Giving Up My Imaginary Friends

Post #10 of 40

Giving Up My Imaginary Friends

My mother, barely 28 years old, boarded a plane with my sister, 5, and me, 2. It was 1966, and the Vietnam War was underway. We were on our way to Okinawa where my father, a C-130 pilot, had been living and working in anticipation of our arrival.

I only have a few memories before this time, and I consider our move to Okinawa the beginning of my memory making.

When we arrived, Daddy picked us up in a rusty, dark green car, and he drove us to a house on the top of a hill. The yard had poinsettias and trees, a flagpole, a stone wall, and a view of the ocean. I don’t remember the time of day, but I remember the inside of the house being dark. I found my way to a small table in the kitchen, and Daddy fixed a bowl of cereal for me.

We lived in Okinawa for two and a half years. My sister attended first and second grade and a few months of third grade. I stayed at home for a year with my mom and our maid, Shigekko. Then I attended nursery school and a few months of kindergarten in Quanset huts. Janet and I both had friends from school and from the neighborhood.

I can share detailed accounts of trips to the beach, to the local seamstress, to the Philippines, and to Tokyo and Kyoto. I can describe the cake my mother made and decorated to look like a carousel, complete with sculpted horse marshmallows, for her friend Ann, another pilot’s wife, who had a baby while we were there. I can tell you how my mom’s Dentyne gum smelled and how the hospital looked out of one eye when I got stitches beside my eyelid and in my eyebrow because of a bite from our dog.

One hot, summer day in 1968, my mom, sister, and I went to see the movie, Yours, Mine, and Ours. After the movie, Mama drove to the post office, picked up the mail, and slipped back in the car to read a letter from my dad, who was on assignment in Vietnam for three months at a time. After some silence, she took a deep breath and read one part aloud, “Save your money and pack your bags. We’re going home.” Even at the age of almost five, I knew this was significant, and that life was about to change.

I don’t remember the specifics of packing, but I know it was complex. I remember asking Janet whether we’d be taking the Datsun convertible with us. I cried when I found out it was staying behind.

As far as family in the United States went, I knew one set of grandparents and our uncle (still in the army at the time) because they had visited us in Okinawa. I didn’t remember any other relatives and didn’t even know what extended family was. I didn’t know that my father had multiple siblings, that I had another set of grandparents, that I had cousins my own age on my father’s side. I’m sure I was told about them and shown pictures, but I didn’t remember them. I was leaving behind everyone and everything I remembered, except for the six people who had been with me or visited in Okinawa, and I was entering into a community I didn’t know.

Once our house was packed up, we moved to another military-furnished house for a few days, sort of a holding spot for us until time for our flights. One day I sat under a table as the island sun shone in the window on me. In that moment, I began inventing a friend to come with me to the States. His name was Rumple, and he was short, perhaps a dwarf. He had the wisdom and skills of a grownup, but he was my height, so I could look him in the eye. Rumple was a born leader. He knew the right thing to say and do at all times, and he was generous with his advice for me.

Rumple needed a friend by day two, and I invented Peter. Peter was also my height, and he was a grownup, a slightly less mature one, I suppose, never naughty, though. Peter’s hugs were the best. He was humorous and loving, and he was a perfect companion for Rumple and me.

In the book Imaginary Companions and the Children Who Create Them, the author says that children who feel lonely find companionship in imaginary friends. The loneliness that is helped by companions is rarely the kind in which a child’s friends happen to be busy on occasion. It is a bigger kind of loneliness that she describes.

Perhaps it is the loneliness being felt or anticipated by a five year old leaving everything she knows.

My imaginary friends traveled with me across the ocean all the way to Nashville, where we lived for six weeks with my maternal grandparents. Rumple and Peter were quiet during those times, and I hardly thought about them. While I am sure it was hard on the grownups all living in a small house with one bathroom, I was in heaven having my mother and grandmother to myself all day as well as having another set of grandparents and my great-grandparents, all on the same street.

During the snowy days of January 1969, our family of four moved to a ranch house on the lake in Hendersonville, Tennessee, about a thirty minute drive from Saunders Road, where all the grandparents lived.

When we moved to Hendersonville, Janet continued in third grade at a local school, but no kindergartens had available spots for me, so I stayed home with my mother the rest of the school year. Rumple and Peter began to visit again, and I enjoyed their company. There were no children in the neighborhood, so they were my playmates.

Within the next months, Rumple and Peter had invited five more friends to join us. Their names were Lelom, Ayay, Coco and Goshy and Gogy, who were twins. I am sure it is no coincidence that I ended up with seven friends since I was a fan of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs and listened to the record as often as I could.

In the fall of 1969, I started first grade and found friends who were real, not imaginary. I remember telling Monica, a real friend, about my seven imaginary friends, and she had no interest in playing with them. Eventually I met Cheryl in the neighborhood, and we would watch the Monkees on Saturday morning and eat toast with grape jelly that her cat-eyed mom prepared. Real friends continued making appearances, and I gave up Rumple, Peter, and their friends.

