tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72751360781411294552024-03-12T19:03:36.471-07:00The SaberasLaurel Saberahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07301512082848450500noreply@blogger.comBlogger118125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7275136078141129455.post-35226399217828340002023-07-04T15:11:00.008-07:002023-07-04T16:01:02.606-07:00Kelsey<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuPStUAbdlr2b8EksYJQR9h4HDiAb72IuQOF0OwNH9WRQB3fMo7npNAXuxOTKF0sN0v9cigSI66Ol-c4aq6U-v3iq1jgCLxy9NSq4K0SxPmJB17eZYUwE6_PnyXq1mqBTyfzMCdnmbokqW40yubOLwiaQt8zCdAxkxT3LcqXbLbx-VAyqtqvwFbrrMQEE/s701/kelsey.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="701" data-original-width="526" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuPStUAbdlr2b8EksYJQR9h4HDiAb72IuQOF0OwNH9WRQB3fMo7npNAXuxOTKF0sN0v9cigSI66Ol-c4aq6U-v3iq1jgCLxy9NSq4K0SxPmJB17eZYUwE6_PnyXq1mqBTyfzMCdnmbokqW40yubOLwiaQt8zCdAxkxT3LcqXbLbx-VAyqtqvwFbrrMQEE/s320/kelsey.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br />A dear friend's 10 year-old daughter passed away last night. Her name is Kelsey. Kelsey means 'ship's victory.' As one of her loved ones said, 'She has completed her voyage triumphantly.'<p></p><p>I have followed their family's journey over the last 48 hours in a text group of 300+ family members, friends, and those who had never met Kelsey in person but nevertheless felt deeply connected to her radiant spirit. I knew Kelsey before, but not like this. Not like I do now after bearing witness to story after story of parents and children giving testament to her all-embracing heart. Her generous spirit. Kelsey's mother is a builder of vibrant communities. She brought her daughter into contact with so many different people over her short life and made it possible for Kelsey's radiant spirit to touch as many people as can be touched in ten years. As Kelsey lay in a coma, her teachers and classmates and neighbors and spiritual community and cousins sent her voice recordings expressing their love and singing her prayers so that her parents could play them for her. This was a child who had wings even in this world. Who often and sometimes literally put those wings around others and made them feel welcome and cherished. New friends attending camp for the first time who didn't know a soul. Children who had experienced nothing but cruelty from other children at school. Young children who followed her around like ducklings, basking in her kindness. Parents grateful for the way she embraced their children and made them feel loved.</p><p>Kelsey's mother requested we honor her in the following ways:</p><p>"We love you all and we’re so grateful for the community surrounding us and our sweet girl. The best thing is honestly just prayers for her and (her brother) Parker. Service in her name. And making spaces of joy in her honor. She loved art and baking and cats and being with her brother. Making forts and stuffie ziplines, swimming and chickens. She loved to run and she felt deeply connected to her loved ones, teachers and closest friends. We love you all, as we know she loved you each too. Please don’t be sad for me, I feel the most fortunate to have been given all the time I had with her. Everyone in my family is on their own emotional journey, and it will look different at different times. Be assured we’ll all be okay in the end. Thank you for enveloping us in all that you have. We are so grateful to you."</p><p>Stories are already starting to pour in about the acts of service and spaces of joy being created in Kelsey's name. Her transition has unleashed a tidal wave of love. You are now someone who has been touched by her radiance. Let her light move through you.</p><p>Thank you for allowing me to process my own grief and awe in words. Here are a few of the passages from the Baha'i Faith that were shared for Kelsey over the last couple days that I keep returning to. The first was shared by her own mother. I am sharing them with you now for when your own loss is too great:</p><p>O bird of the Rose-garden of Fidelity! Be of no cheerless heart; have no wing nor feather broken; sigh not, neither do thou wail, and sit not chilled in a corner. The little girl lamented is in the divine Rose-garden in the highest happiness, delight, cheerfulness and gratification. Why then art thou grieved, sorrowing with a bleeding heart? This is the day of rejoicing and the hour of ecstasy! This is the season of the dead arising from the graves and gathering together! And this is the promised time for the attainment of plenteous grace. Be calm, be strong, be grateful, and become a lamp full of light, that the darkness of sorrows be annihilated, and that the sun of everlasting joy arise from the dawning-place of heard and soul, shining brightly. Upon thee be the Glory of the Most-Glorious!</p><p> </p><p>He is God!</p><p>O peerless Lord! Praised be Thou for having kindled that light in the glass of the Concourse on high, for having guided that bird of faithfulness to the nest of the Abhá Kingdom. Thou hast joined that precious river to the mighty sea, Thou hast returned that spreading ray of light to the Sun of Truth. Thou hast welcomed that captive of remoteness into the garden of reunion, and led him who longed to look upon Thee to Thy presence in Thy bright place of lights.</p><p>That beloved child addresseth thee from the hidden world: 'O thou kind Mother, thank divine Providence that I have been freed from a small and gloomy cage and, like the birds of the meadows, have soared to the divine world -- a world which is spacious, illumined, and ever gay and jubilant. Therefore, lament not, O Mother, and be not grieved; I am not of the lost, nor have I been obliterated and destroyed. I have shaken off the mortal form and have raised my banner in this spiritual world. Following this separation is everlasting companionship. Thou shalt find me in the heaven of the Lord, immersed in an ocean of light.'</p><p>There is a Garden of God. Human beings are trees growing therein. The Gardener is Our Father. When He sees a little tree in a place too small for her development, He prepares a suitable and more beautiful place, where she may grow and bear fruit. Then He transplants that little tree. The other trees marvel, saying: ‘This is a lovely little tree. For what reason does the Gardener uproot it?’ “The Divine Gardener, alone, knows the reason.</p><p>O my God, Thy Trust hath been returned unto Thee. It behooveth Thy grace and Thy bounty that have compassed Thy dominions on earth and in heaven, to vouchsafe unto Thy newly welcomed one Thy gifts and Thy bestowals, and the fruits of the tree of Thy grace!</p><p>O thou beloved maidservant of God, although the loss of a son is indeed heart-breaking and beyond the limits of human endurance, yet one who knoweth and understandeth is assured that the son hath not been lost but, rather, hath stepped from this world into another, and she will find him in the divine realm. That reunion shall be for eternity, while in this world separation is inevitable and bringeth with it a burning grief.</p><p>I have, O my Lord, offered up that which Thou hast given Me, that Thy servants may be quickened, and all that dwell on earth be united.</p><p><br /></p>Laurel Saberahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07301512082848450500noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7275136078141129455.post-76679241293048006922021-08-19T13:01:00.001-07:002021-08-19T13:01:35.562-07:00Forest Preschool<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">In the beginning, success was measured in sunshine. Clear skies. Dry eyes. Dry pants! We found joy in ease. Catching frogs in the pond at the end of summer. Splashing in a pristine ocean on an unseasonably warm October day. Chasing each other through fields of gold, the autumn sun always the alchemist. But as the days and weeks went by, temperatures dropped. and dropped. The sky couldn't seem to remember anything but grey. Winter came and stayed. Relentlessly. When there was fresh snow, we were glad. And when there wasn't (and there usually wasn't), we held on until snack. lunch. home. And by home I mean warm. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">But we—my fellow parent and co-teacher—had made a commitment: three mornings a week, 8:30 - 11:30. Rain or shine. And what choice did we have really? A global pandemic raged on, making the great outdoors our only viable option. We each had a preschooler of our own at home who desperately needed to be with other children—their well-being and development second only to our sanity. Even on the days that were hard, at least they were hard together. Even on the days we couldn't feel our fingers and toes, at least home felt like a gift instead of a prison.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">For the six preschoolers in our charge, however, things seemed to take the opposite trajectory. In those initial weeks, they were terrified of the woods. (The trees will fall on me! Its dark in there! What's that sound?! Don't leave me!) They didn't know what to DO with themselves. (What do we play with? Where are the toys?) They tired quickly, cried for their mommies, cried about who was 'first', tripped on every tree root we passed, face planted in mud puddles, and slipped on wet bridges and boulders. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">As time went on, they began to notice things they hadn't noticed before. The space between two rocks just big enough to squeeze into. The dead, low branches of a pine tree perfect for climbing. Sticks that made the perfect fishing poles. Whole worlds under a single rock. They became more curious. Where are the frogs now? Why did that baby seal die? Whose poop IS that? Can you hear plants growing? We noticed too. And wondered about what we noticed. One day at the river we found dozens of round, clear balls of jelly at the water's edge. They had been there before no doubt, but we hadn't noticed. Clear balls of jelly in water are hard to see. But now that we did see them we needed to know. Were they jellyfish? Did they used to have tentacles? Were they alive? Had they ever been alive? </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The more we learned, the more we fell in love with the natural world. The more we loved, the more we needed to know. This is how relationships work, yes? We find someone beautiful. We begin to love them. Loving them makes us curious. We pay closer attention. We ask questions. We hunger to know them more deeply. The more we know them, the more we love them. Knowing. Loving. Loving. Knowing. They feed each other. They cannot be separated. And they cannot be exhausted. There is always more to know. Always more to love. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Those mornings in the woods and at the shore with my daughter and her friends over the last year were an exercise in showing up. In being present. In bearing witness to the incredible beauty around us and in the small humans we had the honor of accompanying. No dishes to do. No phone to scroll. No schedules to shuffle. In a world fixated on doing, this was our opportunity to <i>be</i>. Our reward? Relationships. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">What happens when a child spends extended periods of unstructured time in nature? They become friends. Friends love each other. Friends treat each other with respect. Friends protect each other. If we want future generations to have a home on planet earth, we need the children of today to fall in love with her. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">And what happens when a child is frequently noticed for their kindness, patience, generosity, gentleness, compassion, responsibility as they are going about their everyday lives? They learn to see themselves and the people around them as they truly are: beautiful. And to treat them accordingly.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">One of my favorite picture books is <i>Last Stop on Market Street </i>by Matt de la Peña and Christian Robinson. CJ is on his way to volunteer at a soup kitchen with his nana. He doesn't want to be. He wants to be having fun. He wants to be with his friends. On the way, his nana keeps seeing things he doesn't see. Beautiful, normal, everyday things. And when they get off the bus in a graffiti-tagged neighborhood with crumbling sidewalks and boarded up stores, CJ asks Nana, 'How come its always so dirty over here?' Nana just points to the sky and smiles. 'Sometimes when you're surrounded by dirt, CJ, you're a better witness for what's beautiful.' And when CJ looks up, he sees too: a perfect rainbow arcing over the soup kitchen. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">And their friends waving to them in the window.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">He sees their friends. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I'm not sure he had realized before this moment that the eclectic group of regulars waiting in line for a warm meal <i>were </i>his friends. But he realizes it now.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>This</i> is what I want for my children. And yours. To recognize how unbelievably gorgeous every human being is. To love them. To be curious. To learn. To make mistakes. To love better. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">To be a friend. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">In a recent message from the Universal House of Justice, they said, "Ultimately, the power to transform the world is effected by love, love originating from the relationship with the divine, love ablaze among members of a community, love extended without restriction to every human being. You are channels for this divine love; let it flow through you to all who cross your path." </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">What is nature if not the embodiment of the Divine? The landscape in which we come to know the Unknowable. To connect with the Source of unconditional love so that we may become a channel for a world in desperate need. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">This September, our little forest preschool cooperative is expanding to five mornings a week. I feel so grateful for the opportunity to join hands with a small group of families as we strengthen our relationships to the land, the community, one another, and, ultimately, our True Friend. The One who loves us the way we are meant to love. The One who ties us all together. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SLv6k65fth4/YO8Rj9bFoZI/AAAAAAAAniA/E6seU0jjtqssca9RNovXh-6md0nWEUYnwCPcBGAsYHg/s2048/B700DCB2-14FB-4518-851C-24F782F9E59E.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SLv6k65fth4/YO8Rj9bFoZI/AAAAAAAAniA/E6seU0jjtqssca9RNovXh-6md0nWEUYnwCPcBGAsYHg/w480-h640/B700DCB2-14FB-4518-851C-24F782F9E59E.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-V9-qOnPzDKw/YO8YRou6k2I/AAAAAAAAnis/TWCNE4pnpDI3Xxkj1E1uRnc3Y5QXdpAlgCPcBGAsYHg/s2048/D32C2A8F-8AC5-41D1-84E5-779A6E25F1E3.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-V9-qOnPzDKw/YO8YRou6k2I/AAAAAAAAnis/TWCNE4pnpDI3Xxkj1E1uRnc3Y5QXdpAlgCPcBGAsYHg/w480-h640/D32C2A8F-8AC5-41D1-84E5-779A6E25F1E3.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m3c_1V7tD7w/YO8ij9HCYII/AAAAAAAAnlk/5FF5_DhLZ0UyqQIdJfU04bQTAfoxZ0MDwCPcBGAsYHg/s4032/IMG_8784.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m3c_1V7tD7w/YO8ij9HCYII/AAAAAAAAnlk/5FF5_DhLZ0UyqQIdJfU04bQTAfoxZ0MDwCPcBGAsYHg/w480-h640/IMG_8784.HEIC" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap;">"What she taught me was to feel that you're part of this place. Not a visitor. That's a huge difference. "</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap;">-Craig Foster in <i>My Octopus Teacher</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face="system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face="system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p></div>Laurel Saberahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07301512082848450500noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7275136078141129455.post-90887294413549017952020-04-19T04:25:00.000-07:002020-04-19T04:25:22.623-07:00Charlotte<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3FkPahMTOVI/Xpw04m393FI/AAAAAAAAX1Y/0IVmFWfduo87wEdq4oi2NsEbmmtJ_4O5ACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/The%2BNgarukiyes.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3FkPahMTOVI/Xpw04m393FI/AAAAAAAAX1Y/0IVmFWfduo87wEdq4oi2NsEbmmtJ_4O5ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/The%2BNgarukiyes.jpg" width="320" height="320" data-original-width="891" data-original-height="891" /></a><br />
