Gathering the Village

I knew I was in over my head. I was a newly divorced mother of a five-year-old daughter, Katherine. I had a full time job and a house with a very big yard to take care of. With all I had on my plate, I truly worried that I wasn’t going to be able to be a very good mother. Raising a child was a important job and I hadn’t been at it all that long. Of course, my family was very supportive. My parents doted on Katherine, as did my sisters (to this day Katherine calls them “Auntie Karla” and “Auntie Karyl”). There were fun uncles and scores of cousins as well. Unfortunately, however, they all lived in Colorado, 1300 miles away. I knew that if I was going to make it through this transition with any sort of stability for both myself and my daughter, I needed help. Lots of it.

I decided to assemble a group of people who would help me mother my daughter, thinking that if I surrounded Katherine with enough remarkable women, I would not only be able to cover areas where I might be weak, tired or inexperienced, but that there was also strength in numbers. The phrase “it takes a village to raise a child” was widely circulating at the time, especially in the counseling circles where I worked. It’s a notion I whole-heartedly adopted. I literally had the t-shirt.

I deliberately set out to create my own village. In addition to my own mother and sisters, my village had a few early members. One was Katherine’s Aunt Dixie, who stayed just as embedded—maybe more embedded–in my life even after her brother and I divorced. Dixie had a daughter, Casey, and treated Katherine like a second child. Dixie’s mother, Katie Bess’s “Nanny Jo,” was a constant presence, driving to my house from her home on the Oregon coast once a week to give me a night off.

Wendy, my dear friend and college roommate who was also Katherine’s godmother, would take Katherine to her apartment where they’d bake cookies or put together puzzles. Not surprisingly, Katherine’s first favorite letter was “W,” and Wendy hand-crafted an entire book of “W” words, which we still have.

And then there was Jill, or “Jilly Jill” as Katherine dubbed her. Just sixteen when I hired her as my very first babysitter, Jill apparently decided to take me under her wing, a decision for which I am forever grateful.  Jill settled in for the long haul and literally became Katherines’s “Other Mother.” (You can read about it in my  blog post). Because we somewhat resembled each other, Jill and I were often mistaken for sisters. It wasn’t much of a stretch, then, that she was also often mistaken as Katherine’s mom. I was fine with this. Delighted even. To make it an even better deal, Jill’s parents, Barbara and Tom, became another set of grandparents to Katherine, enlarging the village.

Other members came later. There was Katherine’s third-grade teacher, Ms. Reay, who really bonded with her and kept in touch over the years. And Ms. Romine, the TAG coordinator, a woman without whom, I think it’s fair to say, Katherine would have ended up hating school.

When Doug and I married  several years later, I not only  increased Katherine’s circle of parents, but expanded the village again. There was Nana, another grandmother to love her, and Doug’s sisters, Susie and Julie and Jane, all interesting, thoughtful women.

Just when I thought the village was pretty complete, a few more people came along. Katherine’s dad Kelly met a marvelous woman named Sabine. When they decided to get married, I was pleased to know that while Katherine was gaining another mother, I was gaining a friend.

Friends, it turns out, are a rich resource as well. While my friends are so important to me, keeping me grounded and sane, they nourish the lives of my kids as well. I know that my friends Elizabeth and Heidi would jump in in a heartbeat if any of my children needed anything.

Katherine is now 25 years old and is getting married this summer to a terrific man named Ryan. I’m thrilled. Not only are they a strong couple, but it occurs to me that Katherine’s village is exponentially enlarged. She’s gaining yet another mother in Ryan’s mom, Mary, who brings yet another voice, another vision to Katherine’s life. But this addition was Katherine’s own doing. I did my part early on, but she’s fully in charge now.

When I considered what kind of bridal shower I wanted to host for my daughter, my first thought was to have a celebration honoring all of the women who helped Katherine build the life she has now. Which is what we did this past Saturday. It seemed fitting that the date happened to fall on Mother’s Day weekend. Not everyone was able to attend, particularly those who lived out of town, but we had a good turnout, including many of the women I’ve talked about, as well as two of Katherine’s sisters, Kate and Sarah, and her best friend Jordan. The younger generation is now building a village all their own.

