairs for a last conversation, hug, drink of water, ‘good-night’ or any other ploy they can think up to delay the inevitable bedtime.  (I have zero resistance to the hug and they’ve all learned that.)

Chad just succumbed to sleepiness, too.  A sleepy goodnight was uttered before he left me alone with the silence.  Right now, it’s just me and the quiet. 

Life has felt hectic lately.  I’m not sure why, exactly.  It’s not that our schedules are overly full or that anything out of the ordinary is happening, but for some reason, each night as I’ve watched the orange sun creep (not so) slowly below the horizon, my eyelids have quickly followed suit. 

But sometime today–I think it was between Charlie attempting to start a fire with a stick and Meadow eating ice cream with her fingers and Chanelle requesting her fifth Dannon Smoothie of the day–I vowed that I would sit down tonight and write. Even if it meant placing toothpicks under my eyelids to keep my eyes open.  (In fact, I do have toothpicks holding my eyelids open right now.)

(Yes, he really did spend well over an hour attempting to start a fire with a stick.)

In a way, I write as an intentional exercise of slowing down.  Like a child resisting redirection, my pause to write is a stomping of my foot and defiantly saying,  I’m stopping right here and there is nothing anyone can do about it. 

Earlier this week I was remembering back to the very first home I remember.  I think I was probably five or six years old.  I remember walking outside on a warm summer morning.  I know it was early, because I can still see the soft golden hue of the sun and feel its comforting warmth as it hits my face.  I can almost see my white blonde hair swinging back and forth as I walked through our quiet front yard.  I remember pausing, closing my eyes, and inhaling deep to take in the fresh morning air.  I remember standing there, maybe it was ten minutes–or maybe it was only one–I don’t think it matters.  What I remember most is that I intentionally stopped, all alone in the middle of the yard, with eyes closed, and carefully listened to the soft coos of the mourning doves. 

Still today, I have a very nostalgic feeling when I hear the songs of a mourning dove in the morning hours.

This exercise of ‘stopping’ continued throughout my life.  While in high school, I stole away to a beautiful park and hid myself amongst the tress and buried myself in books and my hand-written journals.  During college, I found a spot off campus, once again, buried deep in a forest with my journal where I would sit for minutes or hours because I needed it–I needed to stop. 

Recently, I’ve felt this strange tug-of-war where I’m grasping for what was while simultaneously trying to keep up with what is. 

I remember when days felt simpler.  When we weren’t eating dinner as we walk out of the house or rushing showers and bedtime because we were out and about going to this practice or to that outing.  I remember the days before Facebook status updates occurred at constant speed with one press of the “Refresh” button, sending the unconscious message–‘keep up!’.  I remember when I couldn’t reach celebrities and my next door neighbor alike with 140 characters or less, by way of a single Tweet. (You know, if I was actually tech savvy enough to use Twitter.) I remember days when the calender simply revealed what day of the week it was, rather than which event, practice, gathering, requirement, etc. is next.

I realize this is all a part of life–that the simplicity of having a single baby at home and the ease of ‘stopping’ changes as the family and life grows.  I understand that this is a natural progression of what it means to move forward.  And as much as I wish I was one to embrace change, I find myself resisting it, longing for simpler days.

Maybe it’s that I feel this gentle shift of our family.  Maybe it’s that I no longer have a tiny baby who is depending on me for her every need.  Maybe it’s that when I look at them now–Charlie, Chanelle, and Meadow–I see how absolutely quickly these years are going and I want to mark the days, hold them, cherish them like the sacred treasure they are. 

The only way I know how to do that–the only way I can grab on to these days is to pause, to stop, and see them, feel them, and mark them. Much like my pause to hear the mourning doves or my stolen moments buried in the trees of a park, I come here to bury my treasured memories–so I can celebrate them and return to them years from now.

Because, in all honesty, it’s not always easy to see them, feel them, and celebrate them in the moment–the gift of these years.  I’ve found that life so often moves at such lightening speed that it is a miracle just to survive–much less cherish the moment.  I have especially felt this as I’ve attempted to balance running a business from my little office in our home.  Balance feels impossible and to succeed in all areas–wife, mother, photographer, blogger, friend, sister, daughter, and on and on–seems great in theory, but far-reaching.  On some days, simply breathing takes more effort than I have to give.  This is why, if you follow our little life at all, you often see scenes like this. . .

Many times you will see us, out “there”.  Out there, with the fresh air.  Out there where there are dirt, bugs, trees, and animals.  Out there where the echo of their laughter blends with the gentle sound of dancing leaves.  Out there where the scent of fresh air seems to have the power to clear the mind and the heart.  Out there where perspective is so easily found. . .

Out there, in nature, we pause without physically pausing.  I watch them explore and discover and laugh and play and suddenly what seemed important a few hours ago, no longer seems important.  The important things are so obviously right in front of me. . .

I know that I don’t do everything right.  I know that I am often a mess of mixed emotions and divided loyalties.  I know that someday our kids will complain about my annoying behaviors or my often frantic and forgetful ways.  I know that there are many times when I mess up and miss the mark. 

But one thing I am almost certain of–one thing that I would almost bet on is this. . .

The times when we stopped, out there, together, will likely be some of their fondest childhood memories.

And if I’m being honest–I hope that someday they will send me pictures (they will probably be able to do that with a blink of an eye–assuming they don’t have toothpicks stuck in their eyes) of the ways they are teaching their own children to stop, pause, and cherish the moments that are right in front of them. 

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And let me say again–Thank you for allowing me to always stop here and celebrate these tiny little moments that somehow, add a little order to the chaos.

Happy Friday, Friends.