<br />
The thing about living in the Holy Land is that your home—your actual, physical home—is His home. <br />
<br />
The last time Sisay and I visited the Shrine of Bahá’u’lláh before our departure, I was newly pregnant with Samaya. She was too small to be seen on the outside and too small to be felt on the inside: that period of pregnancy characterized by nausea and faith. It was twilight when we arrived. The path leading to the Shrine is lined with pebbles—white and smooth and flat—collected from the shores of the Sea of Galilee. When you step on them, they sing. The path is perfectly straight, the edges lined with what can only be described as an impeccably manicured jungle. <br />
<br />
Every other time that I had come, I had gone straight inside the Shrine to pray, but that time I kept walking. Down a side path, to the outermost perimeter, behind the Shrine where the carefully tended gardens faded back into the arid scrubland of northern Israel. I needed to be alone. I needed to etch every detail into my heart so that I could tell her later. What home is like. In the months after we left and while she grew, I would close my eyes each night and imagine myself back in His rooms. His gardens. Trying to recall the smell of orange blossoms and rose petals and jasmine. The way the single lamp in the room where He died acknowledged the darkness but cast its light anyway. The sound of crushed tile, smooth pebbles, cold, damp marble underneath gold leaf. <br />
<br />
The memories faded anyway.<br />
<br />
And then Charlotte came into my life. Over the last five years, she has grown two perfect daughters, one perfect son, and dozens of tumors. They riddled her lungs, her liver, her colon. But they could not touch her heart. It is already occupied. I had the privilege of living in the Holy Land for two years, but Charlotte’s heart is a holy land. Perpetually occupied by her Beloved. Thy heart is My home,” Bahá’u’lláh says. “Sanctify it for my descent.” Today, she returned to Him.<br />
<br />
To her children and husband, her mother and father, her sisters and brothers and everyone privileged to have known her: she is where she has always been: with her Beloved. You can find her there. In prayer. In service. Nothing would make her happier. <br />
<br />
<br />
Laurel Saberahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07301512082848450500noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7275136078141129455.post-17978385014654836432020-03-27T13:45:00.002-07:002020-04-19T04:30:21.318-07:00(Home)schooling<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Fgdgcs9bZOc/Xpw2Kik2S0I/AAAAAAAAX1k/5Uh4xzVwxz4TT-t8Zf3o306Y-JwFBO_qQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Homeschooling.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Fgdgcs9bZOc/Xpw2Kik2S0I/AAAAAAAAX1k/5Uh4xzVwxz4TT-t8Zf3o306Y-JwFBO_qQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Homeschooling.jpg" width="257" height="320" data-original-width="770" data-original-height="960" /></a><br />
<br />
A tiny virus with a crown returned my children to me. They used to spend eight hours a day, five days a week, in the care of wonderful, sacrificing, dedicated, creative teachers who themselves spent the day away from their own parents, children, husbands, wives, pets. And then, just like that, a tiny virus (with a crown) sent everyone home. The bus that dropped off my children from school one Friday afternoon didn’t return to collect them on Monday. But on Tuesday it came. A ghost bus--sans children--stopped at our driveway, handed over the education of my children to me in a blue bag, and drove away. Empty. <br />
<br />
But my heart is full. Because now our days are spent...together. Days such as these used to be precious and rare and maddening, like the days immediately after a child is welcomed into the family. When you suddenly realize that the organism which is your family is in the process of completely reorganizing itself. <br />
And you hardly recognize it anymore. <br />
<br />
I feel like my family is being reorganized. There is a clear sense that what is forming will be beautiful, but right now...at times...it is ugly. Mid-metamorphosis is like that. Old patterns that no longer serve us must be continuously dismantled and reconfigured in increasingly more beautiful patterns. It is the only way to get from caterpillar to butterfly. <br />
<br />
It seems that the entire world has been given the opportunity to re-examine and reconfigure the way we function as families and communities. And already some beautiful patterns have emerged: Italians singing to each other from balconies, artists and teachers and companies offering their services for free, Americans sharing their toilet paper. <br />
<br />
And parents everywhere educating their children from home. I have spent a lot of time lately, blue bag in hand, trying to wrap my mind around what education looks like for my family. This quote sums up my thoughts perfectly:<br />
<br />
“Consider how through education children gradually learn to look beyond their own interests to those of their family. With yet further training, they recognize the importance of respecting the interests of others and see as a sacred obligation service to their neighbours. At a higher level still, proper education can help children to broaden their horizons and set their sights on the advancement and glory of their nation. And when their breadth of vision expands even wider, they will undoubtedly come to see the progress of the entire human race and the furtherance of the true interests of all the peoples of the world as a guiding purpose of their lives.”<br />
<br />
‘Look.’ ‘Recognize.’ ‘Sights.’ ‘Vision.’ Education is the process of gradually expanding what we SEE. With our eyes, with our minds, and with our souls. Until it becomes clear: there is only one reality. There are infinite mirrors, but there is only one light. <br />
<br />
My son’s favorite part of the week is Sunday morning. It’s the day he goes to children’s class. Every week they explore a different virtue: love, patience, kindness, joy, generosity, forgiveness, compassion. They’re learning to notice the way light reflects off the human soul. And to name it. Which is no easy task, actually, because love has as many manifestations as there are mirrors. And some manifestations are more obvious than others. I know for a fact that hugs and tantrums can both be love. <br />
<br />
My one desire for my children is that they contribute, in their own unique way, to making the world a better place. A more unified place. Baha’u’llah says that this process starts with recognizing beauty:<br />
<br />
“Each sees in the other the Beauty of God reflected in the soul, and finding this point of similarity, they are attracted to one another in love. This love will make all men the waves of one sea, this love will make them all the stars of one heaven and the fruits of one tree. This love will bring the realization of true accord, the foundation of real unity.” <br />
<br />
I am always asking myself how I can teach my children to be more kind, generous, forgiving. But I think the answer is, I don’t. I just get better at noticing when they ARE kind and generous and forgiving. I get better at recognizing beauty. The psychologist Rhett Diessner said recently that beauty is what lifts us out of our thoughts and into our behavior. When we find something beautiful, we love it. When we love something, we want to express it. Through action. And when our actions are motivated by love, they change the world. <br />
<br />
This feels like how I want to (home)school: notice beauty. love beauty. And look always to the Source of Beauty itself. <br />
<br />
<br />
Laurel Saberahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07301512082848450500noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7275136078141129455.post-37089382397762262732018-04-11T17:21:00.009-07:002018-08-14T07:39:57.709-07:00Lessons From a First Grader<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<img alt="" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-9mmcbfh0P5s/Ws6meJANopI/AAAAAAAAI1Y/cJLTHg9EW5gephaAAaqDY35Xm-m9bofMwCHMYCw/%255BUNSET%255D" /><br />
<br />
This girl. She is my biggest teacher. Last night after dinner she asked if she could finish the movie she started at Grandma and Grandpa's the day before. She knows the rule. No T.V. on school nights. She also knows I have been known to break that rule when provided with the right amounts of crying baby, messy house, and late dinner. Daddy and Gloria were visiting the grandparents, I had spent the day cleaning a house that had been turned upside down and given a vigorous shake, and we had already eaten. She didn't have a chance. She tried begging and pleading for a minute, realized she was losing the battle, and launched into a full-fledged tantrum. She's a professional: slamming of doors, flinging of body on bed, colorful language of the 'I hate you, I hate my life' variety spoken...rather loudly.<br />
But thanks to <a href="http://www.janetlansbury.com/" target="_blank">Janet Lansbury</a> and <a href="http://thesaberas.blogspot.com/2018/04/american-parenting.html" target="_blank">the rabbit</a> and <a href="https://positiveparenting.com/" target="_blank">Positive Parenting</a>, I felt a level of clarity and calm I rarely feel in moments like this. I went to her on the bed and stroked her hair. I spent the time waiting for her to calm down actively thinking about how she must be feeling--denied the thing that gives her more satisfaction than almost anything else. For a minute she screamed louder, but when she realized I wasn't going to lecture her or convince her out of her feelings or show any sort of disappointment at all, a switch was flipped. She climbed into my lap and let me hold her for a while. I said maybe one sentence. Something about understanding how disappointed she was feeling. And in return I got a happy, calm, grounded child who proceeded to get ready for bed without further ado.<br />
Five minutes later, Isaiah lost every single one of his marbles when it was time to brush his teeth because he wanted to continue playing a game he had started with his sister. I stayed with him in the bathroom while he got out all of his big, overtired feelings (he did not want to be touched.) I reminded him that it was time to get ready for bed every time he tried to open the door. I spoke his feelings back to him so he would know just how heard he was.<br />
He giggled while we brushed his teeth.<br />
Violet watched. When I came out of the bathroom, she wrapped her arms around me. 'You have to take care of everyone, don't you Mommy? You're the best mom in the whole world.'<br />
<br />
I can tell you that I have never felt more seen.<br />
<br />
I'm not sharing this story to brag about my mothering skills. This moment sticks out--and sticks out to <i>her--</i>because it is not my default way of parenting. Quite the opposite, unfortunately. But children are infinitely forgiving and always perfectly present. At THAT moment, I was the compassionate mother I should always be.<br />
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The Lesson? Aside from ‘If you want your child to be compassionate, <i>you </i>have to be compassionate’: </div>
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<br /></div>
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Life is not perfect, but it is full of perfect moments. I am not perfect, but I <i>am </i>evolving perfection. </div>
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<br /></div>
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So are you. </div>
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Laurel Saberahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07301512082848450500noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7275136078141129455.post-49551599528426527182018-04-08T19:35:00.003-07:002018-04-11T17:32:58.788-07:00American Parenting<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Okay I think I've got it. Actually, this is only just now congealing in my brain so I'm pretty sure I don't got it. But here are my preliminary thoughts presented as fact just the same:<br />
<br />
American parents spend the majority of their time trying to keep their children from having big feelings. Examples:<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>Baby is born. Loving, doting parents do everything in their power to keep child from crying. At the first sign of a whimper, baby is picked up and enthusiastically engaged. Bottle/breast is usually offered, especially if it is at night. Because it's night and nighttime is for <strike>eating</strike> being quiet and going back to sleep as quickly as possible without disturbing anyone. </li>
<li>Toddler wants a treat at the grocery store. Parent says no. Toddler has feelings that come with noises. Parent gives toddler what he wants so as not to make a scene. And makes a note to self to never enter a grocery store without an endless supply of snacks.</li>