The day turned out just the way I’d hoped, giving me and Katherine an opportunity to publicly thank the remarkable women who helped me be a better mother, and who filled in the spaces I couldn’t reach. I looked around my house, filled with some of my favorite people in the world: smart, creative, talented, funny, and altogether beautiful women.

It took a village, and I somehow managed to find a good one. Every once in a while, however, it’s lovely to have a reunion.

The Rapture Comes on a Sunday

I wrote this story years ago and included it in the book I co-authored with my dear friend, Elizabeth Taylor (the Canadian YA author, not the movie star). We wrote the book Half Past Perfect to help people—even those who wouldn’t normally consider themselves writers—get a foothold in recording their life stories. We included sample short stories (just 2 to 3 pages) at the end of every chapter to illustrate that a story doesn’t have to be long to be meaningful. This story is a retelling of one of my most enduring memories from childhood. I was thinking about it this week and decided to share it.

Enjoy!

The Rapture Comes on a Sunday

by Barbara Allen Burke

“Hey, Barbie!”

I heard my mother’s stern Sunday voice calling.  I ignored it and continued to rummage through the refrigerator.

“Barbara JoAnna Allen!”

Ooh.  Now I was in trouble. I looked over the refrigerator door.  My mother glared at me from the kitchen sink.  I watched soap suds slide off her fingers into murky dishwater.  “You get out of that refrigerator and get your chores done. Now move.” She started scrubbing a pan. “I don’t want to be late for the service.”

My sister Karla stood beside her on a stool next to the drain board.  She was still wearing her church clothes from the morning service and had a dishtowel wrapped around her waist.  She looked over her shoulder and made a face at me.

I walked behind them on my way out of the kitchen and yanked the towel to the ground as I left.

I hung over the top of the corral fence, chin resting on crossed arms.  Sunlight glinted off the horses’ water trough. A breeze ruffled waist-high grass.  It was one of the first really warm days of the spring season. After four hours of choir practice, Sunday school, and the Morning Worship Service, it felt good to be outside. Usually, the prospect of another two to three hours of church in the evening didn’t bother me.  I’d never really known anything else.

Not today.  Today the sunshine called.  Today I was tempted to run barefoot through the field and tramp down a swath of grass to make a nest for myself.  There I would lie on my back and watch clouds.

I climbed down from the fence and started back toward the house.  Unaccustomed to my rebellious feelings, I slid deeper into them.  I deliberately scuffed my shoes in the dirt.  I stooped to gather a handful of stones from the gravel at my feet.

“I hate church,” I thought to myself. I threw a rock at the corral fence.  It hit the wood railing with a thud.  Anger had made me accurate.

I went in the back door, bracing for my parents to tell me to hurry.  I was surprised by silence.  I walked through the family room into the empty kitchen. Soap suds filled the sink. My sister’s dishtowel lay on the stool by the drain board.

“Mom?  Dad?”  Where was everybody?

I hurried through to the dining room – empty – and into the living room– also empty.  My father’s Car and Driver magazine spilled onto the floor.  My youngest sister’s blocks sat in a messy pile in the corner.

And then I knew with blinding clarity what had happened:  The Rapture.  The Lord had returned to call his faithful servants unto himself and I, Barbara JoAnna Allen, had been left behind.  I could just picture it.  While I was moping in the yard, my more righteous mother, father and sisters had been transformed into ghostly, light-filled figures and lifted straight to heaven.

I brushed away tears and trotted through the house, afraid to confirm what I already knew.  The bedrooms were empty, the beds rumpled, closet doors open.  I ran into my own bedroom and there, lying on the bed, were my Sunday clothes, set out by my mother.  They accused me of my mean-mindedness and sloth. And now the Only Train Bound for Glory had come and I had missed it.   How stupid could I be?

I walked more slowly, trying to remember all the sermons I had heard about the years of Tribulation that would follow the Rapture. I had to find a way to face it.

