Wascally Wabbits

Wascally Wabbits

There was a point in time when I absolutely abhorred being a Speech and Language Pathologist. I remember wondering why I chose such an undervalued and underpaid career. To add to my workplace malaise I was hit with, “Special Education burnout” from having cared for those with special needs during my 6 years in college only to enter a profession tasked with assessing and treating communication disorders of those with disabilities.  I would drag myself to work and will myself to find some sort of light in the darkness of one impairment, after another.

To make matters worse Rob and I would attend parties that included other 20 somethings only to be met with patronizing smiles and comments about my “nice” profession. “I used to sttttuter!” or “Are you talking wascally wabbits?” I suppose these “jokes” were intended to be light hearted and they didn’t sting as badly as the, “You’re a Speech Therapist? Oh, how nice. That must be so rewarding.” I usually wanted to hide as these Assistant Project Managers, Level 2 Engineers and H.R. Department secretaries participated in what I viewed as self-important, entry level corporate pissing matches. My inquires about people’s work usually netted something that sounded like this, “Well, I am a project coordinator 2 for sector 4.” Huh? Whatever that was seemed much more happiness inducing and exciting than being a lowly SLP.

I finally got so fed up I thought it would be best to look at other ventures. So, Rob and I opened a cupcake shop! Sounded fun and exciting like that sector 4 person but better! The thing is cupcake shops aren’t fun. Yes the TV and radio personalities who would show up to talk with me and put me on the air made it sound awesome, like all good advertising does.  At parties people wanted to hear all about the cupcakes. I felt respected and interesting like that H.R. person.

The truth is the food business is incredibly difficult and soul sucking. There are generally 50 negative comments to 1 positive. Nothing ever seemed right and everyone knew how to bake better, run a business better or frost the better. Speech Therapy started looking really good.

I had to reassess everything and that I did.

Now as I take kids from their classrooms and they look at me and talk about their lives and laugh I wonder how I could have ever felt that my profession was anything but the best thing ever. I am often times the only adult who pays any real one-on-one attention to these students and I can feel in my soul that my presence makes a difference to those children and their presence makes a difference to me too.

What makes my job even better is that I am blessed to be able to share my knowledge with the next generation of therapists. I love training and mentoring these wonderful people and I always remind them that they have one of the most important jobs ever….Sector 4 be damned!

You Look Really Familiar

You Look Really Familiar

My 3 week old was solidly latched and nursing contentedly as the group of mothers went around the circle and introduced themselves. This was my third child and I wondered why I found the need to show up at that La Leche League meeting. I didn’t need support. My babe was nursing well and I really felt confident in my newborn skills. I introduced myself, “Hi, I am Danielle and this is Elizabeth and she is 3 weeks old. She is my third child and I also have a 5 year old daughter and a 2 year old son.” I went on to explain that I was also a Speech Pathologist. A voice from across the room called, “Hey! I am a Speech Pathologist too!” I peered at this blonde, sitting in her chair cradling her new born, her smiling face glowing with confidence. “Of course she is,” I thought, “she looks really familiar.”

At the break I spoke with this woman named Kristin and I insisted that I knew her from somewhere. She assured me that everyone said that when they met her because she must have a, “generic” face. I thought that was funny. I imagined that she perceived herself as the human equivalent of an off-brand canned vegetable.

That was the last time I remembered seeing her until I ran into her again. And again. And again. Still, we remained solely grocery store acquaintances.

Finally it was time for me to have our fourth baby. I had just run into Kristin and I asked her to meet for a play date with the kids. That’s when I proceeded to try to convince her that she needed to cover my maternity leave. “No,” she said. I used a different tactic. “No,” she said. I tried again, this time pleading. “No,” she said. It was no use.

This woman didn’t want to work!

In retrospect, Kristin and I laugh at the irony of her unwillingness to engage in gainful employment, because for the last 5 years all she and I have done is work. And work. And work some more. She and I have built a nice, small company for ourselves and have weathered together all of the storms that come with being business owners.