<li>Toddler doesn't eat the healthy dinner that is given to her. Two days in a row. Parent panics because child is clearly malnourished and offers every food available in the house. Success! Toddler eats bread and strawberry yogurt! The third night, toddler is presented with dinner. She immediately throws a fit and then throws her peas. Parent whips out that bread and yogurt in two seconds flat. Baby smiles. </li>
<li>Toddler doesn't want to get dressed in the morning because he's too busy playing and eating cheerios. Parent talks up the over-the-top fun to be had outside/in the car/ at playgroup/ running errands. It's a no go. Parent waits. Parent attempts to pick up toddler and carry him to the bedroom. Toddler kicks and squirms. Parent waits. Parent attempts to stealthily change toddler mid-play. Toddler runs away. Parent waits. Parent bribes toddler with cheerios. Toddler doesn't like cheerios anymore. Parent rallies and tries to wrestle toddler's pajama shirt off. Toddler kicks and screams and cries with real, actual wet tears. Parent gives up. Toddler stays, mostly, in jammies for the rest of the day (except for one arm.)</li>
<li>Toddler is using mom as an all-night milk buffet. Mom is increasingly exhausted. Even her vision is blurry. She thinks she's depressed and is considering medication. She's considered night-weaning a hundred thousand times and even tried a handful of times, but oh how that toddler cries. It feels wrong. It feels unresponsive. It feels heartless. It doesn't even feel possible. Mom gives up every time. </li>
<li>Four-year-old has a tantrum because his socks don't feel right. Parent tries fixing them once. They still don't feel right. Parent immediately gets angry and snaps at child. 'Socks are not anything to have a tantrum about! You're making us late for story time!' Child still feels that socks are worth crying about. Parent whisks child to the car barefoot and ignores him all the way to the library. Or continues to chastise him for crying about something so insignificant. </li>
<li>Five-year old falls down and skins his knee at a public playground. He cries loudly. Parent comforts him and shushes him and comforts him and shushes him and then points out that everyone is looking at him. 'You're okay. Crying doesn't make it feel better. You're hurting my ears. You're a tough guy!' Child stops crying and snuffles loudly instead. </li>
<li>Seven-year old middle child constantly wants alone time with parent. But she has three other siblings that make this challenging. Every time parent is engaged one-on-one with her and a sibling enters the space, she rather forcefully tells them to leave. Parent sternly tells child to be kind and that God did not make her an only child. He gave her three siblings, which is obviously even better. Child's feelings go unacknowledged and she if forced to either leave the game all together or play with everyone. </li>
<li>Eight-year old has hypochondriac tendencies. When her molars grow in, she's convinced chunks of her mouth are falling out. Parent chuckles and says there's nothing to worry about. It normal. When she is going through a particularly sensitive period in her life and has a string of emotional outbursts, parent tells her to go to bed earlier. Clearly she's overtired. Sometimes parent laughs incredulously: 'You're crying about <i>that</i>?!' </li>
<li>Ten-year old is waiting at the pool for his parent to finish teaching swim lessons. He said he didn't want to go in, but that was before the battery died on his tablet: </li>
</ul>
'Well, now I DO want to swim!'<br />
'It's too late now. My lesson is almost finished and we have to get home for dinner.' <br />
'NO. I'm going in.'<br />
'I asked you if you wanted to go in earlier. You said no. There isn't enough time now.'<br />
'I'm GOING.' And then he splashes her. With his toe. In her face. Repeatedly. While she's teaching another mother and her child how to swim. She says nothing and he walks away toward the changing room.<br />
'You have to get out when I say! If you don't there's going to be trouble!' she calls after him weakly, a halfhearted attempt to reclaim an ounce of dignity.<br />
<br />
A few of these incidents I observed just this week and I'm not gonna lie: I had some big feelings of my own. Some big judgy feelings. And then I looked at my own parenting. Hence a good portion of the examples above.<br />
<br />
I'm going to go out on a limb here and say big feelings make us nervous. At first this discomfort comes from wanting to be good parents. To meet all of our tiny, perfect baby's needs. To be responsive and respectful. We spend tremendous amounts of energy trying to predict upsets and avoid them.<br />
<br />
And then, a switch is flipped in the parent's brain somewhere between babyhood and childhood. The parent is still trying to control emotional outbursts, but now it is out of fear. The child is bigger, louder, far more complex, definitely more volatile. And the parent realizes, more and more every day, that they are less and less in control of this small dictator. Fear often slides into anger.<br />
<br />
Child care expert, Janet Lansbury, offers an alternative. Taken from the homepage of her website, she outlines her philosophy of parenting from day one:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.janetlansbury.com/" target="_blank"><i>When we perceive our infants as capable, intelligent, responsive
people ready to participate in life, initiate activity, receive and
return our efforts to communicate with them, then we find that they are
all of those things. I am not suggesting that we treat infants as small
adults. They need a baby’s life. But they deserve the same level of
human respect that we give to adults. If you asked (and they could
answer), here are some examples they might offer of baby care that
reflect that respect:</i></a><br />
<a href="http://www.janetlansbury.com/" target="_blank"><i>
</i></a>
<br />
<ul>
<li><a href="http://www.janetlansbury.com/" target="_blank"><i>Tell me what’s going on</i></a></li>
<li><a href="http://www.janetlansbury.com/" target="_blank"><i>Give me attention</i></a></li>
<li><a href="http://www.janetlansbury.com/" target="_blank"><i>Hear me, don’t just fix me</i></a></li>
<li><a href="http://www.janetlansbury.com/" target="_blank"><i>Let me create and initiate my own activities</i></a></li>
<li><a href="http://www.janetlansbury.com/" target="_blank"><i>Trust me with the truth</i></a><i> </i></li>
</ul>
This, to me, is what actual respect looks like. As Lansbury says in another article, 'It takes a brave and enlightened parent to remain calm, listen to their baby's cries and offer an attuned, accurate response.' If they are hungry or tired or hurt, of course we respond appropriately. But if they are encountering a difficult life moment, let us trust them to be able to navigate their own feelings while bearing witness them. What an empowering message that sends: <i> </i><br />
<br />
<b>You are capable of hard things</b>. <b>I see you.</b><br />
<br />
I am in the process of night weaning my one-year old. I've been in this process for months now. But two nights ago it occurred to me that I was missing that second piece. I believed she could do it. But I was not compassionately bearing witness to her experience. The moment I realized that, I stopped feeling frustrated by her lengthy crying and instead felt compassion for this really hard thing she was having to do. I didn't fix anything. I didn't even do anything different, but she knew I knew. I know she did. And it mattered to her. Last night she slept through the night without making a peep.<br />
<br />
I discovered a book at the library a couple weeks ago called <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Rabbit-Listened-Cori-Doerrfeld/dp/073522935X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1523240206&sr=8-1&keywords=the+rabbit+listened" target="_blank"><i>The Rabbit Listened </i></a>by Cori Doerrfeld. A terrible thing happens to Taylor and a succession of animals tell him how he should process his loss. Taylor rejects them all. (S)he doesn't want to be fixed. Finally a rabbit comes and quietly sits next to Taylor, just listening. The rabbit creates the space Taylor needs to process his/her own feelings and come to a state of peace again. It is a book I haven't stopped thinking about. <i>What would the rabbit do? </i>I ask myself when someone scrapes a knee. <i>What would the rabbit do? </i>I ask when two siblings are squabbling. <i>What would the rabbit do? </i>I ask instead of telling my children their own feelings aren't valid.<br />
<br />
As a wise friend once said, 'Children don't need to be fixed. They need to be heard.'<br />
<br />
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<i> </i><br />
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Laurel Saberahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07301512082848450500noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7275136078141129455.post-70419353150940773532018-02-16T10:54:00.003-08:002018-02-16T10:54:42.572-08:00Guns<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I barely follow the news. I have a handful of bad excuses, but no good ones. Some things don't require you to follow the news, though. They infiltrate social media spaces, radio news headlines, and conversations with real humans in real life (remember when 'real life' didn't need to be categorized?) I haven't even read or heard any details about the last school shooting, but eventually, when something is ubiquitous enough, horrendous enough, and having to do with children--which I happen to have a number of--a shift from 'them' to 'us' takes place. Even for the deeply asleep, deeply privileged. Even for me.<br />
<br />
I'm just going to say it. Even though the shame of it is almost too heavy to crawl out from under.<br />
<br />
Today is the first day I actually feared for my children's safety. Today is the first day I can't wait to pick them up from school and get them home safe and sound.<br />
<br />
I know. My feelings are a watered down version of what every black and brown and Native parent in this country has felt for the last 500 years. What every Syrian and Iraqi and Afghani and...and...and parent feels every day.<br />
<br />
My feelings are not new. They are the opposite of new. They are just new to me. I haven't had to feel them until today.<br />
<br />
This is what privilege looks like.<br />
<br />
The good news is that the group of people who are 'privileged' is shrinking. The bad news is that the group of people who are 'privileged' is shrinking. <br />
<br />
These tragedies will end. But will it be before or after our own children are murdered?<br />
<br />
What if we saw all children as our children now. today? I don't pretend to know what policy changes need to occur, but I'm pretty convinced they will all start with heart changes. </div>
Laurel Saberahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07301512082848450500noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7275136078141129455.post-30061454970988382792018-02-16T10:07:00.008-08:002018-04-06T11:57:03.550-07:00How to Be a Queen<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
(Disclaimer: This post will make very little sense to you if you are unfortunate enough to not be acquainted with Ian Falconer's <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f0tY9G-Nh-U" target="_blank"><i>Olivia</i></a>.) <br />
<br />
Olivia and I go way back.<br />
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<a href="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/5/5e/Olivia_(fictional_pig).png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="293" data-original-width="194" src="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/5/5e/Olivia_(fictional_pig).png" /> </a></div>
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Actually, she hasn't a clue who I am, but I have loved her with all my heart ever since she moved the cat. (For those of you who are wondering, why yes I did name my second daughter after a cartoon pig.) (And yes, they are shockingly similar in personality.) I first discovered her as a teenager while reading to two of my favorite small humans (who are not small anymore, but rather breathtaking young women.) Olivia gave us many perfect, joyful moments together and in return I gave her a spot in my heart. </div>
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Skipping forward a few years, my college roommate gave me a stuffed Olivia for my birthday one year and logically she accompanied me to Haifa, Israel after graduation to work at the Baha'i World Centre. Where I met my future husband. Before Sisay and I got married, I was very forthcoming with him: there was no me without her. He accepted, though in retrospect he had no idea what he was getting into. </div>
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Not very far into the deal it turned out sharing his wife with a stuffed animal wasn't actually working for him. It wasn’t his fault. How could he--how could anyone--have predicted such a thing? It just doesn't often come up in life. Who knew it was even possible for a grown man to be jealous of a stuffed animal? </div>
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One afternoon, when Olivia and I were having too good of a time together, Sisay lost it. ‘Her or me!’ he declared. ‘Either she goes or I go!’</div>
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I wasted no time. I took Olivia in one hand and repeatedly slammed her body in a cabinet door. </div>
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At which point his true feelings, previously masked, bubbled to the surface. ‘I didn’t mean like that!’ he said as he grabbed her from my hands and cradled her. </div>
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But it was too late. I had killed her. </div>
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This is a true story. </div>
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Like actually. Except for a slight distortion of the emotions at play. (He wasn’t jealous. I don’t think.) But there <i>was</i> something disconcerting about his wife playing so exuberantly with a toy. And it did make him uncomfortable. Naturally. I’m uncomfortable right now telling you about my love affair with a 3" plush pig. </div>
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But the thing is. I miss her. I really really miss her. And by her I mean me. I still have the doll. She’s seen better days, yes. A winter spent buried under snow and moldy leaves in our garden one year has left permanent mildew stains all over her body. But the day I slammed Olivia in the cabinet was the day I killed my inner child. And I want her back. I want to play the way my kids play. I want to laugh more and run more and play more hide and seek. I want to wake up in the morning and be excited because, hey, it’s a day! But mostly I want to slip into those crazy giddy moods I used to have where my voice would suddenly sound like a three-year-old and <i>everything</i> was hysterical. (These were the moods that freaked my spouse out.) (Exacerbated by the fact that a family member has bipolar.) (These were also the moods in which I felt completely uninhibited and utterly hilarious.) </div>