I gave up my imaginary friends in order to have more time and more fun with real people. I had always known they were imaginary. I also knew I could invite them back at any time.

———————-

I understand that elderly folks - living with dementia perhaps - sometimes see figures from their childhood. When I am old and frail, and my mind is slipping, I hope Rumple and Peter visit me. I’ll make sure to have two chairs ready for them. I am not sure we’ll have enough room for the other five.

Thanksgiving in the Philippines

Christmas Day 1966 or '67

When Daddy got home (Okinawa) from Vietnam, we celebrated again with him.

Christmas with Shigekko

Christmas back in the USA with grandparents and uncle, 1968

Giving Up the Church of My Childhood

Post #9 of 40

Giving Up the Church of My Childhood

I adapted this post from reflections I prepared prior to my confirmation in the Episcopal Church in 2022. This post reflects my own experiences in and impressions of the church of my childhood. Many of my relatives continue to be active in the Church of Christ. I mean no disrespect to them.

I was born in Nashville, Tennessee to parents who were members of the Church of Christ. The Church of Christ, at least in the South in those days, was extremely conservative - forbidding alcohol, dancing, women praying aloud or speaking in church if men were present, and even playing instrumental music during worship. They also believed that all who were not members of the Church of Christ would go to Hell. And, some of us members would be joining the non-members if our faith wasn’t strong enough, or if we hadn’t adequately asked God to forgive us for our sins at the moment of death.

My parents knew we weren’t quite right for the Church of Christ, as they enjoyed an occasional glass of wine, and they believed in women’s rights and respect for all religions, but we attended anyway. My father missed many Sunday services because of his time in the Air Force and later in the Air National Guard. If he only went to church 3 out of 4 Sundays in a month, did the Church of Christ think that was that enough to get him to Heaven? 

I had my first exposure to the “other” when our family moved to Okinawa so that my father, a C-130 pilot, could fly missions in Vietnam. I learned a lot about the “other” because I was the “other.” With curiosity, Okinawans touched my toe-headed, cotton candy hair, and I learned enough Japanese to call a bully a “cry-baby” and answer the phone and say, “Just a minute please” if the caller wanted our maid. 

Our first house in Okinawa was off base. One of our neighbors was Gladys, a Japanese girl around my older sister’s age, whose father, a civilian, worked for the US military. One of my favorite pictures is of Gladys dressed as a cowgirl along with my sister and me dressed in our kimonos. 

One day, Gladys invited me over to her house, and I caught a glimpse of an ornate shrine with lacquered wood and glimmering gold. Somehow, I knew not to touch, but my face got closer and closer as I took in the beauty – until a puff of my breath blew some of Gladys’s ancestor out of the bowl. I don’t remember being invited back, but I do know that my brain has layered onto that memory an admiration for beauty, reverence, and peace that my five-year-old active spirit desired. 

When we returned to Tennessee, we joined Hendersonville Church of Christ. The first minister I remember at that church knelt during prayers (uncommon in the CofC), and his name was Prater. As a child, I loved that name because of the way it made me think about praying, and I loved the kneeling.

In sixth grade I attended a Church of Christ school. I was the “city editor” of the class newspaper, and my column about the lack of racial diversity in the school got rejected by the typist-mom. Our family moved from Hendersonville to Nashville at the end of my sixth grade year, so I spent seventh grade at a “Christian School,” which revealed itself to be a refuge for racists. I couldn’t wait to leave that school and begged my parents to allow me to leave before the end of the year.

Our second Tennessee church was Harpeth Hills Church of Christ, and we joined after moving to Nashville. As a preteen and teen, I loved the youth conferences, which included songs, tears, and altar calls. One year, I was asked to address youth conference invitations from a mimeographed address list of other Churches of Christ, making sure to leave off the ones denoted with a “C” for “Colored,” I ignored the instructions and sent invitations to the “C” churches. None of them showed up. 

In seventh grade, I felt ready to take the step of being baptized at Harpeth Hills Church of Christ - full immersion - dressed in a thick canvas robe and a shower cap. Was it once down in the name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit or were there three dunks? I cannot remember, but I do remember feeling like a grownup, one who had decided to take responsibility for my actions and salvation, determined to ask forgiveness for my sins as often as possible.

After my seventh grade year, I returned to public schools with a wonderfully diverse student population. I felt much more at home with friends who weren’t - on the surface - like me. I found “my people” - Methodists, Muslims, Agnostics, Catholics and one Jewish girl. The colors of skin and countries of origin were equally diverse. What we had in common was a thirst for reading, knowledge, music, and big questions. 

Right before we moved to Nashville, my father began working for Mr. Lewis Steele, a Presbyterian man who lived his faith without pretense or judgment of others. He encouraged my sister to attend a Presbyterian college, Southwestern at Memphis, now Rhodes College, and I followed her there three years later. Every student entering in 1981 was required to take a class called, “Man in the Light of History and Religion.” That class opened my eyes to the Bible and religion in ways that eighteen years of Church of Christ life had not. 