Some days are rough and others are absolutely awesome but I truly couldn’t imagine doing it with anyone else. Kristin has brought things to my life that I could never have dreamed. She fills in my blind spots, highlights the less emotional side of a situation, encourages me to be brave and creates one hell of a spreadsheet.

I guess Kristin is the reason I was at that La Leche League meeting. I am so grateful for her and often tell her that us meeting was a, “God thing.” To this she just rolls her eyes. And when we are together and people say to her, “You look  really familiar.” I always think, “She might look familiar but she is anything but generic.”

Sam Clam’s Disco

Sam Clam’s Disco

Since I got back from Chicago, I’ve heard myself saying repeatedly that although I had fun in the windy city, I really prefer San Francisco. I started to reflect on why I have such a love for the city by the bay and I realized that it all started with a joke.

Early in mine and Rob’s relationship I found myself sitting in his room in that old, dank, frat house looking through his childhood pictures when he asked me if I wanted to hear a joke. Um, of course I wanted to hear a joke! Rob began to recite the longest, most convoluted story I had ever heard. I waited anxiously for the punch line, which never seemed to come. Then after about 10 minutes, Rob delivered the funniest finale to a joke (or at least I thought so), “I left my heart in Sam Clam’s Disco.” I erupted with laughter. He then stated that he would love to show me around San Francisco. He has fulfilled this promise many times over.

I often think of that sweet, barely 21 year old frat boy and think of that joke and giggle. The joke itself was a foreshadowing of our journey together: Meandering, intriguing, at times seemingly senseless, and funny and endlessly entertaining.

I am eternally thankful for our marriage and more importantly I wonder how I have been so blessed to end up with Rob. His ceaseless optimism and joy are contagious. Mellow, loving and accepting. Rob exudes the kind of love that makes others want to love more. Accepting of others, patient and hopeful. We have endured many of life’s difficulties during our marriage. Deaths, divorces, illnesses, financial loss, estrangements and heart wrenching confessions have been encountered with compassion and understanding.

Rob is a passionate father; from being a labor coach so he could get the first glimpse of our children as they came into the world, to walking fussy infants through the house when I couldn’t stand to nurse one more minute, to bed time books and back rubs, to cheering on the sidelines of a sports field. Through the wonderful and hard times he constantly encourages our children and me to be the best people we can be.

So, that is why I love Sam Clam’s Disco or rather San Francisco because I really didn’t leave my heart there, it is actually safely in the possession of my lover and friend Rob.

Watermelon and Other Thoughts on My Church

Watermelon and Other Thoughts on My Church

Almost five years ago when my husband and I started attending St. A’s, I had friends and family wonder why I wanted to attend church so regularly and more importantly they wanted to make sure that I wasn’t getting, “all religious” on them.

I put these church skeptics at ease by assuring them that I merely liked the quiet time; a reflective time-out from my busy life as a working mother of 4 small children. I also guaranteed them that I really didn’t listen in church anyway.

Whether or not these assertions were true didn’t seem to matter at the time. I was just glad to keep my spiritual detractors at bay. Then at some point I realized that I really wasn’t listening in church. Or rather I was not listening in the traditional sense of the word.

I would sit in the pew and hear with my soul.

Some might say I was just spaced out. However, subconsciously a shifting occurred. My relationship with God and others changed. I could barely tell you what the scriptures said, aside from the occasional giggle inducing, obscure Biblical names. Even the priest’s sermons were more felt than heard.

Then as months passed I noticed my soul soften. I began to give more of my time to this parish I love. Not out of fear of the afterlife or some supposed threat of hell fire and damnation but rather out of a true desire to serve. My soul pushed me to assist with building God’s kingdom in the here and now.

So, my spiritual awakening actually began as a lack of listening but I was finally truly hearing.

And if I were occasionally lost in the liturgy, I would do what a good church friend of mine suggested: Just mouth, “watermelon” and it will look like you are following along with the BCP.

