When my oldest daughter first drew on a wall, first cut her own hair, first filled the toilet with non-toilet items, first lied to me, I did not yet know that all children do these things (or some facsimile). I did not realize then, as I do now, it’s part of growing up; of curiosity, testing, exploring, imitating or avoiding. I was harder on her because I was young and didn’t know better. Her actions were not personal, but in my own immaturity as a parent I perceived them as direct affronts. I would overreact and make a big deal out of ‘bad’ behavior by shaming or lecturing her at length for what I perceived as big infractions. By the second, third, fourth and now fifth child I know better as a mother. I don’t claim to know best, it’s just that I know better the mother I choose to be.

As I sat on the edge of my bed looking at the smiling graffiti, I was thinking how much I wished I could change the parent I sometimes was to my oldest child. Then the phone rang and there she was, on the other end of the line.

I shared with her all I had been thinking about. I told her I was sorry that when I was raising her I wasn’t as calm and mature and as wise as I am now. I told her I wished I could talk to the mother I was then and tell myself all that I have learned so I could do better. I apologized. She laughed and acknowledged having to “pave the way” for her siblings and she told me I was forgiven. In turn she apologized to me for her teen years. We laughed together about pay-back. I loved her for the grace of absolution she blessed me with so easily.

I can’t go back in time and give myself the wisdom of mothering that I have now, but I can share it with you. (Lucky you!)
First: It’s not always about us. Our children are growing, stretching, testing. We can love, guide, offer reasonable consequences and love, love, love them; but there is no need to bully, shame or just generally freak-out. Second: If we do freak-out or overreact (because we all do) it’s okay to forgive ourselves and do better when we know better. Third: It’s less okay when we know better, and we don’t do better. That’s when we rationalize, make excuses for ourselves or place the blame on our children for how we choose to react. We’ve all been there, let’s just choose not to live there.

Beautiful Jessa

And lastly: There is great courage and love in risking vulnerability and humility. There is no shame in admitting fault. Fallibility is an inherent quality of the human condition, especially in parenting. Instead of defending our less flattering behavior to suit our need to see ourselves in a better light, admitting our mistakes as parents is important in validating what our children experience, of honoring their truth.

A favorite mothering mantra of mine has become: ”Stay at your center and look beneath the behavior to the heart of the child. There you will find only good. When you see the heart, you will know what to do.” The Parent’s Tao Te Ching by William Martin

A close friend said to me after I told her this story, “Do you know how many adults would love to hear; ‘I’m sorry,’ from a parent? It would heal so much for them.”

Wise words from another seasoned mother.

Mammaste~
There is so much divinity in the everyday.

Video: An Unkindness of Ravens

In stark contrast is a murmuration of starlings. When flocking they fly in complete synchronicity. Many individuals coming together as one.

Video: A Murmuration of Starlings

People too, when we are collectively in a place of fear, lack, or are focused on meeting our own needs first are much like an unkindness of ravens–in close proximity, but with little or no feeling of connection.

But there are also those beautiful moments when we are deeply, collectively engaged in selfless good works. It is then, I think, we must look like starlings from the perspective of heaven. A murmuration of souls, moving and swaying in such exquisite harmony it takes God’s breath away.

It is good to make it a practice every day to do something selfless, no matter how small, completely for the benefit of someone else. And every now and then plot conspiracies of kindness with others and watch what happens. You will feel that murmur of love and oneness fluttering in your heart.

In  2007, the first inkling of Mammaste formed in my daydreams. Today, four years later, is the launch of Mammaste’s website! www.mammastemama.com  Throughout this journey I have been wonderfully supported by friends, family and complete strangers. Providence has mysteriously moved to lead me in ways that, just as the dictionary describes, were a manifestation of divine care and guidance.

In 2010 I began writing this blog called Mammaste. What emerged from these writings were stories of the gifts of divine moments tucked into our everyday lives. Mammaste~Divinity in the Everyday and its core message of loving the world with a mother’s heart began to form. Since then, Mammaste has been moving from thought, to word, and now to reality.