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I want to feel <i>that </i>kind of joy again. </div>
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And here is where Olivia reenters my life in a big way. Remember when I came to the realization that <a href="http://thesaberas.blogspot.com/2017/12/i-think-im-princess.html" target="_blank">I thought I was a princess</a>? And then to the realization that I had to stop waiting for a prince to come rescue me? It's very important to know who you don't want to be. But it's also pretty important to know who you <i>do</i> want to be. In <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Olivia-Fairy-Princesses-Ian-Falconer/dp/1442450274/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=" target="_blank">Olivia and the Fairy Princesses</a>,</i> Olivia<i> </i>is going through an identity crisis. She can't figure out who she wants to be until she suddenly has an epiphany while lying in bed one night:</div>
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'I know...I want to be queen.'</div>
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I think she's on to something. Queens are in the business of sovereignty. Plus they're girls. So basically they're all powerful bosses who have the capacity to create life. That's exactly what I need to do. I'm going to become queen, take the reigns of my own life, reincarnate my inner child, and reclaim my joy. </div>
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My real children deserve that. </div>
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Laurel Saberahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07301512082848450500noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7275136078141129455.post-32885827223719875712017-12-04T08:03:00.003-08:002017-12-04T08:03:26.319-08:00I Think I'm a Princess<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I think I'm a princess. <br />
<br />
I read my children books about Malala and Rosa Parks and Ada Twist and
Elizabeth Blackwell. We watched Katherine Johnson get men to the moon,
in spite of the men on the ground. They still haven't seen Cinderella.<br />
<br />
We conduct science experiments and do math problems for fun because science and math are awesome. Especially when you're a girl. And you need them when you want to change the world.<br />
<br />
I try not to do for my children what they are capable of doing for themselves. <br />
<br />
I wear jeans everyday until pajama time because I can do ALL THE THINGS in jeans all while feeling comfortable in my skin. Sometimes I wear pajamas until pajama time. I have never worn heels in my entire life and cannot for the life of me understand why that could be considered a good idea. When I wear tinted chap stick, the kids ask why I'm so dressed up.<br />
<br />
I firmly believe that women and men are equally capable of working inside and outside the home in a fluid and fluctuating interchange. At the moment I work at home to raise my children because I want to and because I'm the one whose body makes milk and because we're okay with barely scraping by and because our life circumstances allow for it. Also, it's the most challenging, hardest job I can imagine and I believe I can do hard things. I believe my happiness depends on doing hard things.<br />
<br />
When my husband cleans the kitchen at the end of the day and tells me that he 'did the dishes for me,' I remind him that he did them for our family. And that we both work 24 hours a day, but he splits his time between two jobs and I stick with just the one.<br />
The never-ending, endlessly rewarding, endlessly exhausting one.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I thank him when I am genuinely grateful for all that he does, and often I don't because when he does the laundry or cleans the bathrooms or braids the girls' hair, he isn't doing me a favor. He's just doing his job. OUR job.<br />
<br />
And when he<i> doesn't</i> do those dishes, I fight hard against the tendency towards resentment, knowing that if he could, he would. (I only know this because he has told me repeatedly for ten years and I am <i>just </i>starting to believe him.)(Damn 'feminist' mindset making me see injustice even where there is none.)<br />
<br />
Also, if its okay for him to say, 'I just can't tonight,' it's okay for me to say that too. And that, my fellow ladies, is probably the most liberating thing you can do for yourself. Stop. doing. more. than. you. can. Resentment doesn't come when your partner isn't pulling their weight. Resentment comes when you take it upon yourself to pull more than you are capable of pulling, and then blame your partner.<br />
<br />
When Oprah asked Elizabeth Gilbert what her secret to happiness was last week in an interview, her answer was: 'No happiness without self accountability.' <br />
<br />
"Who are you going to blame your life on today?" she asked. "There is only weakness to be had in
waiting for somebody to change it for you... It is the weakest position you can stand in. I'm in charge of
this person. Whatever happens out there is none of my business. I'm in
charge of this soul that was given to me to take care of. And I accept
100% accountability for this soul."<br />
<br />
This. This is why I surround my children--and especially my girls--with examples of humans--and especially women--who took the souls they were given and honored the purpose for which they were created.<br />
<br />
And yet their mother--their first and arguably most important example--thinks she's a princess.<br />
<br />
I didn't know I thought this until I found myself standing at the kitchen sink the other night, washing dishes, suddenly awash in sadness. It's nothing new. Just the soul saying you could have done better today with what you were given. A healthy signal necessary to correct tomorrow's trajectory. That sadness used to morph into anger. Because blaming my husband for not doing x, y, or z was easier than owning my own feelings and acting on them. I still blame him sometimes, but I like to think I'm inching toward that 100% accountability.<br />
<br />
This night though, there was no anger. The sadness stayed sad. I noticed myself listening very closely for the sounds of my husband's footsteps coming down the hall. Waiting for him to notice my sadness. Waiting for him to rescue me. <br />
<br />
I'm Rapunzel, clinging fiercely to my own burdensome braid, waiting and hoping my prince will magically appear at the window
to rescue me from my sadness, depression, anger, fear, dissatisfaction, discontent.<br />
<br />
I'm letting go now. I'm cutting that braid loose. I'm tired of waiting. I'm finding my own damn way out of this tower.<br />
<br />
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</div>
Laurel Saberahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07301512082848450500noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7275136078141129455.post-31562637419065041662017-04-13T09:23:00.001-07:002017-11-12T19:40:06.421-08:00The Darkness of the Womb<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It has been three months since Gloria's birth. Three months since she emerged from the darkness of the womb. I wonder what she was thinking during that long night. Her last night in the only world she knew. As the walls of her home closed in on her, literally forcing her out, was she conscious of hope? Or at least wonder? Or was it only fear?<br />
In the early stages of labor it was me who was consumed with fear, blood pressure through the roof, heartbeat racing. But her heart, perfect and steady, calmed me. My husband calmed me. Later, fear having left me, could she feel the fierceness of my love, my unshakeable trust in her and me and Him? I hope so. When she emerged, head swiveling in all directions, certainly then she felt wonder. Followed by the fear of finding yourself in a foreign country and recognizing absolutely nothing. Her cries felt panicked and incessant. But her cries also felt victorious. It meant that what we had just done was scary as hell, but<i> </i>we had done it anyway. We learned that we can do scary things. We can do hard things. Together. <br />
<br />
And isn't that what life should be about? This exchange of hope. The constant dance of reassuring whichever one is in need of reassurance in order to keep going. We seem to find ourselves at a major crossroads at this particular point in history. The place where all 7.5 billion of the world's people suddenly find themselves merging onto the same road, faced with the impossible task of crossing one bridge. Together. It feels dangerous. It feels highly unlikely. It feels terribly uncomfortable to be shoved up against so many who are so different from ourselves. But the momentum of an entire planet's worth of people makes us powerless to stop this process. <br />
<br />
The Sikh Activist and lawyer, Valarie Kaur said in her <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LCenwgheIBs" target="_blank">recent speech</a>: <br />
<br />
<blockquote>
“And so the mother in me asks, what if? What if this
darkness is not the darkness of the tomb, but the darkness of the womb?
What if our America is not dead, but a country that is waiting to be
born? What if the story of America is one long labor? What if all of our
grandfathers and grandmothers are standing behind us now—those who su<span class="text_exposed_show">rvived
occupation and genocide, slavery and Jim Crow, detentions and political
assault—what if they are whispering in our ear today, tonight “you are
brave”? What if this is our nation’s great transition?</span></blockquote>
<blockquote>
“What does the midwife tell us to do? Breathe. And then?
push. Because if we don’t push we will die. If we don’t push, our nation
will die. Tonight we will breathe. Tomorrow we will labor in love.
Through love. And your revolutionary love is the magic we will show our
children.”</blockquote>
So let's push across this bridge together, holding the hands of whoever happens to be nearest. Let us hope that bridge will hold us, since there is no other way across. Let us reassure each other along the way. Comfort one another. Love each other across. Because on the other side, we will see that there are no more lines in the sand. We will have arrived in the land of oneness. It still won't be easy. Neither is getting along with your family. But they are family. <i>We </i>are family. And in a family, there is no more 'us' and 'them.' There is only 'we.'<br />
<br />
Baha'u'llah said:<br />
<br />
<i><b>The essence of all that We have revealed for thee is
Justice, is for man to free himself from idle fancy and
imitation, discern with the eye of oneness His glorious
handiwork, and look into all things with a searching eye.
</b></i><i><b></b></i><br />
<i><b><br /></b></i>
I think, if we look with the 'eye of oneness,' we will see that we are all 'His glorious handiwork.' We are all family. In the truest possible sense.<br />
<br />
Justice will follow.</div>
Laurel Saberahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07301512082848450500noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7275136078141129455.post-71830267486094949672017-01-14T19:59:00.002-08:002017-01-14T19:59:48.633-08:00Welcoming Gloria<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Gloria Leigh Sabera entered the world on January 9th, 2017 at 9:09
AM. It was 9 degrees outside. So our midwife, Robin, said when she
arrived an hour earlier. I was aware only of bright sun on white snow.
Of candles flickering in a row, given to us hours earlier at our
blessing. Of kind hands and gentle, encouraging voices. Of quiet
laughter and loud wails. The occasional thunk of wood falling in the
wood stove. The sweet relief of hot water being poured by the potful
into the birth tub. Of bones descending and a head full of hair making
its way into the world. <br />
<br />
On Sunday, 12 days before
her due date, after returning from children's class, my water started
leaking a bit. I've never been this early before, nor had this happen,
so I was wholly unconvinced that this was the beginning of labor. I
fixed lunch, tidied the house (just in case), laid down for 20 minutes
to put Isaiah to sleep, and went downstairs for the blessing my mom was
hosting. In lieu of a gift, I had requested a reading to add to our
blessing book, a candle to light at the birth, and a bead to contribute
to the baby's first prayer beads. It was a sweet and beautiful
afternoon- a reminder that we do not raise (or even birth) our children
by ourselves, nor do they belong to us alone.<br />
<br />
A reminder I
desperately needed--I have had a lot of anxiety during this pregnancy
fueled by a hyperthyroid diagnosis at week 30 with potentially dire but
unlikely consequences. Still, once fear is introduced, it is hard to
eradicate. And because such a condition technically disqualified me from
a home birth (though not literally since my midwives placed their whole
trust in me), it did require a heightened level of monitoring and
vigilance. And so, leading up to this birth, I have been humbled again
and again, constantly reminded of the delicate balance between placing
my whole trust in God and trusting wholly in my own ability to grow and
deliver human life into the world. It is a strange place to live-
between powerlessness and absolute power. But isn't that life? Realizing
over and over that we are standing, yes, but standing because of and in
the shadow of something greater than ourselves.<br />
<br />
I was
in a good place. I could do this. The baby could do this. And the
roomful of women--mothers and mothered--were a reminder that <i>alone</i> is just an illusion.<br />
<br />
But
then I came upstairs. I was having more signs. Labor was looking more
and more like a possibility. I grasped desperately for that confidence
from earlier, but found fear instead, flapping its wings in the shadows.
So I did the only logical thing: swept and mopped the floors. Lined up
the candles on the window sill. Made space for the birth tub. Channeled
the adrenaline. It took Sisay a while to take me seriously, but before
going to bed he pulled the birth tub in from the porch and cleaned it
out. (We had just picked it up two days prior, and almost hadn't at
all.) I gave our midwife, Lindsay, a heads up, told her I wasn't sure
yet where this was headed, and tried to get some rest. Unsuccessfully.
My anxiety was mounting. My heart was racing. There wasn't enough oxygen
in the air. There were lots of feelings and none of them were, 'You got
this.' I asked Lindsay to come. Even if this wasn't it, I needed her.