My senior year, I took a class about the Book of John led by Richard Batey, a scholar who had grown up in the Church of Christ in Nashville. I was amazed to hear him talk about the “signs” – when I had worked so hard to convince myself about the magic of the miracles. Professor Batey was open to different interpretations of scripture until a fellow student voiced his view of the signs as absolute miracles. I was struck by how quickly this young man’s literalist interpretation was shut down. 

When my sister was planning her wedding to be at Harpeth Hills Church of Christ in 1985, the elders held a special meeting to discuss the rumor that my parents had decided to serve alcohol at the reception. Additionally, I ended up in an argument with the minister at the rehearsal when he refused to allow me to sing the Lord’s Prayer as an actual prayer since I am a woman. The upshot was no alcohol, but I did sing the prayer.

My sister and I gave up the Church of Christ at that point, and my parents left a few years later. 

I met Tom Barr the evening before my college Baccalaureate. He was a young, handsome, mathematics professor and church organist, and I was a graduating senior. We had mutual friends, and my sister and his sister had been sorority sisters and good friends in college. We began dating on the summer solstice of 1985 and married on December 27, 1986 at West End United Methodist Church in Nashville, where he had attended while at Vanderbilt earning his PhD. There would be no Church of Christ wedding for me. I joked with anyone who knew about the Church of Christ’s acapella-only hymn singing (at least at that time) that my big rebellion in life was marrying a church organist. 

Becoming a Presbyterian in Memphis was a simple transition for me. When Tom and I were dating, I joined the choir, and who knows whether it was to spend more time with him or to have more opportunities to sing? One Sunday, he was playing Widor’s Toccata from the Fifth Organ Symphony in F as the postlude, and Ray Allen, an active member at Idlewild Presbyterian and former Dean of Admissions at Rhodes, saw me watching this organist and listening intently, and whispered in my ear, “I think you should marry that man!” His comment caught me off guard because we were engaged but were waiting to be public until we told our parents in person. I smiled back at him and said, “I think I might!”  Tom and I were both active at the church, and he was already a member. I didn’t make an official commitment until we were ready to have children. 

Over the next thirty years, I earned a master’s degree, had three children, served at Idlewild Presbyterian Church in Memphis and later at Mountain Brook Presbyterian Church in Birmingham, Alabama. I volunteered to work on various committees and boards, sang and taught, and even helped dismantle an organ. During one of Tom’s sabbatical years, I organized, opened, and ran a childcare center for a Presbyterian Church in Kingsport, Tennessee. 

For eleven years, I worked at Grace-St. Luke’s Episcopal School. My time at GSL influenced me to the point that I would tell people I was 5/7 Episcopalian, 1/7 Presbyterian, and 1/7 undecided. I never quite “got over” the beauty of the liturgy during chapel and Sunday services. Tom gave me a leather-bound Book of Common Prayer for Christmas in 2000 because he knew how much I connected with the words, the history, and the elegance of the Episcopal Church. 

When moving to Rhode Island a few years ago, Tom and I couldn’t decide on a church and delayed any decision or regular attendance, but I became attracted to St. Martin’ Episcopal Church, first for their thrift shop, and later for their worship services. The pandemic hit about the time I was ready to start attending regularly. I rented a classroom from St. Martin’s for a learning pod during the 2020-2021 school year, and when I saw an opening for someone to work on the St. Martin’s website and newsletter, I applied. Now I work for St. Martin’s as the Director of Digital Marketing and as the Co-Director of Children’s Education. 

I may have given up the church of my childhood, but I have found a home in the Episcopal Church. at St. Martin’s where I can be myself and also be part of a larger community committed to inclusion, love, forgiveness, peace, and justice.

I love the weekly Eucharist, a throwback to the best of my Church of Christ days. I am excited to take part in the beauty of the liturgy and the reverence for the Holy Spirit. And, when I kneel, I sometimes think of “Brother Prater” over fifty years ago, influencing a six year old girl.

Maybe becoming officially Episcopalian last January felt special to me because it is the first time in my life that my decision about religion has been totally independent from others. My Church of Christ days were mandated by my parents, and my Presbyterian days were largely influenced by my college and my husband. 

And, while I say this decision is “independent,” I believe that the Holy Spirit has been with me every day giving me a puff here and a puff there, helping me to arrive in this place at this time. And, perhaps in some way, the Holy Spirit provided the little puff that moved a bit of Gladys’s ancestor, oh so long ago, to help me remember to seek God, to work for peace and justice, and to love all.

I’m so grateful or St. Martin’s Episcopal Church, my church home and employer.