Along the way I have struggled with the challenges any journey of creating the life you imagine is really about; facing your fears. It’s about wresting the baton from the conductor in your head, the one that keeps playing the same song of fear, doubt and failure over and over, and giving that baton to the maestro of your heart.

Mammaste is about sending positive messages of love and interconnection into the world. It’s about knowing we are a part of something larger than ourselves, and it is a vehicle to give back. Mammaste is a reminder that we are all born divine and are connected through love, and it’s a nudge to stay awake and aware of all the divinity that surrounds us every day, in the everyday.

Mammaste is not perfect, but it is ready. Just like me.

Mammaste!

There is so much divinity in the everyday.

Edmund Yang

When my husband Alan was only three years old his father died suddenly and unexpectedly due to complications from stomach surgery. Alan never had a chance to know his father, and his strongest memory from that time is of himself playing alone with his Matchbox cars in the hallway of the hospital where his father passed away.

Alan inherited his father’s watch, which is very precious to him, and he wears it every day. He rarely takes it off, and if he does he is very careful to keep track of it. It went missing recently, and he was understandably shaken. We tore the house apart looking for it for six days, to no avail. I saw my husband’s face fill with such sadness when he realized he may never find it.

Today as I passed the photo of Alan’s father on the shelf, I stopped and picked up the picture. I looked at the face of his father, Edmund, and quietly said; “That watch means so much to Alan. Please, if you can, please help me find it for him.” I gave the photo a little hug to my heart, felt a bit foolish, and then set it down.

Immediately I was pulled to the dining room as if there were a string attached to my heart, and I stopped in front of the dining room table. I noticed a slight wrinkle in the tablecloth and I suddenly knew. All the hair on my arms stood up as I slipped my hand under the cloth and touched the watch.  About 45 seconds had passed from the time I made the request to the discovery of the watch. Thank you Edmund!

Mammaste

There is so much divinity in the everyday!

We struck up a conversation, noticing our girls were the same age and that we were not typical ‘young’ mothers. Both of us had our daughters later in life. I briefly shared my story of infertility, and the miracle of having this child at all. And then she told me her story. She told me about preparing for the very real possibility of her death as she fought Cancer. Of meeting a man at a laundromat where she had to use the cart to steady her frail and weak body. He asked her to coffee. Later, she explained to him her dire situation and the futility of new beginnings in the face of a life ending. He told her it was not the end. He told her she would live and they would marry and have a daughter. Against all odds, he was right.

When I left her that beautiful spring evening, I felt suspended outside of myself. Our conversation lasted only about 30 minutes, but time stood still while we spoke. I was deeply moved, and we embraced as we parted. I never saw her again.

Or so I thought.

Five years passed. I was at a neighborhood party talking to another mom about how much I loved the woman, Elizabeth, who ran our daughters’ Girl Scout troop with such amazing patience and passion. I was just beginning to get to know Elizabeth better, as our daughters had struck up a new friendship over the past year.  Then I heard the woman I was talking to say to me, “Elizabeth has a remarkable story of surviving cancer, have you heard it?” My arms and scalp tingled and I was covered with goose bumps. As it turned out, I had. Five years earlier.

Our daughters.

Amazing grace often visits us quietly in the most mundane of circumstances. At a park. At a party. At a laundromat.

Mammaste.

There is so much divinity in the everyday.

“Coincidences are God’s way of remaining anonymous.” ~Albert Einstein

*Postscript: I called Elizabeth the next morning after the party. I asked her if she remembered meeting a woman at a park years ago on a perfect spring evening, exchanging stories of miracles. Then she remembered too. This is what she wrote to me when I sent her this essay before publication. I found it so very, very touching. So I’m sharing it here, with you.

“Lori, Your depiction of meeting is just the way I remember it, too. How lovely that the universe wasn’t finished with us after that first encounter; we were brought back together into the same school, the same girl scout troop and now, the same classroom family! I marvel at the many events that had to align for all of this to unfold – sweet serendipity and, as you have said, grace. Please feel free to share this story just as you have written it, so beautifully . . . xo Elizabeth”

As I stepped into the shower, I could hear her rummaging in the hall closet. Soon she returned, yanked back the shower curtain and announced, “Mom, I looked everywhere for your privacy, but I can’t find it. I don’t know what it looks like.”