She arrived around 3 AM. We chatted, she took my blood pressure. It was
so high she wouldn't even tell me what it was. I drank some chamomile
tea, tried to lay down again. Finally I crawled into Sisay's arms and
asked him to hold my heart 'so it wouldn't come out of my chest.' He
did. For two hours. 'Safe' started to seep in at the edges. I dozed in
and out of sleep.<br />
<br />
And then it was 6 AM. Like clockwork,
all three children woke up. Sisay got up to deliver them to the
grandparents downstairs. And suddenly a weight lifted off of me. I
hadn't realized that having them in my birth space had impacted me so
strongly. Immediately, a strong contraction pulsed through my body. I
smiled. I almost laughed. Finally, labor was a reality. With each
contraction, a wave of confidence rushed in, taking with it wave after
wave of anxiety. As soon as Sisay came back in, I asked him to fill the
birth tub.<br />
<br />
'So this is it?' he asked. 'Yes,' I smiled. 'This is definitely it."<br />
<br />
There
wasn't space anymore for worry. My body took over and I gladly
surrendered. I spent time on hands and knees on the bed, hung out in the
living room while Lindsay put her magic hands on exactly the right
spots.<br />
<br />
At 8 AM the tub was ready and I eagerly slid in.
Our second midwife, Robin, arrived. We had just met her at our last
appointment two days earlier, as she was just coming back from maternity
leave. But midwives--good midwives--possess a certain ability to be
both unobtrusive and fully present. She quietly and gracefully stepped
in as my subtle cheerleader.<br />
<br />
By now, bright sunlight
flooded the room. I was both acutely aware yet oddly removed from my
surroundings. With each contraction, I felt for my baby's head,
marveling at its journey through me. When my water broke, I felt my
bones reconfigure as she descended through my pelvis.<br />
<br />
"I'm
going to push her head out now," I announced. And with both tremendous
effort--and restraint--I did. As soon as her head was birthed, she
opened her eyes wide under water and swiveled her head all around to get
a good look. I could still feel her kicking inside. And then out came a
hand, waving at us. I held it until the next contraction. Lindsay
wiggled her arm out and the rest of her followed. We pulled her up onto
my chest together and suddenly I was staring into the face of our fourth
child. Our perfect, tiny daughter. Sisay had been recording the birth
in front of me and I quickly called him to the other side. "She's
sticking her tongue out!" I laughed. I cried. I sighed. I did it. She
did it. And we had not done it alone.<br />
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Laurel Saberahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07301512082848450500noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7275136078141129455.post-74712151629186764742015-06-30T18:30:00.000-07:002015-06-30T18:30:26.398-07:00Dear Samaya: 6<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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A little late... </div>
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Dear Samaya,
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You turned six this week. I love six. Six is so rational. So independent. So mature. So completely unaware of time. Your last day of kindergarten was yesterday. Which means that Grandpa spent most every morning for the last 10 months biting his nails while you moseyed, sauntered, lollygagged, c.r.a.w.l.e.d your way to his car at your one and only speed. On Friday last week, I found you in the bathroom thoroughly flossing your teeth ten minutes after you should had already been gone. You’ll be damned if anyone attempts to interfere with your priorities. </div>
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At school you are smart and social. You are most in your element surrounded by a gaggle of girls, effortlessly and invisibly directing the play. A boss without the bossy. (I hope!) Back at home, you often go straight to your room for some top secret six-year-old stuff. You’ve started to read, but haven’t found your confidence yet. Your inventive spelling is killer. You love math. You like gym, art, and library and dislike music. You recently founded ’The Cuckoo Club,’ whose mission it is to make people laugh. I get daily updates on the current membership. One friend in particular can’t decide whether she’s in or out. You adore this girl, so her enrollment status is of particular interest to you. </div>
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At home, Auntie Aynit and Mena have been staying with us. Mena has been carrying around the doll you just got for your birthday for the last three days and you just take it in stride. You were born mature.</div>
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On Fridays when we have our toddler playgroup, the mothers hang out on the deck in confidence, knowing you are lovingly and diligently shepherding the littles somewhere just out of sight. Isaiah is forever screaming at you for this very same shepherding.</div>
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Most nights, after Violet has fallen asleep, I pull you out of bed to read chapter books together. Currently, we’re reading <i>ˆThe Penderwicks</i>. It is one of my most favorite moments of the day. Yours too, I think.</div>
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The day before your birthday, we had gone to a pow wow and you had begged and cried for a Native American shawl to no avail. So you made your own costume, dubbed yourself Singing Bird, and wore it to school. You gave out honey sticks to your classmates, then Daddy, Violet, you and I went out to lunch to your favorite restaurant, Loco Cocos. For a usually picky eater, you polish off a plate of nachos like nobody’s business.</div>
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Yesterday we had your friend birthday party--the first time you insisted on inviting all the girls in your class. It was lovely and sweet- four girls from your class swinging on the rope swing, playing on the slip and slide, making rainbow fruit necklaces, eating rainbow cake and ice cream.</div>
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You fill your own hours, take your own showers, write your own stories. You are my collector of treasures, my aspiring vegetarian, my lover of water, my expert eavesdropper. Always the optimist ('this is the best day of my life!')</div>
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Sweet. Sensitive. Six.
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*"Wunts a pon a tim thar was a flawr shee was lonlee shee was the onlee flawr the nd.”
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Laurel Saberahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07301512082848450500noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7275136078141129455.post-38860652211974279942015-02-15T20:06:00.000-08:002015-02-15T20:06:02.532-08:00Dear Violet (4)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Dear Violet,<br />
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On Thursday you turned four years old. You have known for a while now that you will start Pre-K when you are four, so on that morning when Samaya went to get dressed for school, you promptly followed her. "Me too, right Mama? I have to get ready for school now, too. I'm four now."<br />
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And that is when you broke my heart a little bit. again. You do that rather frequently, and I think I finally realized why. I'm never prepared. I've known you your entire life. You lived inside of <i>my</i> life for nine months. But you, of all my children, are my greatest mystery. To the world, you are strong-willed and strong-mouthed and strong-armed. And even though this outer layer is paper thin, it is enough to fool even me. I know better, I do. I watch how when your little brother pulls your hair, you whip around in fury, arm cocked, and then melt into a puddle when you see him. Scratch at your surface, and a whole mess of raw, unfiltered love comes spilling out.*<br />
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The thing is, sometimes I forget to scratch. I see you hit your sister or wrench something out of your brother's hand and I see exactly and only this. On the days when I've had enough sleep though, remembered to say my prayers, and forgotten about the all-important to-do list, I might take a second look--and see something else. A stab at justice. An over-tired/ hungry child. A tiny person who is feeling disconnected from her loved ones.<br />
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These are the moments when I march you to your room and, instead of slamming the door, I follow you in, cover you in kisses and tickle you until you beg me to stop. That outer gritty layer? Dissolved beneath my very fingertips.<br />
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It's not that I am surprised by your goodness. Rather, I am repeatedly in awe of <i>how </i>good, how pure-hearted, how thoroughly honest you are. Just this week when I asked why you had hit your sister, you replied matter-of-factly, "I didn't hit her. I punched her. It's not the same thing."<br />
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You offer others your food even though you LOVE food. You take away Daddy's headaches with a gentle massage. You stop mid-tantrum to comfort someone else in distress. And you give killer hugs.<br />
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You carry that big heart always in front of you, looking for other hearts to love. Everything else is irrelevant. For weeks, I tried to coax you into telling me what you would like to do for your birthday. All I could get out of you was a trip to the Kittery Trading Post to see the taxidermy moose. (Unfairly, you are also the funniest person in the family. Samaya and I frequently wet our pants.) As your big day approached, you repeatedly exclaimed, "I'm so excited!" 'What part are you excited for?' I asked. "The birthday part," you answered with absolute incredulity. <br />
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Right. Of course. Life is about <i>living. loving. </i>Not about doing. And that is why you are my precious gift.<br />
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Happy birthday, Violet Olivia. <br />
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*How fitting that you were born just two days before Valentine's Day. </div>
Laurel Saberahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07301512082848450500noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7275136078141129455.post-28125572835310049722015-02-09T06:44:00.002-08:002015-02-09T07:23:45.917-08:00Class Valentines<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Samaya's kindergarten class is exchanging valentines on Friday and we
made shrinky dink heart key chains for her classmates. I only do things
that are crazy simple and this fit the bill. I cut out hearts on shrink
film (4 per page), then the girls decorated one side with sharpies and
wrote the names on the other side. We punched holes in each one, baked
them for a few minutes, and attached the key chain rings. Finally we tied
them to a simple heart valentine inscribed with Abdu'l-Baha's words on
love: ..."let your heart burn with loving kindness for all who may cross your path." </div>
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Laurel Saberahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07301512082848450500noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7275136078141129455.post-66811621470565245222015-02-08T20:43:00.000-08:002015-02-09T05:40:37.500-08:00Ayyam-i-Ha 2015!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The adoption of a new calendar in each dispensation is a symbol of the
power of Divine Revelation to reshape human perception of material,
social, and spiritual reality. Through it, sacred moments are
distinguished, humanity’s place in time and space reimagined, and the
rhythm of life recast. </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">So I'm pretty fascinated by how a manifestation can come and completely 'reimagine' our place in time and space. I'm not going to pretend to understand the implications of this, but I can at least rattle off a few facts about the Baha'i calendar...</span></span><br />
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<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">There are 19 months in a Baha'i year, each named for an attribute (virtue) of God.</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Each month has 19 days; hence the <a href="http://www.bahai.org/action/institutional-capacity/nineteen-day-feast" target="_blank">Nineteen Day Feast</a>, or just 'Feast,' occurring at this interval. </span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">To account for the solar year, the period of Ayyam-i-Ha occurs between the 18th and 19th months. Otherwise known as February 26 - March 1. </span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Quite literally, they are the days outside of time reserved for gift-giving, acts of charity, and celebration. </span></span></li>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">One of the loveliest things about Baha'i holy days and festivals is that there are no traditions. Each individual/ family gets to hand-tailor them for their own specific situation. There have been a few religions before this one, so in addition to creating new traditions we have lots of tried and true traditions to draw inspiration from*. Right now, Baha'is around the world are preparing to celebrate Ayyam-i-Ha, and though there are certainly common elements, the celebrations will be as varied as the celebrators. We have been using this 'advent' calendar to count down the 19 days before Ayyam-i-Ha. Each morning the girls run to the calendar to see what the Ayyam-i-Ha fairy has left them. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">And while treats are lovely and certainly serve to mark this time of year with sweetness and joy, I am even more interested in using this time to cultivate habits of the spirit in my still-small, still-impressionable children. I want them to wake up each morning and think, "How can I be of service today?" Because I know that if they can do this, they will have stumbled upon the secret to happiness. And if <i>everyone</i> can do this, we will have stumbled upon the secret to world peace. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Enter the kindness elves. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Originally inspired by <a href="http://theimaginationtree.com/2013/11/alternative-elf-on-shelf-tradition-kindness-elf-kindness-elves.html" target="_blank">this idea</a>, Matilda and Oscar arrive from Sweden each year to help us spread kindness for the 19 days (1 Baha'i month) before Ayyam-i-Ha. And during the actual days of celebration, they present the children with clues for finding their gifts hidden around the house. Everyone knows that the kindness elves aren't real. Everyone also knows that they are quite partial to chamomile tea before (our) bedtime. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Their suitcase got delivered to our door the night before our countdown began, and in the morning the girls opened it up to discover their old friends and a suitcase full of Ayyam-i-Ha decorations. This year's list for spreading kindness and joy:</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">1. Decorate the house</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">2. Make 9-pointed star decorations.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">3. Go Ayyam-i-Ha shopping for Daddy with Mommy.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">4. Go Ayyam-i-Ha shopping for Mommy with Daddy.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">5. Learn a new prayer</span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">6. Sing 'Happy Birthday' to a very special sister and shower her with love today!</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">7. Bake a cake for Violet's birthday party.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">8. Help clean the house and decorate for the party.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">9. Order seeds for your very own flower gardens in the spring.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">10. Take a walk in the woods and feel gratitude for all that God has given us.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">11. Make pinecone birdfeeders as gifts for our feathered friends.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">12. Make Ayyam-i-Ha gifts for our friends.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">13. Make gifts for Grandma and Grandpa.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">14. Have an Ayyam-i-Ha-themed story time.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">15. Listen to a story about Abdu'l-Baha giving cloaks to the people of Akka every winter, and donate some of your own clothes to the local homeless shelter. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">16. Make Ayyam-i-Ha cards for your cousins.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">17. Have an Ayyam-i-Ha dance party!</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">18. Make gifts for Samaya's class.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">19. Shovel a pathway through the snow in our backyard for a lantern walk tonight.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">*Actually, I'm pretty convinced there's really just <a href="http://www.bahai.org/beliefs/" target="_blank">one unfolding religion</a>. </span></span><br />
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Laurel Saberahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07301512082848450500noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7275136078141129455.post-80636240749702308852015-01-31T12:30:00.001-08:002015-02-04T19:41:51.117-08:00snow<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We've had epic snowfall this week. I haven't written poetry in forever, but sometimes the world is too beautiful for 'so beautiful.' <br />
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Outside, faces up, powder dusts our lashes</div>
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and we blink them into drops,</div>
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changing winter into spring over </div>
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and over. The black lines of</div>
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Where sky meets earth, </div>
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the only color in a world of snow.</div>
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Laurel Saberahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07301512082848450500noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7275136078141129455.post-34439029811347067592015-01-19T21:43:00.000-08:002015-01-19T21:47:20.757-08:00(How) We Shall Overcome<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Today was Martin Luther King Jr. Day. As I'm sure it has in many families,
the occasion has given rise to a number of opportunities for dialogue. Early
this morning, Samaya and I found ourselves alone in the kitchen, everyone else
still asleep. As she watched <a href="https://jr.brainpop.com/">BrainPop's</a>
movie of the week on Dr. King, I stood over the pancakes at the stove marveling
at how even a kid's app portrayal of this man can move me to tears.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">"Why did they kill him?" she wants to know.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">We've had this conversation repeatedly in various forms: the 'why do people
do bad things to good people?' conversation. I’m not very good at it. I never
feel like I nail it. If I can barely wrap my mind around it, I'm pretty sure my
five-year-old is mystified. But sometimes the universe gives you answers to
questions before they are asked. And occasionally you notice. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Last night I was listening to the <a href="http://www.npr.org/programs/invisibilia/377515477/fearless?showDate=2015-01-16">first
episode</a> of the new NPR show, <a href="http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5064"><i>Invisibilia</i></a>.
