simplicity in structure || etiquette

There were eight of us, 4 pairs of siblings. We grew up together, sharing backyards and cups of hot chocolate on snow days. The cul-de-sac was our soccer field and roller rink. It was an unspoken rule that the cul-de-sac was common ground; we rallied everyone if someone felt like a game of Life (inspired by the board game) or hockey. There was no "who should we invite?".

Growing up, invitations were paper, and if you didn't have enough cupcakes for everyone, then no one could indulge in the frosting-covered treats. My mama started a "you can't say you can't play" campaign at my elementary school, and I addressed valentines to every classmate.

Etiquette is simplicity in structure. I wonder if I am a bit old-fashioned in my expectations nowadays. To get an email saying "here's what we're doing - feel free to join us" makes me feel like I'm on the second-tier of friendship. To find out that everyone's going to the hayride and of course I can tag along isn't the same as being invited. Being welcomed just isn't as same.

There is comfort in the social rituals, the adherence to rules that prioritize others.

forever in my heart

I remember underwater tea parties, holding my breathe, sinking to the bottom of the pool. That's how today feels - seven years without my dad. I can anticipate the grief that today brings and so I hunker down, holding my breath until the day is over. 

simplicity in structure || someone get me a sippy cup

I spilled coffee all over myself this morning, a day after my breakfast smoothie tumbled all over my car. A very adamant woe is me tantrum followed; tributaries of tears swelled. As much as I wanted to retreat - to crawl back into bed and declare it a "terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day" as Alexander does in Judith Viorst's childhood classic - I didn't.

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Instead, my sister and I sang our "party time" song together and I celebrated day fourteen of her thirty before thirty celebration for me. It's hard to be grumpy while wearing a pink headband.

I needed coffee still and so I decided to jog to the local Starbucks and walk home, coffee in hand. That's the beauty of simplicity in structure - I knew what to do in order to step out of that mess. There is forward progress, a freedom to say "what's next?" and then know exactly what to do, no time wasted in wallowing. 

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simplicity in structure || a game of fetch

I always want there to be enough time to play fetch. The freedom to go outside and play - if only for a few moments - must complement the structured hour-by-hour accountability in pursuit of simplicity.

sweet Fannie girl

When my days are filled, I don't always feel full. It is the grace in-between that allows me to relish the structure. 

In hopes of becoming more intentional with my time, I have begun to assign tasks to hours. I understand, now, why my to-do list so often taunted me at the end of the day - the tasks far outnumbered the available hours in a day.

I'm in the middle of Laura Vanderkam's book 168 hours: You have more time than you think. When my family and I do jigsaw puzzles, we work on the outside border first, which gives us a place to start. Taking stock of my time and responsibility reminds me of that process, creating boundaries. 

It isn't about penciling in fetch with Fannie. Instead, it's about engaging wholeheartedly in life so that I can make the choice to pause. If I never start, then I can't rest. 

Dr. Reed's Run 2014

We celebrated our fifth Dr. Reed's Run over the weekend. Here are the words I spoke - - 

2014 marks seven years since our dad passed away unexpectedly from a brain aneurysm. We say that we are celebrating his memory but the truth is that the celebration is hollow. There is nothing we shared in those seven years. No memories made that we can laugh about together, no “remember when” to inspire peals of laughter around the kitchen table. I have 23 years of memories of my dad, but I’m almost thirty now.

Instead, I have grief. The aching injustice of birthdays and Christmases and ordinary Tuesdays without him. When I lost my father in 2007, I grieved the loss of his physical presence – the weight of his arms around me in a welcome-home embrace. The sound of his voice. Places and moments were so infused with his physical presence that his absence felt like an assault – a gaping gash in our family’s delicate skin.

Time has not stitched that gash together. Instead, with each breathe in that we inhale, we exhale a bit of space, certainly not an acceptance of his absence but a distance of seconds spent living growing moving loving crying laughing trying failing moving cooking talking hoping without him.

For me – and grief is so incredibly personal that I speak only for myself – the grief is less about what I miss about him. Instead, it is about what he is missing. He wasn't here when my sister passed her boards or when I moved to Philadelphia. These milestones, however, were set in motion years before and so there can be some peace in knowing that he was at least part of the process, if not the outcome.

It’s the daily bread of the past seven years that he has missed. The lunchtime phone calls that are so mundane that the words would dissipate by dinner – and so we call one another while we eat our sandwiches and pretzels. He knew our dog Charlie – not sweet Fannie girl. We have run half marathons and he didn’t have a chance to cheer for us at the finish line. My sister and I went to Harry Potter World – Dad will never have the chance to taste butter beer.

And so the gash of grief has become less deep with time, as promised by the books I read. But it has widened, a chasm that expands with each day that I become more of the person that I am – but that my dad will never have the chance to meet. I am his daughter, but he knew the me of seven years ago and that’s not fair. And it’s not fair that the memories of him must be spread thinner and thinner across the chasm of grief that spans from October 15, 2007 to the present.

Dr. Reed’s Run has become the antithesis of his widening chasm. When you all come out to support the Brain Aneurysm Foundation through us, you are creating memories for us that include my dad, if only in his honor. We have a chance to say his name to new people. There are very few times that I have the opportunity to say the word Dad out loud. By standing before us today, you give me that gift.

And so we gather together for the fifth time, and I am overwhelmed by the swell of support. I see faces that my dad knew and loved – with whom he ate hot dogs in the cul-de-sac and sat beside during school orchestra concerts. And I see faces that he never met – but with whom he is no less connected, the bond forged in hope and loss. Thank you for your love and support.

simplicity in structure || second grade wisdom

Second grade wisdom today -

Two columns, straight lines. Such truths revealed in their simplicity through structure. 

I am overwhelmed with gratitude that I have everything I need and a sister. I wouldn't trade her for a unicorn - pinky promise, sis!

simplicity through structure || a question

I wonder, sometimes, what I mean by simplicity. Am I seeking an unhurried quiet or fierce devotion to a purpose? Is it freedom or focus? Cozy or clean?

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Kate Arends writes, 

"Minimalism means a lot of things to me. Minimalism is a clear head. Minimalism is the short list of things I need to stay healthy. Minimalism is a home designed with meaning and intention, not praise or applause. Minimalism is not an idea to sell. Minimalism will never be the end result, for it is the process I admire more than the aesthetic."