I headed toward the barn. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move. The family station wagon sat in its usual place.  I stared.  There in the car sat my parents in the front seat, facing each other, talking.   My sisters leaned out of the windows.

“There she is,” called my sister, Karla.  “Are you coming or what?  We’re waiting, and the car’s getting hot.”

I didn’t know what to do.  I wanted to run and kiss my sisters’ faces, curl up on my mother’s lap and let her stroke my hair.  I wanted to hug my dad and feel him hug me back.  I wanted to laugh out loud.  I wanted to apologize to God.

What I did was get in the car.  It was time to go to church.

Finding Something to Let Go

There I am, in a very warm, dimly lit yoga studio. I’m balancing on my right leg, left leg stretched behind me. My arms extend out in front so I’m roughly a “T” shape—and I do mean roughly. I’m trying to approximate something like a Warrior III pose. Sweat drips off my face onto my mat. I struggle to find my balance, my toes seeking better purchase on my yoga mat.

And then I fall over. Again.

Still, I keep coming back—to the pose, to my mat, to the class. Sometimes I wonder why. I’m not a naturally bendy person. Plus, I’m fairly clumsy by nature and have serious problems with balance—as I am frequently reminded in class.  But there are several reasons I keep showing up. The first is that yoga seems to be the only thing that keeps me from getting injured. I’ve noticed over the course of a couple of years that whenever I skip yoga for any length of time, my back goes out and I’ll be out of commission and on muscle relaxants for about 10 days. That is usually motivation enough.

The other reason is deeper. There are so many correlations to working my way through a yoga class and working my way through life that I frequently leave class with just the message or idea I need to solve some other nagging problem. When I fall over while standing on one leg, it reminds me how hard it is to maintain balance in any area. When my muscles are burning with fatigue I realize that I make a choice to stay with the struggle to build strength or pull away to rest and recover. When I reach the limits of my flexibility (which happens in nearly every pose), I recognize that freedom of movement comes slowly, incrementally but, with continued practice, inevitably.

Not surprisingly, there are often times when our teacher, Dena, will say something that especially resonates with me. This is what happened today. We were three-quarters of the way through the class, feeling tired and sweaty, trying to stay with a challenging pose through five more breaths. Dena reminded us that although there are always muscles that are firing and working hard, there are also places where you can let go. Do you really need the tension you’re holding in your neck? Can you relax the muscles in your face? In your fingers? In the midst of great effort, there is often a way to find some ease as well.

This concept is hard to wrap my brain around. I’m really good at gearing up for a fight, tensing to face the next challenge. I’m also pretty good at  collapsing when I’m overtired, turning off my brain and body and crashing into sleep. But combining effort and ease? This is as hard for me as balancing on one leg, as much of a stretch as a backbend.

When I am in the middle of a crisis or a struggle, everything in me is ramped up for the battle. I have noticed that at the end of a long day, the muscles in my neck and shoulders ache. There can be no more telling reminder that I am trying to carry everything on my shoulders. Not anyone else’s shoulders—just mine. And truly, does that tension help me? Does it help anyone? As hard as I may have to work to solve any problem, will carrying that worry and contraction actually help me? Would I be better off if I could release my hold?

So, in yoga and in life, I am looking for ways I can let go, for places where I can drop the tension. I’m looking for ways to combine effort, which is productive, and ease, which is restorative.

Not either/or.  Both.

Of course, it’s another type of balancing act. I will still fall over. I’ll find the tension creeping back into my shoulders and my neck. But I won’t fail if I keep going back to the pose, going back to the mat, going back  to my life and trying again.

 

Spring

Most people are surprised to learn that two-thirds of Oregon is high desert, filled with sage brush and juniper trees and rocky scrabble. East of the Cascade mountains, you get into landscapes and plant life that remind me a lot of the areas of Colorado where I grew up.

West of the Cascades, however, in the verdant Willamette Valley where I now live, it’s a very different story. Here, we get rain, and lots of it. I knew this when I moved to Oregon to go to college thirty years ago, and this fact was one of the the area’s most appealing features. I had visions of walking with cute umbrellas and rain boots, sipping tea while reading by a cozy fire. I knew that ivy-covered hillsides, flowering evergreens, clean air, and year-round green grass owed their existence to lots and lots of rain.