A freelance IT guy was talking about how, after his wife left him, he really
struggled to be around people. He was becoming more and more of a recluse. It
struck him one night that he was afraid of was rejection. He decided that if he
was going to overcome this debilitating fear, he would have to face it head on.
And so he made it a personal goal to get rejected at least once every day. It
was harder than he thought. </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">“There just aren’t as many no’s out there as you
might think.”</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">“We’re always, always telling stories to ourselves about the situation we’re
in and about other people. And that story becomes a reality for us. And that’s
the problem,” he concluded.</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">This really resonated with me. Assuming my husband is thinking and feeling
things he absolutely is not is our single biggest source of contention as a
couple. I have been repeatedly made aware of the fact that the stories I tell
myself are OFTEN inaccurate. I don’t think I’m alone. </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">So when Samaya asks me why Martin Luther King was killed, I say: “Because
a man told himself a story about how white people were better than black
people. A story that his father probably told him. And he wasn’t willing to listen to any other story but that one.</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">The only reason why someone would do something bad to someone good is
because they got the story all wrong.</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">We talk about how we all tell stories to ourselves constantly. And not all
of them are true. For instance, she tells herself elaborate stories of monsters
coming into her room at night. She’s terrified of cats and dogs. Of her brother
falling down while walking, knocking out his teeth, and having to go to the
hospital. And she can choose to believe these stories and be full of fear, or
she can choose to challenge these stories and find out if they are true or not.
And keep finding out. Because the thing about stories is that they are a product
of the past. A new story is constantly being created. And it will never be
exactly like the last story.</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Abdu’l-Baha unequivocally asserted that, “the root cause of prejudice is blind imitation of the past.”
</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">And it's anecdote:</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">“Among (Baha’u’llah’s) teachings is the independent
investigation of reality, so that the world of humanity might be saved from the
darkness of imitation and attain to the truth; might tear off and cast away
this ragged and outgrown garment of 1,000 years ago and put on the robe woven
in the utmost purity and holiness in the loom of reality. As reality is one and
cannot admit of multiplicity, therefore different opinions must ultimately
become fused into one.</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">How do we overcome
prejudice? We investigate reality. Get to know each other. Become FRIENDS with
one another. Realize that we are far more alike than we are different. And that those differences allow us to view more sides of the same truth. Like the blind men and the elephant, all our
differing points of view, as if by magic, will fuse themselves into one reality. One human family.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">On her way out the door to go to an indoor play place with the grandparents,
I call to Samaya, “Make a new friend! That’s what Martin would have done.” </span></span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">She did, by the way. Her name is Lindsey.</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />Laurel Saberahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07301512082848450500noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7275136078141129455.post-27160303447089759902015-01-10T09:13:00.002-08:002015-01-10T09:13:44.600-08:00How to Thrive When the Third Child is Born<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A number of friends are expecting or have recently had their third child, and it got me thinking about exactly why the birth of our own third child felt so incredibly...easy. This is not meant to be boastful in any way. It is more a testament to the family, friends, stars, and gods that aligned to make the sweetest year of my (our?) life possible. So forget surviving. Here's how to thrive when your third child is born:<br />
<br />
1. Accidentally have the first two way too close together. Preferably of the same gender. Then wait long enough that they play (and fight) really well together. When baby comes, it will be almost like having an only child again, without the obsessive worrying/urge to constantly entertain that came with baby #1's territory. Plus periodic conflict resolution.<br />
<br />
2. Especially at the beginning, but for as long as you can manage, let your agenda consist of nothing. Not even food. Let other people do that. I would do anything, ANYTHING, to wake up again and have no other thought besides, 'I'm alive! I LOVE being alive! And I love my babies!' For the rest of my life, I will be on a mission to be as fully present as I was those first months. <br />
<br />
3. Speaking of food, make sure a friend has organized meals for your family using <a href="http://www.mealbaby.com/" target="_blank">MealBaby</a> or <a href="http://www.mealtrain.com/train/create/" target="_blank">Meal Train</a>. If they haven't, make your mom do it. Graciously accept the food at the door and<i> </i>kindly tell them you will let them know when the family is ready for company<i>.</i> Unless you're one of those folks that prefers to be surrounded by a constant stream of visitors the moment the baby pops out. I have met this mother. She does exist. For the rest of you, I give you full permission to hibernate. <br />
<br />
3. Have a husband who takes a month off from work and wakes up every morning to cook pancakes for the big kids. And then have the presence of mind to realize how awesome he is and tell him so.<br />
<br />
4. Realize that you've had a partner all along who <i>has</i> been helping and who is happy to help even more. Now that you don't have a choice, let him, you control freak. Who cares if he uses too many dryer sheets and he does the girls' hair funny. <br />
<br />
5. Don't ever for a second feel guilty that the other two are in any way deprived. If they are acting like hellions, act appropriately (ie. tickle torture them.) But if they are fine, be fine too. Actually, they're way better off because you're less helicoptery and they have each other. <br />
<br />
6. Don't bathe them too often. That's what wipes are for. I can't tell you exactly how often I bathe the baby because Child Protective Services might pay me a visit. <br />
<br />
7. Forget trying to get the baby on a schedule. I'm going to let you in on the best kept secret in the business: <i><b>Babies sleep when they're tired</b></i>. Despite quite a few (one might even say 'many') people actually having had a baby, this is a little known fact. I tend to believe this is because the <a href="http://commonhealth.wbur.org/2013/11/is-it-time-to-rethink-co-sleeping" target="_blank">American Academy of Pediatrics</a>, hundreds of baby sleep books, and thousands of articles, blog posts, and parenting forums brainwash parents before they even have a chance to hold a real live baby and come to their own conclusions. The sheer number of voices on the subject drown out the only two voices that really matter: the baby's and yours. It is true that if your goal is to produce a baby that sleeps through the night in her own private nursery flat on her back as dictated by said books/articles/AAP, you will most certainly have your work cut out for you. It will not be pleasant. And depending on the method, many believe it is potentially damaging. Even if you succeed, your baby will start teething a week later and you will be back at square one. And then she will get sick. And then you will go on vacation. Just don't. It's not worth it. Listen to your baby and yourself. Maybe you have a baby that loves being snuggled in a wrap for daytime naps. Maybe you have a baby that prefers to sleep in her own space. Maybe you have a baby that hates being on his back but loves being on his belly. Maybe she just needs to know you're right there next to her all night. Maybe she's in agony because of whatever you're eating. Maybe he thinks he should have a nipple in his mouth at all times because every time he so much as squeaked when he was a newborn, you put one in his mouth. Pay attention. They'll let you know if you're willing to listen. If your baby barely naps one day and insists on taking a nap at 5 PM another day, roll with it.* You don't have to understand. You just have to accept that they have some say in the matter too. So relax, perfect the nursing-while-sleeping, and stay out past their bedtime occasionally. There won't be any schedule to ruin.<br />
<br />
8. Figure out which standards you're willing to compromise on, and lower them all. This applies to screen time, food choices, cleanliness, housekeeping, and the number of pinterest activites you organize for older children each week.<br />
<br />
9. Take that newborn and go on a babymoon. To your bed. Stay there for a week straight doing nothing but gazing into each others' eyes. Potty breaks are allowed.<br />
<br />
10. Finally, live upstairs from the grandparents. Ok, ok. Now I'm boasting. <br />
<br />
*Do not EVER let your toddler nap at 5 PM. In this case, you would not be respecting the child. You would simply be stupid. <br />
<br /></div>
Laurel Saberahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07301512082848450500noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7275136078141129455.post-65334545486814503942015-01-03T20:38:00.002-08:002015-01-03T20:38:44.471-08:00Questions<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
At some point along the way, I received the advice that, when it comes to difficult subjects, take their lead. When they ask, answer their questions (and only their questions.) I've realized though that the hard part is actually <i>hearing</i> their questions, from their 3 or 4 or 5 year-old point of view. What's not such a great idea? Hearing the <i>topic, </i>and spewing out everything I know in relation to it. I may or may not have this propensity. Especially with my first born, who, by virtue of being born first and born wise, can trick me into forgetting that five is actually quite small. Not all of her questions lead me down this slippery slope.<br />
<br />
Some are just impossible: 'Where did the first strawberry come from?'<br />
Some are simply beyond me (it doesn't take much): 'Why does the earth rotate on a tilt?*<br />
<br />
It's the questions I have at least partial answers for that require that delicate balance between being honest and age-appropriate. And when the one asking the questions regularly appears at my bedside in the middle of the night to anxiously whisper
that she's 'dehydrated' or that her newly emerging molars are most
definitely causing pieces of her gum to fall out, or (like last night)
that she can't feel her heartbeat(!), that balance becomes even more crucial.<br />
<br />
The first time she asked why a friend from pre-k had two homes--one with her mommy and one with her daddy--I almost found myself attempting to explain the dynamics of love and the causes of divorce. First of all, unqualified. Second of all, she did not even ask about divorce. Instead, we had a brief conversation about families coming in all shapes and sizes.<br />
<br />
After the twentieth time being asked about the sanitary napkin dispensers in the public restrooms, I gave it my best shot: When a girl grows up, her body is capable of growing a baby. Every month it releases an egg and the uterus prepares itself in case a baby does come along. It develops a thick lining made of blood and tissues which can nourish a baby and provide a cozy home. If the egg doesn't get fertilized by the sperm, then that lining comes out each month. The sanitary napkins absorb that lining. She was unalarmed by this information. A sign that I had achieved that balance.<br />
<br />
But then there was the time that I found myself explaining how x-ray machines were used on pregnant women to see the unborn fetuses. It was new, exciting technology; mothers could see their babies before they were even born! It became very popular very fast. During this time, a female scientist noticed that many children were getting cancer.<br />
(More questions: 'What is cancer?')<br />
The scientist discovered that the x-rays were the cause of the children's cancer. <br />
('How did she know?)<br />
It took 25 years for the practice to stop.<br />
(Why?)<br />
We discussed how people are slow to change. Slow to accept a new manifestation. Slow to accept the equality of religions, of races, of genders. She kept wanting more. So I told her about her partner, the statistician, who did everything in his power to prove her wrong by looking at the data from every possible angle. And how grateful she was for him. She was interested only in the truth--even if it proved her wrong. Only he didn't prove her wrong; he confirmed her findings. By asking questions from every possible angle and welcoming others' questions, she arrived at the truth.<br />
<br />
That was the easy part. She had to take that truth and do something with it. For 25 years she worked tirelessly to change the way x-rays were used so that no more children would be harmed.<br />
<br />
Yeah. I'm pretty sure this one got away from me. She didn't seem too traumatized, though I'm quite sure most of it was over her head. Oh well--I just hope she got the impression that questions are good. Never stop questioning.<br />
<br />
Maybe we'll revisit this later. If we do, I'll tell her to be like the statistician: Ask your own questions. Find your own answers. That if enough of us stop imitating the past, we'll have a chance at remaking the future. One in which we decide for ourselves whether the color of our skin, the name of our God, our gender, or sexual orientation actually mattter at all.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">"By its aid thou shalt see with
thine own eyes and not through the eyes of others, and shalt know of thine own knowledge
and not through the knowledge of thy neighbor." -Baha'u'llah</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
* I didn't have a clue, but encouraged her to hypothesize. Without so much as a pause, she said, "I think a piece of a planet from outer space knocked into it
and made it crooked." Well, duh! I'm just going to assume from now on that she already knows the answers. She's just seeing if I do too.</div>