Giving Up Rewriting and Editing

Post #8 of 40

Giving Up Rewriting and Editing and Overthinking

I decided to challenge myself to write 40 blog posts during Lent with the theme of Giving Up because I am interested in the topic and how it has danced through my life. I didn’t have a plan laid out. I didn’t have a spreadsheet with topics color coded in columns according to years or stages of life or themes. I didn’t even consider which ones should come first or last.

I dove right in.

I did think about how, with time, I might get more comfortable sharing, and how I might end up writing with more vulnerability, transparency, and insights as I went along, so I predicted that the ones toward the end might be different from the ones written while the remnants of ashes were still on my forehead.

I have written seven out of 40 now, and, I still haven’t listed and organized the topics. I hope I have it in me to complete this challenge.

John Irving said, “More than a half, maybe as much as two-thirds of my life as a writer is rewriting.”

This challenge doesn’t allow me to take it to a writers’ group to get notes.

This challenge does not allow for days or months or years of rewriting.

I have about a day to think, write, rewrite, create graphics, choose photos, and publish. The posts, so far, have taken about 3 hours, and I didn’t even know I had three hours I could devote to writing.

The minute the post is published, I begin wondering what the next post will be.

I send links to each post to our three children, their partners, our “almost” daughter, my husband, and my sister. I haven’t pushed the posts on anyone else. The imperfect posts along with their lack of editing and rewriting scare me.

Someone at church recently said to me, “I like how you really like to get things right, and you work hard and have high standards, but you’re also not afraid of trying something new, taking a chance.” She didn’t even know about my Lenten challenge.

So, I will continue to write and edit as much as I can in the three or four hours that I can spare each day.

Giving up rewriting and editing is also a challenge for me.

However, I will not allow perfection to prevent completion.

Giving Up My Mild Road Rage

Post #7 of 40

Giving Up My Mild Road Rage

I don’t remember where I first heard “Slow to anger, quick to forgive.” I like the rhythm and the juxtaposition of slow and quick, and I like the way it describes the way I want to be. Just recently I heard Psalm 86:15 read at church - “But you, O Lord, are a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness."

And, so I went to the internet wondering if the exact quote “Slow to anger, quick to forgive” could be found in the Bible. If it is there, I couldn’t locate it.

I found this lovely reminder in the book of James, though - “Know this, my beloved brothers: let every person be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger.”

When I was in graduate school, I was a graduate assistant at a demonstration school, and I said to my lead teacher, “You are so patient with these children. What is your secret?”

She said, “I’m not patient, and I’m not demonstrating patience. I know each child, and I understand child development, and if you have that in place, you don’t need patience.”

I took her thoughts to heart as a wife, mom, teacher, and coworker. Where I really struggled was in the car.

When cars cut me off or followed me too closely or beeped when I took 3 seconds to put my foot on the gas when the red light turned green, I would call them names that a Southern Lady would not have uttered, words I hadn’t heard in my home…ever! It seemed innocent enough to call these rude drivers expletive-laced names.

During the 1990 - 1991 school year I taught kindergarten at an excellent public school in Germantown, Tennessee, about a 30 minute drive from our little midtown bungalow in Memphis. Most of the time the drive was easy, and I rarely pulled out my saucy vocabulary.

Actually, for much of my commute during the first half of the year, I prayed for healthy pregnancies and babies for my sister and me. Janet and I were both having fertility challenges, and the possibility of neither one of us having children felt heavier than what science could handle. (FYI: We have three kids, each, now.)

So thirty minutes of prayer and meditation each way, mostly about bringing babies to our families, times 5 days a week for 16 or so weeks of school for the first semester ended up being about 80 hours of prayer.

I wonder if God allowed me to conceive so I would stop saying the same prayers over and over.

On Christmas Eve, 1990, I found out we were growing Baby Rebecca, and in between reading every book on pregnancy, labor, and infants, I started thinking about this habit of calling other drivers names. I had eight months before Rebecca’s birth, enough time to break the habit. And, I did.

My go-to word for the drivers became “Bozo,” but I continued to feel the irritation with other drivers. I would feel it in my stomach and in my heart. I’d clench my teeth and shake my head, but the worst thing I called the rude drivers was, “Bozo.”

My irritation continued until one weekend when I attended a Bhakti yoga retreat led by Amy Barnes, around 2009 at Gray Bear Lodge. My friend Andrea and I decided to meet there now that I lived in Birmingham, and she lived in East Tennessee. Andrea and I had become friends right after Rebecca was born. I noticed her the first Sunday I was back at church in Memphis, when I saw her, a tall, gorgeous alto, sitting in my spot in the choir loft. She and I shared a love of music, yoga, careers, and family life.

Amy Barnes, the retreat leader, and I had gone to the same junior high in Nashville, and we had recently reconnected. The retreat included lots of yoga, hearty meals, and kirtan. I hadn’t been to a kirtan prior to the retreat, but Amy had given me a copy of her CD a few months earlier, and I had played it and sung along incessantly.