Which is all well and good, unless you’ve lived in the Willamette Valley over the past couple of months, in which case you slowly go, as my good friend Elizabeth says, stark raving mad. In the month of March, we had record levels of rain, making it the wettest March in over fifty years. Some days, walking around under looming dark clouds in a wash of grey mist, you just want to punch something. And still, all we seem to be able to talk about is how much it’s been raining, as if we all don’t already know. We are smack in the midst of that  awkward time when we are still months away from summer (which usually arrives on July 5th), but can’t really remember the glorious crimson leaves and crisp sunshine of the past autumn. It all feels pretty bleak.

There was a moment this week, however, that caught me by surprise. I was walking from my car to the front door of my house, glad that the rain seemed to have stopped for a moment. The sun broke through the clouds and I paused  to appreciate the way it lit up the dripping, green plants in my front yard. From a distance, the gardens still seem sparse and colorless. The trees haven’t leafed out and it’s too early for the blazing colors of azaleas and rhododendrons that will arrive in a few weeks. Still, if I looked closely, I could see signs of life peaking through. Flowering trees—pear and star magnolias—sent out scented blossoms, white and fragile.

Fern fronds broke through the bark-dust covered ground, beginning to unfurl, their spiraled tips geometric and gorgeous. The color green, an Oregon staple even in winter, was refreshed by the arrival of new grass.

The delicate pink petals of false begonia that border my sidewalk will be gone in weeks, soon to be replaced by the more vivid, saturated blooms of summer flowers. They are easy to overlook, as are the carpets of tiny grape hyacinths.

None of these early ambassadors of spring shout or demand your attention. It’s easy to make a mad rush from building to building to avoid the dripping weather. After a bleak, dark winter, it’s easy to forget that you’ve ever seen the sun or will be likely to see it again. Fortunately, Doug went out into the front yard and documented everything in the photos you see here. It did me good to notice. Maybe—just maybe—I can make it until summer. By then I’ll be able to appreciate the wonderful things rain brings to my life.

But give me a few days….

 

Glinda the Good Witch

I have very mixed feelings about this photograph. On the one hand, it’s a lovely record of a family holiday, and the first Halloween we were able to spend with all four of our children. On the other hand, it is a vivid reminder of an evening I spent feeling intensely embarrassed, humiliated, and out of place. Like I said, mixed. I’m smiling in the photo, but only because it was taken before everything turned horrible.

As many of you may know, ours is a blended family. When Doug and I married, I brought to the family my six-year-old daughter, Katherine, and Doug brought Sam, 4 and Kate, 2. Together we had baby Sarah. While Katherine lived mostly with us, Sam and Kate spent the school year with their mom who lived at that time in Arizona. Although they spent summers and vacations with us, there were a number of events that were not a regular part of our family experience. Things like Halloween.

In 1996, we decided to fly down and spend the holiday in Arizona, take the kids trick-or-treating, and attend the Halloween carnival being held at their elementary school. Perhaps I was overcompensating just a little bit, but I decided to make costumes for all of us, strange given the fact that I don’t really sew. I even decided on a theme for all of our costumes. At that time, Kate, who was in kindergarten, was  entranced with Toto, the little dog from Wizard of Oz. She’d often crawl around the house on all fours, barking. She refused to answer unless I  called her Toto. She of course wanted to be Toto for Halloween. Fine, I thought. I can pick out characters for each of us and pull together the appropriate costumes. I found a pattern for a dog costume to fashion Kate’s makeover into Toto. I modified the pattern to make a Cowardly Lion suit for Sam. Katherine wanted to be Dorothy, so I sewed a blue gingham dress for her, using her red, high-top Converse shoes for ruby slippers. Doug made a perfect Scarecrow when I stuffed a sweatshirt and jeans with straw. Sarah didn’t get much say and became the Tin Man in a grey sweatshirt and a tinfoil-covered funnel that fit her round little head. I wasn’t sure which part to pick for myself. There weren’t many female roles left. I was already heading to Arizona as “The Stepmother” so I certainly didn’t want to be the Wicked Witch of the West. That pretty much left me with Glinda the Good Witch. I somehow created a dress out of white and gold tulle, accented by a  magic wand and a tiara from the kids’ dress-up box. There I am in the photo, tiara and all, blissfully unaware of the embarrassment to come.