Laurel Saberahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07301512082848450500noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7275136078141129455.post-23846816398846944052014-12-28T19:04:00.001-08:002014-12-28T19:04:10.818-08:00Mirrors<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="http://monicaschley.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2012/12/img_2236.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://monicaschley.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2012/12/img_2236.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<div>
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A few days before the winter solstice, I took the children to the local Waldorf school's celebration of the</span> <a href="http://www.sparklestories.com/blog/2012/12/07/a-winter-spiral/"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Winter Spiral</span></a><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">. The tradition, observed during the darkest time of the year, involves a spiral created with pine boughs, the center at which a candle burns. Children and adults of all ages take turns carrying a single unlit candle to the center flame, lighting it, and placing it along the spiral. Onlookers sit in silence or sing quietly as the scene before them gradually fills with light.</span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This is our first winter spiral and we don’t know a soul here. To start with, we are expecting it to be outside, and so we come all bundled up only to find it being held inside a classroom. The girls are eager to participate, but going alone seems too daunting. Hoping it won’t be too disruptive, when it is our turn I stand up with the baby in the sling and the girls on either side of me. We approach the ‘angel guide’ and she graciously asks in a whisper if we would like to go as a family. ‘Yes,’ I whisper back, and she hands Samaya an apple with a beeswax candle inserted into it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> I know (of course I know) that Violet wants a candle of her own, but when none is offered I can't bring myself to disrupt the sacred flow of the ceremony. We step carefully to the center candle, Samaya lights her own, chooses a spot along the spiral to place it, and then we continue along the path that leads to the opposite side of the room.</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Now in different seats, Violet immediately pseudo-whispers that she wants to carry a candle too, but I whisper to her that our turn is finished—that Samaya carried the candle for our family. Now Violet, who is a little girl with big feelings, and who periodically struggles to keep her big feelings in check, and who has been experiencing one of these periods as of late, was not at all pleased with this information. After a couple of failed attempts to quiet her, I lead my less-than-peaceful little people out of the room, at which point Violet now feels at ease to turn up the volume a bit. It is certainly not what she is capable of, but it is enough for me to feel quite embarrassed. I tell her as much, and hurry to stuff them into their coats and (superfluous) winter gear, which of course Violet is not having. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am on the verge of blowing my peaceful mama cover. It is then that another teacher comes out into the hall and very lovingly invites us into her own classroom. I tell her thank you, but we are leaving, offering as clarification that Violet is very sad that she did not also get to carry a candle.</span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div>
<div>
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I understand,” she says directly into Violet’s eyes. And I can see that she does. More importantly, Violet can see it—her own feelings validated and reflected back to her. A brief moment, and then, ‘I have a very special candle you may have. Would you like to see it?’ Violet blinks and then nods, and we all follow her into her classroom. She cradles a tea light mounted on a watercolor star. ‘It smells like bees,’ she tells Violet. ‘Because it is made of beeswax.’ Violet takes it, her only outward reaction an easing of her facial muscles. I thank her in Violet’s place, and we walk quietly to the car. She is taking this small act of kindness in, turning it over and around in her mind. I am taking it in too, grateful for the mothering I myself have just received. This woman has just ever so gently, without threatening my own motherhood for a moment, reminded me to ‘understand’ my child, however seemingly trivial or inappropriate or embarrassing. Violet doesn't need to know that her mother is embarrassed or angry. She just needs to see her own feelings handed back to her. And then, once we're both looking at what is, we can navigate a way to what could be.</span></div>
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<div>
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I need to be her mirror; to reflect HER truth. Not mine. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div>
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<div>
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The next day, I hear this story from</span> <a href="http://bahaiblog.net/site/2012/10/new-talks-by-tom-price-recreating-ourselves-in-the-image-of-the-master/"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Tom Price</span></a><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">:</span></div>
<div>
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">During World War II, there was a nun who worked in an orphanage in France. Children were being orphaned at an astonishing rate—higher than at any other time in human history. When the children were told what had happened to their parents and that they would be living at the orphanage indefinitely, they would often be traumatized, sometimes permanently. The nun realized that if she told the children a story about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">other</i> children with the same information and the same details, the children would invariably come to the end of it and say, ‘Oh, is that what happened to me?’ And because the nun had provided them with a mirror in which they could see truth isolated from themselves and approach it on their own terms, in their own time, with their own understanding, they were far better equipped to process the information.</span></div>
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<div>
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div>
<div>
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Tom Price used this method with his own children, telling bedtime stories about little turtles whose lives bore striking resemblance to his own children’s lives. One time, he came home from work to find his daughter crying hysterically. When he asked her what had happened, she refused to answer. He later found out that she had dumped all of the yogurt from the yogurt maker into the bathtub and had proceeded to take a yogurt bath. Her mother was not at all happy. That night, when Tom came into his daughter’s bedroom to tuck her in, she said, ‘Tell me the story about the turtle who took a yogurt bath.’ She wanted to process what had happened, but from a safe, non-threatening distance. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div>
<div>
I only heard this story because a friend referenced it in her own recounting of the stories she tells to her daughter. Stories about a little brown fox whose life bears striking resemblance to her own daughter's life. Stories that began around the time that her marriage was ending. She knew that to an almost three-year-old, the splitting up of her parents could potentially feel like trauma, and so the little brown fox and her mother told <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">their</i> story, night after night. While the real girl and <i>her</i> mother looked on from the safety of each other's arms. </div>
<div>
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<div>
Mirrors reflect. In nature, reflection occurs when light (or any other wave) bounces off a surface, allowing it to be seen. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Abdu’l-Baha said that, "If we wish to understand what the spiritual life is, we must look to the material world, which is an outward figure or symbol of the inward spiritual reality.” So this entire world of existence—everything from the sun to the soil—is one giant mirror. Science isn't in conflict with religion; science is religion’s reflection. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Baha’u’llah and Abdu’l-Baha constantly use analogies from nature:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<ul>
<li>“The world of humanity has <i>two wings</i>—one is woman and the other man."</li>
<li>“So powerful is the <i>light</i> of unity that it can illuminate the whole earth."</li>
<li>“Regard man as a <i>mine rich in gems</i> of inestimable value."</li>
<li>“<i>Flowers</i> may be variegated in colors, but they are all flowers of one garden..."</li>
</ul>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Nature is infinitely complex. No matter how many times we look in its mirror, we will always see something new. Something beautiful.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When asked one time why everyone who entered his presence left with such a shining countenance, he replied that he saw his Father’s face in everyone he met. I want to see that. I want to notice the candle they hold in their hearts. And reflect it back to them.</div>
</div>
Laurel Saberahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07301512082848450500noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7275136078141129455.post-27852945654731236972014-12-13T19:45:00.002-08:002014-12-13T19:45:27.695-08:00(Human) Race <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
My silence on this topic is not out of indifference. It is, however, out of three other reasons: Samaya, Violet, and Isaiah. Yes, there are also elements of fear and ignorance. Of offending. Of saying the wrong thing. Of exposing my own prejudices. I will own that. I must own that. After all, it is denial that has not only kept the gaping wound of racial inequality from healing, but has driven it deep under the skin to systemically poison our collective body.<br />
<br />
It is just that at this moment and most of my other moments, I am surrounded by tiny, open ears. And what I want, <i>need</i>, those ears to hear is this:<br />
<br />
How <i>generous</i> of Violet to offer you her only cookie!<br />
You show such <i>love</i> toward your brother!<br />
How <i>just</i> of you to stand up for your friend!<br />
I am moved by your <i>compassion</i>.<br />
The manager at this store is ALWAYS <i>joyful</i>.<br />
I notice your <i>patience</i>.<br />
I see your <i>kindness</i>.<br />
<br />
I want them to hear these comments and others like them so many times that they cannot help but notice these qualities in themselves and others before they notice anything else. I want them to walk through the world noticing justice and unshakeable joy. I want them to walk through the world seeing genuine kindness and love. I want them to walk through the world feeling and acting on compassion. I want them to walk through the world<i> </i>really seeing all the beautiful bits and pieces of their brothers' and sisters' souls. <br />
<br />
I am not naive. I know they will also see things uglier than I can imagine. I am certain they will encounter unspeakable injustice and deep sadness. I know that they will hear of shocking cruelty and hatred. I even know that they themselves will turn a blind eye to another's pain and do nothing at all.<br />
<br />
I am just praying that when they find themselves in a dark room, their immediate inclination is to find the light switch. Strike a match. Pull the curtains. <br />
<br />
Abdu'l-Baha once said, "Darkness is the absence of light: when there is
no light, there is darkness. Light is an existing thing, but darkness is
nonexistent."<br />
<br />
It seems to me that healing our collective broken family will be achieved not through the tearing down of nonexistence, but through the building up of the existing good, however small it may be. Even if exists only in the state of potentiality. <br />
<br />
My oldest daughter is in kindergarten this year at a public school in Maine--the whitest state in the country. She is the only brown child in her class. She is acutely aware of this fact because, as it turns out, children are not blind. I listen carefully to her observations. I validate her feelings of wanting to be white, of having straight hair. I tell her, honestly, that I think her skin color is beautiful. That I used to desperately wish for curly hair. I tell her what Abdu'l-Baha had to say on the subject:<br />
<br />
"Flowers may be variegated in colors but they are all flowers of one garden."<br />
<br />
And then I ask her what acts of kindness she saw at school that day. Because it is true that we are many colors, but it is <i>more </i>true that we are one race: the human race. And kindness<i>--love--</i>is our shared currency.<br />
<br />
In October, Oprah interviewed <a href="http://www.oprah.com/own-where-are-they-now/Why-Raven-Symone-Says-Shes-Tired-of-Being-Labeled-Video?playlist_id=53546" target="_blank">Raven-Symone, </a>who boldly and unequivocally renounced all other labels (including African American), declaring, "I want to be labeled a human who loves humans." <br />
<br />
This is what I want for my children: to grow up as humans who love humans.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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Laurel Saberahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07301512082848450500noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7275136078141129455.post-66904862690654642032014-11-19T19:10:00.000-08:002014-11-19T19:10:12.772-08:00Isaiah. One. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Dear Isaiah,<br />
<br />
<span class="_5yl5" data-reactid=".1k.$mid=11416273043316=2210116b72d67c84911.2:0.0.0.0.0"><span data-reactid=".1k.$mid=11416273043316=2210116b72d67c84911.2:0.0.0.0.0.0"><span data-reactid=".1k.$mid=11416273043316=2210116b72d67c84911.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$4:0">You
are one year old now and I am just as crazy in love with you as the day
I met you. You. You are my gift. My joy. My love. I wait for the moment
every night when you crawl from your bed into mine, push your head into
my rib cage, and immediately fall back to sleep. Somehow, the
ridiculous awkwardness of it comforts us both. And the fact that you don't generally abuse your free pass to my mammary glands. It's been a few weeks now