Over the years St. A’s has proven itself to be not only a space of zoned out worship for me but also a place for me to truly explore God’s desires for me and my family. 

Bandages and Splints

Bandages and Splints

The torn soul must weep. I know this well; it is an indelible part of my existence that I choose not to share with most others including myself. My soul is in a constant state of one sort of damage or another. I adhere transcendent bandages and friends place spiritual splints to keep me afloat. Yet, right under the surface there is a fear that these riggings will fall away or be ripped off and my soul will let loose a torrent of tears that even the earth might not be able to hold.

This summer I was in Oregon to see friends. Having never been to the Pacific North West before, I imagined overcast skies and persistent precipitation that would keep me indoors for a good portion of my stay. It never actually rained. Cloud cover was intermittent and I got a chance to experience the “best weather” of the year in Portland. The locals were thrilled and made efforts to enjoy the pleasant climate to its fullest. Hiking, sightseeing and backyard barbecues were all on the to-do list. A fantastic array of outdoorsy activities awaited me every day. I was suffocated. By no means did those who were in my company create my feeling of impending doom. I did enjoy my time despite the feeling in my soul that something was not quite right and that for some reason, I had not fallen in love with the moist, timbered environment that so many find soothing and delightful.

Once back in my desert home, the stifled feeling was gone. Openness pervaded my existence even though the landscape was parched, and I was met with nearly intolerable heat.  During my pre-dawn hikes, I started to notice the apparent paradox in my preference for the inhospitable dry land over the lushness of the moist forest. As I walked along the trail, I began to realize that somehow life emerges from such an unforgiving, impenetrable space. The desert plants and animals are adept at survival in the harshest conditions. They use their resources and life continues. They cannot stop being. Then, I noticed perhaps for the first time, the vastness of the sky and how its arch wraps the surface of the earth in a cradle; a mother caring for her child no matter how impossible the situation may appear at first. The desert: Enfolded in celestial love, extending infinitely in the distance and ready to receive the torrents of my torn soul. The desert feels dry enough to handle the potential of my spirit opening and unleashing the tears of the child who wanted desperately to fix the unfixable, the tears of the mourning girl who lost her father and the tears of the woman who has been forsaken by her mother.  I could not drown in my own soul in the desert. The desert can handle all things.

It was the desert that I also retreated to for refreshment. My first get away since Oregon was to a retreat house in Tucson. It is here that I am able to back away from my frenetic life and reflect. The center is situated in a gorgeous location near petroglyph-enhanced boulders and dry riverbeds. It is at a slight incline and the city and mountains in the distance juxtapose each other. During this visit I began to think about how much I love the desert and I also began to worry about next summer when I am planning to go to Ireland for a pilgrimage. I have been to Ireland before. It is wet in Ireland. It is moist, soggy and drenched. There would be absolutely no way that Ireland could possibly hold the torrent of tears that could be released from my torn soul if the splints and bandages were to fall off. And, I am certain a pilgrimage makes spiritual first-aid useless. I would certainly drown in Ireland. I would not be able to go.

I was certain that my plans would have to be altered. Why travel half way around the world to die a miserable death in the damaged pool of my own soul?

I left the retreat house and it started to rain. On the highway, it rained heavier. The rain was torrential, coming down in sheets with barely any visibility. Cars were pulled to the side of the road seemingly unsure about traveling through the large amounts of water collecting on the highway. I drove on and it rained harder and harder. Water was lapping over the shoulder of the road and my phone alerted me that there was a flash flood warning in effect. The earth could not hold the water. The sudden precipitation was too much for the dry earth to handle. The desert was unsure of what hit it. There was a chance that someone, maybe me, could drown.

The desert has provided a sense of calm for me throughout my life. Security in knowing that it is strong and tough and able to handle all things given. A perfect shield to deflect pain, yet I have subconsciously known that the bandages and splints need to be in place because, in reality the desert really can’t handle the torrent of tears that I am poised to release. Or rather the risk of drowning is in my own backyard and not in some far off pilgrimage.

Perhaps it is time to get my snorkel.