Growing Versions

One day when my son was in preschool, I noticed he was playing with one child, but not another of his close playmates. When I asked him about it, he responded "Mama, I only have 2 hands." Those words have remained in my mind all this time.  Now I know why.  Now I finally understand what he meant. People who you love and care for need care and concentration.  Loving is a kind of concentrating. When I was breastfeeding, I was constantly astonished at how consuming it was sitting on the couch in front of Law and Order nursing an infant.  I didn't expect it, but it really demanded a lot of concentration.  I was so busy, I forgot that the reason I was busy was that I was concentrating on attending to the needs of another person, deeply connected to me. The breastfeeding relationship is long over, but not the tending. The little ways we nurture the little people in our lives. The noticing, the re-framing, the encouraging, the timing it all takes time. On top of tha

I was humbled by a full-size copy of this CNN photo at the Human Right's Museum in Winnipeg last fall.  It is an arresting image. I'm sure I saw it or one close to it before that day in the museum. However, I also am sure my eyes scanned it quickly on my phone or in the paper, and although, I work with refugees and am saddened and hurt by this picture, it quickly faded into the background. In person, it is impossible to look away.  The hope and desperation co-mingle and cannot be dismissed. I came across it today and it had an even deeper impact on me.  It looks like the Last Supper or another Biblical tableau--a lesson as old as before we can all remember.  Reach over that chasm.  Take my hand.  You are not a stranger.  Let me hold your children while you find your footing on holy ground.

My grandmother died a long time ago, more than 30 years ago.  I have very fond memories of her. I treasure my own memories but also the memories that my dad shares from his childhood. I got extremely lucky the other night and I heard a new one to me. My uncle was telling a story about how his mom liked his kids to learn by doing things. So one day she actively encouraged them to boil sap on the stove to see if they could make maple syrup. The house they were living in had a plaster ceiling and the billowing steam made a big mess of the ceiling (and very little syrup). I like this one memory of her almost more than all of my own.  It gives me an insight into how she parented and how resourceful she was, making up fun with next to nothing. It makes me feel closer to her because although I haven't let my kids make syrup, I like them to just go ahead and try stuff to find out for themselves how it will turn out. I like the fact that all the stories about her have not a