since your first turn around the sun and honestly if I had written this
in a more timely manner, it would have been something along the lines
of, "You're still my baby. But also, you're still a baby." I don't know
if I can say that anymore. The first part, always. But suddenly the
space you occupy in the world is so much more animated, communicative,
conscious, defined, capable, toddler-like. </span></span></span><br />
<span class="_5yl5" data-reactid=".1k.$mid=11416273043316=2210116b72d67c84911.2:0.0.0.0.0"><span data-reactid=".1k.$mid=11416273043316=2210116b72d67c84911.2:0.0.0.0.0.0"><span data-reactid=".1k.$mid=11416273043316=2210116b72d67c84911.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$4:0">That you manage to pull off this toddler-esque persona is actually quite
remarkable considering the only words you consistently say are 'Dada,'
'zhis,' and a version of 'cockadoodledoo'--and that you are still a
crawling person. But you also stand with your back against the couch and
catch balls. You climb the bathroom stool. Then stand on the top rung and hitch your leg onto the counter. Another week and you will be on the counter. Anyone who has been to our bathroom can attest to the sheer height and potential disaster this scenario suggests. You play
ring-around-the-rosie with your sisters and tear down the hallway on
your radio flyer push wagon. Just today I realized you know where your belly button, nose and toes are. And that if someone says, 'too loud!' you
cover your ears with your hands. Also, you're a great kisser. This
afternoon when I asked Violet to tell me the time, you waited until she
walked away and then crawled to the spot she had been standing, pointed at the
clock, and spouted off what I'm sure was a very accurate description of
the exact angle of the sun's rays. In another language. </span></span></span><br />
<span class="_5yl5" data-reactid=".1k.$mid=11416273043316=2210116b72d67c84911.2:0.0.0.0.0"><span data-reactid=".1k.$mid=11416273043316=2210116b72d67c84911.2:0.0.0.0.0.0"><span data-reactid=".1k.$mid=11416273043316=2210116b72d67c84911.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$4:0">When I ask you if you want to sit in your
high chair and eat dinner, you adamently tell me, 'uh-uh,' which sometimes means 'HELL NO' and sometimes means, 'YES!' You won't ask
for milk in a respectable manner, but you will stick your fist down my
shirt and insist on 'zhis.' And then there is the near constant shrieking. (Yes, you cover your own ears when you do this.) You
spend a good portion of your day attempting to drill into your sisters'
heads the concepts of personal space and free will. Another good chunk trying to get your distracted mother's attention. Both regretfully require high decibals. (You and the Vitamix account for why Mama's earplugs live perpetually on the kitchen counter.)</span></span></span><br />
<span class="_5yl5" data-reactid=".1k.$mid=11416273043316=2210116b72d67c84911.2:0.0.0.0.0"><span data-reactid=".1k.$mid=11416273043316=2210116b72d67c84911.2:0.0.0.0.0.0"><span data-reactid=".1k.$mid=11416273043316=2210116b72d67c84911.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$4:0">Your favorite book: Brown Bear, Brown Bear</span></span></span><br />
<span class="_5yl5" data-reactid=".1k.$mid=11416273043316=2210116b72d67c84911.2:0.0.0.0.0"><span data-reactid=".1k.$mid=11416273043316=2210116b72d67c84911.2:0.0.0.0.0.0"><span data-reactid=".1k.$mid=11416273043316=2210116b72d67c84911.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$4:0">Favorite activity: swinging in your new birthday swing</span></span></span><br />
<span class="_5yl5" data-reactid=".1k.$mid=11416273043316=2210116b72d67c84911.2:0.0.0.0.0"><span data-reactid=".1k.$mid=11416273043316=2210116b72d67c84911.2:0.0.0.0.0.0"><span data-reactid=".1k.$mid=11416273043316=2210116b72d67c84911.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$4:0">Favorite foods: bananas, meat, and water</span></span></span><br />
<span class="_5yl5" data-reactid=".1k.$mid=11416273043316=2210116b72d67c84911.2:0.0.0.0.0"><span data-reactid=".1k.$mid=11416273043316=2210116b72d67c84911.2:0.0.0.0.0.0"><span data-reactid=".1k.$mid=11416273043316=2210116b72d67c84911.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$4:0">Favorite toys: balls and anything with wheels</span></span></span><br />
<span class="_5yl5" data-reactid=".1k.$mid=11416273043316=2210116b72d67c84911.2:0.0.0.0.0"><span data-reactid=".1k.$mid=11416273043316=2210116b72d67c84911.2:0.0.0.0.0.0"><span data-reactid=".1k.$mid=11416273043316=2210116b72d67c84911.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$4:0">Favorite human being: Daddy. In fact, your love is so great that he has started sneaking in the door when he gets home from work just so he can take off his coat and shoes before your urgent Dada-shrieks claw at his ears and your tiny hands claw at his pants. There is no point at which you tire of him. (The reverse cannot also be said.) No point at which you willingly share him. </span></span></span><span class="_5yl5" data-reactid=".1k.$mid=11416273043316=2210116b72d67c84911.2:0.0.0.0.0"><span data-reactid=".1k.$mid=11416273043316=2210116b72d67c84911.2:0.0.0.0.0.0"><span data-reactid=".1k.$mid=11416273043316=2210116b72d67c84911.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$4:0">You have many rituals together, involving cleaning each others' ears, watching dogs bark on YouTube, playing with feathers, and switching on and off lights. </span></span></span><br />
<span class="_5yl5" data-reactid=".1k.$mid=11416273043316=2210116b72d67c84911.2:0.0.0.0.0"><span data-reactid=".1k.$mid=11416273043316=2210116b72d67c84911.2:0.0.0.0.0.0"><span data-reactid=".1k.$mid=11416273043316=2210116b72d67c84911.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$4:0">On your first birthday, Grandma, Grandpa, Auntie Julia, and Uncle Sina, Ferida and Yue joined us for dinner, you became intimately familiar with frosting, and we took you trick-or-treating for the first time wearing your new mouse hat thoughtfully made by Auntie Julie. I made you your felt birthday crown, your sisters made you cards, and Daddy hung your tree swing. It was as simple as it gets. Leaving plenty of room for you. Happy belated birthday, Isaiah. You filled all my empty, dark corners.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
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Laurel Saberahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07301512082848450500noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7275136078141129455.post-35799323560286410422014-10-20T20:32:00.003-07:002014-10-20T20:32:22.768-07:00The Birth of the Bab<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Today was the commemoration of the Birth of the Bab, a manifestation and forerunner of Baha'u'llah. Our family attended the community celebration last night with prayers, readings and refreshments, and it was lovely... But the actual holy day awaited us in the morning and we had not a single plan for honoring it. That didn't feel right.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Before I went to bed, I sent the word out to my mama friends that there would be a birthday party for The Bab this afternoon at our house. And yes, there would be cake. Let me start by saying that I should ONLY throw parties without any prior foresight or thought. It leaves absolutely no room for stress and opens wide the doors of simplicity and joy. I never even had a chance to lose sight of the key components: the Guest of honor (in this case, The Bab), the children whose hearts I wished to connect to this Guest, and cake.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
While Samaya was at school, Violet and I made a trip to the grocery store for the crucial ingredients. We ate lunch, baked cupcakes, whipped together some frosting, cleaned up the house. The children came and we all sat down to make watercolor cards to give to The Bab. When we had finished, we sat in a circle and read them out loud so He could hear them. There were hearts and stars and messages of love and...portraits. Today I asked Samaya, 'How did you know The Bab's favorite color was green?' (It <i>is </i>actually associated with Him.) But tomorrow I will attempt to convey "<span style="font-family: LiberationSerif;">the impossibility of
representing, in any human form, whether pictorially, in sculpture or in dramatic
representation, the person of God's Manifestation"(UHJ) and that even attempting to do so is disrespectful. Their station too great. Our understanding too limited to even approach Their true nature through artistic representation. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: LiberationSerif; font-size: small;">I read a brief </span><a href="http://www.bahaibookstore.com/productdetails.cfm?PC=10036" style="font-family: LiberationSerif;" target="_blank">story about The Bab'</a><span style="font-family: LiberationSerif; font-size: small;">s birth and early years, and then it was time to sing Happy Birthday. Though The Bab was there in spirit, He was not physically able to blow out His candles, and so we each took it upon ourselves to make a wish of peace for the world and blow out a candle for Him. Upon further consideration, it was also deemed necessary to eat </span><i style="font-family: LiberationSerif;">two</i><span style="font-family: LiberationSerif; font-size: small;"> cupcakes each, one for ourselves, and one for...you get the point. And that was it. We played outside, we said our good byes, and, on another whim and stroke of utter (lazy) genius on my part, we made green ice cream for dinner. Definitely a new tradition. A whole bunch of kale thrown in the </span><span style="font-family: LiberationSerif;">vitamin</span><span style="font-family: LiberationSerif; font-size: small;"> with frozen cubes of coconut milk and frozen bananas. Instant, healthy, fun dinner. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: LiberationSerif;"> </span> </div>
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Laurel Saberahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07301512082848450500noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7275136078141129455.post-45135599237593978312014-10-04T17:59:00.000-07:002014-10-04T17:59:02.969-07:00Evolving Perfection<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Too often, I have this nagging feeling in the corners of my mind that perfection keeps slipping just out of my grasp. The house is a disaster despite constant cleaning. The children need baths despite having bathed last week. I still look pregnant despite having given birth almost a year ago. I can't seem to find the peace of mind to sit down and write despite knowing that writing gives me peace of mind like nothing else. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial;">But last night, perfection knocked me to my knees and squeezed my heart with both hands. We were watching The Velveteen Rabbit. Violet was captivated. At the end of the movie, the boy watches, devastated, from his father’s arms as his beloved rabbit awaits the fire along with all the other bedding contaminated by scarlett fever. The father, in turn, weeps, having finally realized that though his wife may have died years ago, his son is very much alive. He begs his son’s forgiveness for his physical and emotional absence. It is a powerful and complex moment. Violet is standing in the middle of the carpet, absolutely still, unable to sit. When she turns to me, silent tears are streaming down her face. She is feeling what this father and son are feeling. And I am overcome. Overwhelmed. By the empathy, depth, understanding she has just exhibited. Never have I loved her more than at this moment.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Many tears has this child shed in fits of rage or pain or anger. But these tears. These quiet heart tears. She has never shown these to me before. And I feel honored. Privileged. To have witnessed such perfection. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial;">And all the rest of it...evolving perfection. </span></div>
Laurel Saberahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07301512082848450500noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7275136078141129455.post-21179709355330925482014-06-30T18:54:00.000-07:002014-06-30T18:54:08.046-07:00A loose tooth<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My first baby showed me her first loose tooth today. I thought she was delusional. Then I thought it was wishful thinking (she's been desperately hoping for one ever since her best friend lost a tooth). Then I thought she was teasing me. Then I realized SHE HAD A LOOSE TOOTH. Then I hoped <i>I</i> was delusional (this. just. cannot. be.) But I felt it. I saw it. Sal's words from <i>One Morning in Maine</i> echoed in my ears: "You could even <i>see it wiggle."</i> I searched desperately for a way out. A way BACK. How did we get here already? I stood in the hallway for multiple seconds, staring incredulously. Everyone always tells you they grow up. Kids, that is. But honestly, I thought they were mistaken. Maybe <i>their </i>kids grew up. But what did they really know about mine? You know, besides whatever Facebook told them?<br />
<br />
I called my baby's daddy. He already knew. He laughed. How could he laugh as our daughter surely and steadily slipped from our grasp? The full realization of her separateness suddenly sunk into the pit of my stomach. I fought back tears. I suppose I knew <i>in theory</i> that she was born with her own soul. I just hadn't experienced all that...space...between hers and mine before. Not even when she started school. Not even when she developed her own social circle. Her own friends. Her own life that I simply had no idea about. For whatever reason, the universe chose this moment--this wiggly-toothed tiny moment--to shove that space at me.<br />
<br />
Small consolation came at the end of the day.<br />
"What was the best part of your day?" I asked her.<br />
<br />
"My loose tooth!" She unhesitatingly declared.<br />
<br />
"What was the hardest part of your day?"<br />
<br />
"Waiting to tell you that I had a loose tooth."<br />
<br />
"Really?" I choked, incredulous yet again. For now, for today, I was her first thought: <i>I can't wait to tell Mommy.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I'll take it. I'll take everything this confident, exuberant, glowing, GROWING five-year-old throws at me. And I'll do my best to slow down and savor every bit of it. Forget you, miserable life-sucking to-do lists. I'm making a new list. One list. It goes like this:<br />
<br />
1. Samaya<br />
2. Violet<br />
3. Isaiah<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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Laurel Saberahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07301512082848450500noreply@blogger.com0