As every mother knows, truer words were never spoken.

Mammaste!

There is so much divinity in the everyday.

Great Aunt Florence

For six weeks following September 5, 1989, I would think of that day with sadness. It was the day of the funeral for my dear, great-aunt Florence. She had passed away peacefully in the spare bedroom where we had cared for her, in the home I shared with my husband and four-year-old daughter. Weeks later I learned that the day of her funeral was also one of the happiest days of my life: it was the day my son was born.

Months prior I had impulsively collected Florence from the nursing home where she had been installed to live out the final months of her life following surgery and a diagnosis of terminal Cancer. My decision to bring her home was made the moment she quietly told me about having a male nursing home attendant help her with her bath. The shame she felt was drawn in every line of her slumping silhouette and in the thin, shaking hands that covered the tears running down her face.

She was the sister of my grandmother, twice widowed, never having had children of her own. Her home was a sanctuary for me from my chaotic childhood. The time I spent in her peaceful home, pampered and adored, fanned the spark in me that believed I was worthy and deserving of love and affection.

Florence’s time with us was bittersweet. Near the end, I was getting up often in the middle of the night to answer her cries of pain. I was exhausted and she could see it, apologizing profusely the moment I came to her bedside on those dark nights. I told her she was doing the hard work, and I wished I could offer her more relief.

My beautiful boy, A.J.

Late on the afternoon of October 17th following Florence’s death, we received a call from the adoption agency. A blue-eyed baby boy was waiting for us, he was six weeks old, born on September 5th!  So surprised were we by his arrival, he slept in a drawer those first few days until we could set up the crib in the empty spare bedroom. He was beautiful, precious and very unsettled over the abrupt change in his circumstances.

He slept fitfully and woke crying many times throughout the night, every night. I was exhausted and once, as I began to roll out of bed to comfort him, I heard my aunt Florence say to me through the fog of sleep; “Now, now, you sleep. I’ll take care of him tonight.” In the dream that followed, I listened to the cooing, soothing sound of her voice comforting him and I simply rolled over and fell asleep. When I awoke it was morning and I was startled to feel so rested! Then I remembered my dream and the full night of sleep that had followed. I rushed into my son’s room to find him still sleeping deeply.

It is absolutely possible that this was just the dream of an exhausted new mother, but I like to think Florence was there offering me the rest I needed so badly. The rest she couldn’t offer me when I was caring for her in much the same way. I like to imagine that during the short interval of days between her death and my son’s birth on the day of her funeral, they met each other in that mysterious place in-between this life and the next. I envision them together, with heads bent, foreheads touching, sharing the secret of the amazing gift that awaited me with his impending birth. It is a vision that brings me great comfort today as it did 22 years ago. I miss you Florence.

Happy birthday to my beautiful boy.

Mammaste. There is so much divinity in the everyday.

It is August and I am going through bags of donated clothing, pulling and folding items in the hot, humid basement of this nearly century-old church with my fellow church ladies. The smell of damp wood and mothballs hangs in the air all around us.  We are each deeply immersed in our own thoughts. I’m secretly pledging this will be the LAST time I volunteer to run the church rummage sale.

The silence is broken when a fellow volunteer holds up a pair of shorts and says to me, “I recognize these, didn’t they belong to your daughter?”  I smile and acknowledge ownership of the bag with a nod just as the woman reaches in and pulls out a huge pair of my old maternity underwear. She holds them up with two hands at arms length and tilts her head quizzically. They are so thread-bare and tattered that the elastic is exposed through the frayed waistband. She turns to me with a grin and says, “Are you sure you’re ready to part with these, Lori?” With that, we both dissolve into laughter as I rush to grab the rest of the family “rag bag” that was bound for the trash before my daughter obviously topped it off with her rummage sale donations.