Kirtan with Amy filled me with joy. All of the happy chemicals in my brain were released, and I felt full of life and light and energy as I meandered my way back to Birmingham on a Sunday afternoon following the retreat. My slow driving on the unfamiliar, curvy backroads of Tennessee gave the locals a good reason to beep at me, pass me, and show me their unmanicured middle fingers.

And, for the first time in that sort of situation, my jaws were relaxed, my stomach was happy, and my smile remained. I said aloud, “I know you’re probably on your way to church…or a kirtan, and you don’t want to be late. It’s okay, buddy. Be safe.”

Thinking of these folks heading to church…or to a kirtan gave the same sort of “understanding” that my lead teacher in graduate school had possessed, even if the story I was making up was most likely just that - a story.

I have continued practicing this “understanding” of drivers for more than 10 years now after giving up my mild case of road rage. Tom and I recently saw a car run a stop sign in our quiet East Side of Providence neighborhood, but we were far enough away that we had been in no danger.

Tom honked, and I said, “He was probably on his way to church or a kirtan or a funeral.”

Tom said, “Sarcasm, much?”

And, I just said, “Nope.”

Here are my parents with their six grandchildren, three of mine and three of my sister’s. Thanksgiving, 2001?

Giving Up Interpreting Questions

Post #6 of 40

Giving Up Interpreting Questions

Communicating with your family seems so complicated until you start communicating with those outside your family.

When did you discover that other people don’t communicate in the same ways that your family does or did? Growing up, I never considered the inner workings of Woodson communication, just as fish don’t think about their water.

It wasn’t until high school when I began dating, working at a gift shop, and talking late into the night with five friends about world religions, politics, the speed of light, and the murder of John Lennon - that I started to notice the variety of ways we can communicate - direct, indirect, passive aggressive, aggressive, humorously, sarcastically, idiomatically, under the breath, and with only body language or eyes….

My recollection is that my nuclear family spoke to each other in direct, literal ways. If we wanted a drink of water, we’d say, “I’m thirsty. I’m going in to get a drink of water.”

If we were too warm, we’d say, “I’m too warm. Is it okay with you if I change the thermostat?”

When I did something wrong, my parents pointed out my error in a timely and direct way.

We never would have said, “I haven’t had anything to drink all afternoon,” and expect someone to serve us a glass of water.

We wouldn’t have asked “Are you warm enough?” as we headed to the thermostat to adjust the temperature no matter how the other person answered.

My parents did not say, “Why are your clothes on the floor?” or “Where do your skates go?”

Right or wrong, this is the way we intereacted. We were clear with whatever we said.

As an adult, I have figured out that many people speak in indirect ways. I think this is especially true of women and Southerners, and maybe this is partly why I feel so welcome in New England?

In the first 20 years of my career, I tried so hard to be a good listener, interpreter, and communicator in order to make progress in schools. I aimed to read between the lines. I prided myself on being able to say to the teachers, “Those parents are grieving. They don’t have the genius child they’d hope for, and even though they are taking it out on you and questioning your teaching methods, what they are really doing is expressing the loss they feel.”

This interpretation was a positive attribute that came in handy, even if it was time consuming to work through all of the indirect and somewhat accusatory questions.

I knew that the parent who emailed and said, “Who came up with this math curriculum?” might really be preparing to say that she didn’t like the way math was taught. And, I tried to suss this out.

Over and over, questions were posed to me when specific answers to the questions weren’t being sought, and I tried to play the game.

Until I stopped trying.

A mom was angry about a half day of school. As a working mom, I understood the frustration, and I sympathized. Her email read,

“Dear Ms. Barr,

I had no idea today was a half day, and I am at work. I didn’t send lunch, and I can’t pick up Janelle from school at noon.

How on earth was I supposed to know this was a half day? Where did you put this information?”

And, I emailed back in frustration - something I wish I hadn’t done.

“Dear Mrs. Smith,

I am so sorry you didn’t know it was a half day. I will make sure Janelle gets lunch, and she can stay in After School Care.

The information about the half day was posted on the school calendar, in the parent handbook, the weekly newsletter, Facebook, the teacher’s newsletter, in the reminder email from me last week, and in the handout from Parents’ Night.”

You know, I shouldn’t have answered her literally. I could have stopped after the first paragraph.

Even though I regret that second paragraph, I have continued being as literal as possible when answering questions. I try to assume that people ask questions because they want an answer. I have stopped predicting that they are mad at me or are pointing out my mistakes. I try not to make up all sorts of stories about the motivation for the questions. I just answer directly. I’ve even tried to tamp down my sarcasm and humor when answering questions. At times, letting go of my imperfect humor has been a challenge.

Going back to the communication of my childhood has been a mixed bag. At times, I don’t seem curious or interested enough. Maybe I don’t even appear to be smart enough. I don’t look like I am “in” on an inside joke, and maybe I’m not. I’m so much happier now, though, giving up on interpreting the questions. And, I have a lot more time and energy for a pleasant conversation.