We showed up in Arizona the day before Halloween, swimming in the hotel swimming pool, and hand-crafting  Halloween candy bags. Okay, maybe I was overcompensating a lot.

We went trick-or-treating in Sam and Kate’s neighborhood. The weather was lovely, and the kids hauled in lots of great candy for Halloween, even agreeing to share some of their Snickers Bars with me.

Then came the school carnival. It was a big event, widely advertised in posters around the school. Everyone was supposed to come in costume, including parents. There would be games and music and food and prizes. We all dressed up in our Wizard of Oz finery and walked into the school as a group. The kids dashed off, eager to play the games. I, meanwhile, looked around with an increasingly sick feeling in my stomach. In a huge gymnasium filled with people, Doug and I were the only adults dressed in costume. I looked at all the other parents, members of a fairly well-to-do suburb of Phoenix. There were the all other moms, all of whom seemed to have expensive haircuts, size 2 designer jeans and excellent manicures. They were all beautiful and tanned and relaxed. And there I was, with my fish-belly white Oregon skin, craft glue under my fingernails, holding a wand, of all things. I was sure everyone was looking at me, judging me, incredulous that I could be so eager, so earnest, so . . . so stupid. Doug at least was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. I, on the other hand, was wearing a tiara.

I  wanted to drop through the floor and disappear. I wanted to ditch Glinda the Good Witch and revert to Barbara the awkward stepmother visiting from out of town. When that didn’t appear to be an option, I wanted to gather all the kids together and leave immediately. The problem was, they were all having a great time throwing bean bags and fishing for little plastic prizes and eating hot dogs and cake. They were in their element. I was the one completely out of place. I felt like I didn’t belong—in the gym, in Arizona, or in the world of happy, intact families. I felt, in short, like a failure.

I stuffed the tiara and wand in one of the kids’ bags and mostly hid behind Doug. I tried to chat with some of the other adults, parents of Sam and Kate’s friends, but I’m sure I didn’t make much of an impression, or at least not a good one. Would you want to talk to a silent, cringing woman in a white fairy dress? It was one of the longest nights of my life, and one of the hardest in my career as a parent. That was over fifteen years ago, and although I’ve shared the story a few times with friends, I’ve never written about it.

Until now.

Why now?

My daughter reminded me of the story earlier in the week, and I began to ask myself this question. Why, when I am willing to write about most things—my childhood, my relationships, my mistakes or my lessons—do I stop at recording memories like this one. It’s not that I resist talking about times when I’ve made a fool of myself, because I’m actually fine with that (see my story “Denver“). What stops me is that it is part of my history of raising a blended family, which carries the distinction of being both the thing I am most proud of, and also the hardest thing I have ever done in my life. Twenty years into the process, I am humbled by all that we learned, and so grateful for the relationships I now have with everyone involved. It is perhaps one of the most significant experiences of my life.

So why wait so long to write about it? Because it probably took the distance of all those years to figure out what it means. What did I gain from that night standing in a crowded gymnasium, feeling out of place and humiliated? Here’s a beginning:

That I can’t control my experiences. I can do my best to plan, make beautiful, thematically-correct costumes, cover all the bases, and still have it fall apart.

That I survived the evening. It wasn’t pretty. I wasn’t happy. But my kids had a great time. They loved their costumes. In the end, it was just one night in a series of thousands.

That I belonged in that gymnasium, whether or not I felt like it at the time.

Ultimately, I decided to write it in hopes that perhaps I will be able to connect to someone else who has felt foolish or out of place—you, maybe—and be able to say that even in the middle of sinking humiliation, you have company. With time and distance, it will make more sense. You will survive. You already belong.

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