Over the course of weeks working together, we church basement ladies  alternate between pursed-lipped irritation to outright admiration for each other daily. Mostly, we exchange good-humored ribbing and share lots of laughter as we sift through treasures unwittingly donated. They are often hidden among long forgotten memories at the bottom of water-stained boxes. Like the tiny, U.S. flag slipped into the pages of an empty baby book by a young mother of twins in 1930. Or the worn photo of a serious, sepia-toned couple that fluttered from the pages of Paradise Lost.

As grueling as the long days of setting up the sale are, we genuinely enjoy the actual sale. Friends and strangers delightfully discover treasures, and shoppers visit on the church patio, sitting on the the donated couches and chairs that have been fashioned into an outdoor living room under bright blue skies.

When two very, very elderly gentlemen shoppers comment with a wink that of all the rummage sales they’ve been to, ours has the best lookin’ church ladies, hands-down, my heart opens wide to the sweetness of it all. I see it is true, what Rumi said, there are indeed hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground when we bring the beauty of what we love, into what we do.

So euphoric am I at the end of the sale that I am thinking, well maybe I’ll volunteer just one more time next year . . .

Mammaste.

There is so much divinity in the everyday.

Although the secret to perfect parenting cannot be found in any book (because it does not exist), I’m still going to recommend a parenting book that I swear by. It has never failed me. It is,“The Parent’s Tao Te Ching, Ancient Advice for Modern Parents,” by William Martin.

The book is based upon the actual Tao Te Ching, a 2,500 year-old sacred writing of practical advice for leaders and philosophers about “The Way,” or “The Way of Life.” The “Tao” embodies themes of unity, non-judgment, balance between doing and being and the simple truths found in emulation of nature. It is interpreted for parenting by William Martin, a student of the Tao who has; “distilled the essence of each of the Tao’s 81 chapters freshly re-interpreted them to speak directly and clearly to the most difficult of modern tasks-parenting.” (From the book jacket.)

Here is an excerpt: Chapter 17
No Need for Threats
You can control your children
through threats and punishments
and they will learn to fear.

You can control their behavior by praise and reward
and they will learn to look outside themselves
for approval and for worth.

You can watch over their every movement,
every action, every decision,
making sure they do it “right,”
and they will learn to always
doubt themselves.

Or you can love and guide
without controlling or interfering
and they will learn to trust themselves.

Mom with starry eyes. ~by Piper

It is the one book on parenting I feel absolutely confident in recommending. It’s short, concise, relevant, spiritual and practical. A good parenting book, like this one, appears to be teaching us how to raise loving, balanced, well-rounded and grounded children, but it is really teaching us to learn from our children how to become loving, balanced, well-rounded and grounded adults. It inspires me to become the person my children see when they look at me through their loving, trusting eyes.

Mammaste

There is so much divinity in the everyday.

I have tiptoed across a dark courtyard at 2AM to spy on Greek Orthodox monks floating in black wool cassocks and high hats through a fragrant fog of amber incense. Chanting Vespers in the candlelit chapel of an Arizona oasis, voices carried to God on white smoke through a starry desert sky. My own soul seeming to rise closer to heaven on every note.

I have heard the haunting soprano voices of cloistered nuns rising from behind a screen in an ancient church on a hillside in Italy. Singing the sunrise into the day, bringing tears to my eyes for the beauty of it all.

And yet, I was as close to God in those moments as I was when I saw the tenderness in my daughter’s arm around her big brother, her leaning into him, him letting her.

Or in the face of my neighbor, who comes to my home to knock on my door, to take my face in her hands (still dirty from her abruptly abandoned gardening) to kiss my forehead and tell me she loves me before turning and heading back home to continue her planting.

Or once, when I became completely still and quiet so as not to wake the fevered child lying in my arms, mercifully sleeping, damp ringlets of her dark hair clinging to her flushed cheeks, her breathing calm and deep in the bed I share with her father. In that moment of clear, silent stillness, I too could hear God’s whisper, bringing tears to my eyes for the beauty of it all.

Mammaste.

There is so much divinity in the everyday.