*And, apologies to “Mrs. Smith” for my burst of literal answering. My pendulum swung way too far.

Giving Up My Tolerance For Intolerance

Post #5 of 40

Giving Up My Tolerance For Intolerance

(Some details in this post have been changed on purpose.)

The first grade teacher and lower school coordinator entered my office looking defeated. They had both attended a parent conference that morning in which the two parents stated that they did not want their son to learn about “other” religions in the upcoming world religions unit.

I was a fairly new head of school at the time and was a little surprised that first graders were tackling world religions at such a young age, but my personal beliefs and knowledge of child development gave me no concerns about the curriculum.

“They are evangelical Christians, Kathryn,” Ann said, “and I think they are going to call you to ask you to excuse Dan from the lessons on Judaism, Buddhism, Hinduism, and especially the Muslim religion. They said they don’t want to keep Dan from knowing about other religions his whole life, but now isn’t the right time, and they especially don’t want him learning about religions from us.” The lower school coordinator was progressive - downright liberal - especially when compared to others in Alabama. She was also one of the smartest educators I’d ever met.

“So, are they saying that learning about the other religions is against their religion?” I asked Ann and the teacher.

“Yes,” they replied in unison.

“Then, how do we go against their religion if the reason we teach about a variety of religions is to show respect for all religions?” And, then I followed up with the questions heads with budgets think about, “If we require Dan to be in the lessons, do you think the family will leave the school?”

“Not sure about that, but I think they’d keep him out those days or at least pick him up before the lessons,” the first grade teacher said.

I shook my head, “Then I don’t see how we can win on this. Yes, we want the kids to have respect for all religions, but if we require Dan to complete these lessons, we are asking him to go against his religion, and then the family will likely leave and certainly pull him out during the lessons. If we excuse him from the lessons on the basis of respecting their religion, then maybe they will stay. I just don’t see how we can require this unit for him.”

Both of the women disagreed with me, and Ann, the lower school coordinator was more outspoken about it. “At what point do we allow parents to decide what their children are taught in a school where professionals - true experts - have made these plans?” she wanted to know.

I didn’t have great answers for her, but the freedom of religion kept coming up for me.

Indeed how could we require a student to go against his religion in an effort to show respect for all religions?

By the end of the day, my assistant had added an early morning meeting for the next day on my calendar with Dan’s parents.

I arrived earlier than usual the day of the meeting. I was a little nervous. I looked for a calming song on my computer’s iTunes. I found a Kirtan and played it softly. I said a prayer - in my Christian way - for peace and understanding for these parents whose beliefs were in opposition to mine and to the school’s.

I ended up being the good cop with the parents, letting them know that I didn’t agree with them, but because we respected all religions, we would respect their religious choice to exclude Dan from the world religion lessons.

BUT that was in the early 2000s. So much has changed since then, and while I truly believed in my logic at the time, I have changed.

I am now a “card-carrying” Episcopalian and Democrat (previously Independent) who believes love is love, women get to choose what they do with their bodies, Black Lives Matter, people (even young people) get to share their preferred pronouns and nicknames, and you don’t have to agree or even understand in order to show love and respect and compassion.

I believe in science and medicine and vaccines and God.

I am tired of all opinions being valid - as if lies can become truth if repeated enough times, by the right people, and loudly enough.

And, I am tired of intolerance being tolerated.

I met with some school administrators recently on Zoom, and one of them said that a family had threatened to leave their school if they didn’t take down the “Black Lives Matter” sign. Since I was in an advisory role, it was easy for me to say, “Let them leave. I don’t tolerate intolerance anymore, and neither should you!”

The other administrators on the call laughed at my overly aggressive statement. They questioned how I had come to this and asked if I could be considered a tolerant person if I am intolerant of the intolerant.

This change has been recent, and until that Zoom meeting, I hadn’t put it into words.

The years 2016 to 2020 changed me, though. I was pushed to see what happens when society is too tolerant with intolerance. My releasing of Dan from the world religions unit may not have hurt him or society, but what happens when we omit swaths of truth from our curricula, when we spread lies that cost people their lives, when we make policies that put the mental and physical health of the vulnerable in jeopardy?

Yes, I gave up my tolerance of intolerance.

Not only did I give it up, I (figuratively) jammed it in a giant balloon and sent it up, up, and away. What happens next to that tolerance of intolerance in the balloon is anybody’s guess.

Hot and sweaty in Bangkok at the Temple of the Emerald Buddha (Wat Phra Si Rattana Satsadaram) in 2019, I lit incense and said a prayer for my Presbyterian father-in-law who was in hospice.

Giving Up the Morning Perk

Post #4 of 40

Giving up the morning perk

My parents always said I was born a morning person. It became my identity.

They said I would wake up famished, bubbly, and talkative.

I remember Saturdays in the 1970s when I would wake up before anyone else, put non-sugared cereal in a bowl, pour the milk, put the cereal bowl on a tray, and walk gingerly down the steps to the basement den with the green shag carpeting.

