To Walk Bravely

In 2002, I began a journey. When it became apparent Mutant and I would have to move from the glorious mountaintop into this wilderness valley, we were overwhelmed. Life hadn’t worked out the way we planned; Ase 7, Zany 6, and Girly a bubbly 2 years old. After 11 years of transitions and seven moves, we were exhausted.

We all needed to slow down and heal our wounds. Mutant and I decided to school the kids at home to give them that chance.

To let them breathe.

To figure out who they were.

To let them learn the way their brains were wired.

It was a year by year decision. Some years we thought about sending them back to public school for my sanity. Other years, we were excited to keep them home. Through it all the boys had the freedom to play sports and fall in love with dance. They were able to fall in love with it and deal with the bullying and judgment that came their way.

Because they had the space to heal. The freedom to walk away permanently from people who ridiculed them. 

When Girly began to explore science and fall in love with math. As Fluffy-the dead cat- was brought home, skulls, owl pellets, Mutant’s hunting prizes and Aunt’s dead dolphin treasures and more collected on her bookshelf. She could do math to relax herself. Her love of reading developed organically, instead of forced.  Brothers taught her about discretion;  how to resist pressure of sacrificing self to fit in.

What started out as a season of healing, homeschooling became a place for discovery and finding their personal integrity. This wild adventure of non-sequiturs, faith, emotional meltdowns over assignments, testing limits and falling in love with learning was nothing we expected.

When the boys graduated 8th grade, they attended public high school. We chose the one best suited for them. To experience people from different walks of life. Learn through different methods. Greatest of all, to become who they were meant to be. They graduated in 2013 and 2014.

So here we are.

Today…

Girly begins her journey in the school of her choice. Walking in compassion with people from different places. To be academically challenged. Taking all of her discoveries and curiosities along for the adventure. Taking pieces of her brothers with her, she bravely faced the day.

And me. Saying goodbye to a 12 year career, feeling satisfied with a job well done.

A Nest With A Revolving Door

I was not prepared for this.

I did what they told me to. Those older wise women in ministry as they reflected reverent behavior. They told us not to slander. Not to drink-if you do, not too much. We were admonished to love our husbands and children. To be discreet in our actions, make sure all of our flirtations and obedience was towards our husbands and NOT make friends with other men. Don’t act like Jezebel. Defer all final decisions to the husband. It’s ok to make suggestions, but in the end his word is law.

It was our job, to make sure God wasn’t blasphemed.

Over the last 20ish years of marriage and kids, I’ve watched my friends feel shame when the economy soured and they went back to work. Those who chose to send their kids to school defending it with, “My husband…” Those who did homeschool explain why their kids needed to go to school. I had friends who wouldn’t invite people over because she wasn’t a good housekeeper.

The cycle continues with the younger moms today. They carry a heavy millstone of obligation to everyone else.

And here I sit.

Two kids in college and yesterday I dropped Girly off for classes that we’ve added to the homeschool schedule. This season is coming to a close.

The season of children.
The season of being that hot wife.
The season of running the home.
The season of everyone else’s agenda.

I’ve spent the last year looking forward to this and also dreading it because it exposes a nasty, uncomfortable question:

What about me?

Friendships were directly tied to who the kids were friends with. Now that most of the boys’ friends are off to college, those moms are off on adventure of discovery. Their nest is completely empty while mine still has a fledglings and a rotating door.

I feel lost.

What about me?

Somehow I got the idea through the women’s ministry to not ask that question. It’s about Jesus. It’s about being God’s representative. It’s about the husband. It’s about the kids.

I feel confused. I’m not the kind of mom who wishes the kids were small again. I’ve loved every stage. Every moment that we passed through was savored. I like being their friend and mentor now. I like watching them make decisions and mistakes themselves. The question haunts:

What about me?

I become irritated with myself. The question sounds pathetic.

So…

In my struggle to find an answer I reflect on all of the women’s retreats, bible studies, groups, sermons and mentoring for an answer. It eludes me. I’m not an older woman who could mentor. I am not a younger woman eager to learn home management, child rearing and husband happiness techniques.

I am in a middle and feel a bit abandoned. I have no clear answer. My thoughts fall to my youth, when the focus simply was loving God and serving others. I wonder if that should have been the message all along.

A Dance Hope Explosion

I pause today and look back on the week.

My breath catches.

So much unimaginable good.


When Gala was over last year, the seniors took their bows at the final cast call. Ase had a far away look in his eye. Zany stood next to him-a Junior- playing his part honoring the seniors. His face held an empty smile.

It was not nostalgia.
It was not anticipating loss of friendships.
It was emptiness. Their dancing artistic soul was hollow from burn out.

Personality clashes turned nuclear in the spring. It soured the spirit of Ase's senior year accomplishments. Both were reluctant to dance again, nervous about repercussions, but they did. Zany reveled in the roll as Nutcracker’s Mouse King. Ase took classes and focused on a competitive dance team within our studio.


Through the year Ase realized the toll of working and going to school. He couldn't dance at the level he wanted to. Our small town had no other options for him. The potential offer across the country to dance professionally seemed an allusive goal. It seamed to be time to leave dance behind. It was time to focus on school and his future with his second passion, astronomy.

Ase prepared for the West Coast Dance Explosion, the last dance convention for the year. He got off work we piled into the car at 6:30. We knew it was going to be tight-LA Friday evening traffic- and the performances began at 5:00. Ase was slated to dance at 10:00.

Miracles of miracles on a Friday night in the rain, we hit no traffic and arrived with 40 minutes to spare. Plenty of time to calm nerves, warm up, walk it through and go on.

Once settled into our room, Ase opened his heart. Feeling frustrated and discouraged he didn’t want dance to end this way: in frustration. As a family, one of our mottos is:

Finish Well


Saturday started with a ballet class, his favorite. From there the day built to a satisfactory crescendo. The night’s performances were beautiful and there was joy in his eye again.

Sunday held a few classes and a conference audition. In the last class of the day, they are taught choreography then have to audition it. Depending on how well they do as individuals, a prize is awarded.

Ase's number was called and he went; not too surprised, boys are rare in the dance world. After the awards were handed out, I waited for him to find me in all the madness. Just as I was mind numbingly comfortable a friend rushed up to me:

YOU’RE GOING TO VEGAS!

I blinked. “What?”

YOU’RE GOING TO VEGAS!

Double blinked, “What?”

This time she took a breath and with deliberation said, “Ase is going to Vegas. He won the Elite Award.”

My breath caught, “Wait… what does that mean?”

“He gets to perform a solo and compete nationally against other dancers. IN VEGAS!”

I directed her to go tell him because I knew he had no clue. The expression from across the room was the “everyone gets a ribbon” face.


I watched as she went through the same thick headed dialog with him. His expression changed to the “deer in the headlights.”

We spent dinner, the drive home and two hours more discussing it. Figuring out fund raising and creative revenue streams were brainstormed. Somehow we will make it work: my sewing, his penny pinching, odd jobs...

Ase will be dancing on a national platform for a week: special performances, classes, auditions and competition against the other Elite winners. It is with this breath of possibility he is revisiting dancing professionally for a year.

Maybe it doesn't need to be over.