With no one to talk to except Ringo, the collie, I’d put my tray on a TV tray with the foldable legs, and then I’d find the cartoons on either ABC, NBC, or CBS - Channels 2, 4, and 5. Those were the three channels we had - along with Channel 8, PBS. When my older sister arose and descended the steps with her cereal, we would argue over who got the papasan chair and watch cartoons and the School Hour Rock snippets until about 10am. I probably instigated the arguments over the chair just so I could interact with a human being.

When my husband and I got married in 1986, we moved in together and began figuring out the dances that occur at transitions.

• What happens when the second person gets up?

• What happens when the second person gets home from work?

• What happens when the first person is ready to go to bed?

I was almost always the first to get up each morning. I’d pop the top on my Diet Coke and read the newspaper in the early days. I might run a load of laundry or take a walk. No internet was there to tempt me down a rabbit hole. An hour or so later, Tom would emerge, make coffee and get started on his day - quietly.

Our baby-making days began in 1991, four and a half years after we had married. We had hoped for a baby earlier, but that wasn’t in the cards, so as soon as I was cleared by the doctor after Rebecca’s birth, we began hoping for our next child. In just 15 months, my morning routine changed from waking up with a Diet Coke and the newspaper to waking up with Rebecca’s “Mommy, I’m ‘ungry,” Elizabeth’s newborn cry, and the need to change two sets of diapers.

I recalled my earlier bubbly morning days, the ones of my childhood, and I thought about the way my parents and sister lovingly teased me about my sunrise energy. And, somehow (and for some reason), I reached into my soul and silently named myself the perky morning one.

• My job was to be the inspiration for these two little girls and their dad.

• My job was to make sure that they saw the essence of joy and sunshine.

• My job was to sing morning songs to brighten their transition to the day.

• My job was to start their day “right.”

Now, those of you who are not morning people are now rolling your eyes at me and thinking about how my well-intentioned morning habits were hard on those who experienced them. And, my sweet family can share whether I am exaggerating or not.

In 1998, we welcomed baby Thomas (now 6’4”), and the pressure was even higher for me. I had big career goals - a move from teaching to administration. My hours increased (as did my stress). What skills I didn’t have that I would need to eventually become a head of school, I set out to learn. I took a seat on a board and a position on my church’s personnel committee. I directed summer camps, took classes, and became the school’s first Director of Publications - in addition to teaching full time.

After a few years, my strategic gathering of skills paid off, and my dream was realized as I become head of a diverse, progressive K-8 school in Birmingham (Mountain Brook), Alabama. With a house just a few minutes from the school, we didn’t have to wake up super-early. The sounds that the kids heard first thing each morning came from a repertoire of morning songs lovingly shared by their favorite (I hope) mezzo soprano.

The hours and time on duty or on call increased when I was head of school, and I really wanted a vacation in 2010. Tom couldn’t take time off that summer, so I registered for a week-long workshop at Kripalu to learn how to demonstrate healthful cooking - a skill I wanted, but didn’t “need.” It was my first solo “vacation.” At Kripalu, the breakfasts are silent. No talking. No singing. No perking people up.

Yes, I am a word person, but I don’t have the words to describe the way a week of silent mornings affected me. I had scoffed at the idea of silent mornings, thought it was silly, but, after a week, my lifelong identity had changed.

I had given up the morning perk.

I flew home to Alabama, continued to wake up before the others, but it was summer, and no one had to get up early. I sang no songs, demonstrated no perkiness, and bore no responsibility for others’ morning joy. Elizabeth and Thomas were the only kids home at the time, and after an explanation, they got used to my quiet persona. Rebecca returned from a year in Adana, Turkey a few weeks later. I suppose I told her about my new morning routine, but maybe I didn’t.

In the midst of re-entry, she quietly walked to me one morning, and asked, “Are you okay? The way you’re so quiet in the mornings is so strange.”

I reminded her that by the time she graduated from high school, my morning perkiness had annoyed her. Still, it had been comforting to her, and now this new routine was one more thing to throw her. We laughed about how my morning perk had bothered her, but now the morning quiet did, too.

Eventually, the family got used to my quiet self. And, they knew they were responsible for their own morning joy. I have kept up these quiet mornings for thirteen years now with no plans of changing.

I do make an exception and talk to my mom during morning coffee when I am at her place. When my dad was alive - but ailing - I spent a month with them, and morning coffee with conversation on the deck with this view was one of the best parts of the day.

Giving Up Shoulding On Myself

#3 of 40

Giving up Shoulding on myself

Are you one of those people who overuses the word, “should”?

I was one of those folks, using should to describe my perceived failures in the past and my perceived obligations for the future. Apparently, psychologist Clayton Barbeau coined the term “shoulding yourself.” If you search “shoulding yourself,” you will find dozens of articles about the topic.

I massaged the phrase to accommodate my sense of humor and to make it sound slightly more provocative. Instead of “shoulding myself,” I call it “shoulding on myself.”

Shoulding about the past

Many of us think we can only improve if we impose obligations and guilt and pressure. I found that shoulding on myself discouraged success and encouraged me to see myself as unworthy. So, one Lent, I gave up the word - should. I found myself shoulding on myself in two different ways -

1. An expression of regret and failure

2. A goal or intention

When speaking of the past, I heard myself shoulding on myself in these ways:

• I should have taken the bread out of the oven earlier.

• I should have been more prepared for the meeting.

• I should have been more patient with the kids this morning.

• I shouldn’t have snapped at Tom.

• I shouldn’t have eaten that third brownie.

As I practiced reducing or eliminating “should” from my vocabulary, I began to look for alternate ways to express myself when I had goofed.

• The bread is a little dark. I’ll set the timer next time.

• I’m going to work late on the project tonight, and next time, I will backwards plan - putting midway checkins on my calendar.

• I’m going to get up earlier and make some checklists. I’ll support and encourage the kids in the mornings.

Reframing my regrets, mistakes, lack of patience, and forgetful moments helped me stop living in the past and moved me toward planning - actually taking the steps - for a future in which I would do better. It didn’t mean I swept my errors under the rug - quite the opposite. And, to me, that’s the interesting part - why is it that we think we have to be so rough on ourselves in order to improve?

Shoulding about the future

The other instances I shoulded on myself was when I thought about the future. When I did should on myself about the future, it made me want to rebel a bit, so that this tiny voice said, “Yes, I should, but I don’t have to.” Obviously, this isn’t the purpose I had intended when I shoulded on myself about the future.

Here are some of the shouldings that I heard myself saying -

• I should eat more vegetables.

• I should send a birthday card to Margaret.

• I should save more money.

• I should meditate more.

• I should be a better wife/daughter/mother/sister - fill in the blank _______ .

When I heard myself talking about my future shoulds, I was not taking true responsibility for my future. I talked about my actions in some sort of nebulous way - a way that actually relieved me of responsibility while also making me feel guilty. Every time I shoulded on myself about the future, I could easily follow it with a but - e.g. “I should meditate more…but I am too busy.” It was a lose-lose proposition. so, I try to reframe the future shoulds into action statements.

• I will add spinach, kale, and carrots to my grocery list and buy them this Saturday.

• I will go ahead and write a fun birthday message on the blank card I have in my desk and send it to Margaret.

• I will ask the business office to put 10% in my 403B and 10% in my savings account when they do the direct deposit.

These small reframes put the responsibility exactly where it needed to be - on me - without adding guilt and without taking myself off the hook by implying that it was impossible.

I continue to work on decreasing the times I should on myself. Am I the only one? Feel free to contact me or comment and share your experiences.

Giving Up Labeling Myself Negatively

Post #2 of 40

Giving up labeling myself negatively

The week before Lent in the early 2000s, office conversations were turning to what we were going to give up for Lent. I didn’t want to give up anything. I had tried at one point to give up Diet Coke, but that had lasted about 3 hours. Seriously.

After my failed attempt to give up Diet Coke, I decided giving up wasn’t for me. Indeed, I was giving up giving up.

During the pre-Lent conversation, my colleague Cindy admonished me for always adding roles, responsibilities, meetings, activities, and Lenten practices. I wasn’t ready to try to give up Diet Coke at the time - the biggest addiction I had in my life, but I knew that I often talked badly about myself - in my head and aloud. I knew the way I talked about myself wasn’t healthy, and it certainly wasn’t setting a good example for my kids, especially our teenage girls. My big challenge was to stop saying, “I’m so dumb” or “I’m so forgetful.”

So, that year I gave up labeling myself with negative adjectives. If I made a mistake or forgot something, I used a verb to express my frustration. “I’m so dumb” became “I don’t know how to do that.”

“I’m so forgetful” became “I forgot to bring that report.”

Extending this practice, this “giving up,” into my home life was next.

I started paying more attention to what I said about myself at home, and then I started noticing our daughters and my husband saying negative things about themselves. I decided my go to response would be, “Please don’t say that about my daughter.” And, to Tom, I’d say, “Don’t say that about my husband.” Before long, the family got on board and began using the same phrase on me: “Please don’t say that about my mother.” or “Don’t say that about my wife.”

I still struggle with the self deprecation and accepting compliments, and in some circles thinking positively about self or accepting a compliment with a “thank you” could paint me as an egomaniac. Being kind to myself in word and in deed is a goal, a practice, one worth working toward, and giving up, “I’m so dumb” isn’t as easy as I wish.

Giving Up

Post #1 of 40

An Introduction

For twenty-plus years, I have journeyed through decluttering tangible objects. I have read every decluttering, organizing, and feng shui book. I have watched the Netflix shows with rainbow themed organization systems and the ones that instructed me to thank each unmatched sock for its service prior to tossing.

Until I hit my forties, I had not really considered decluttering the intangibles, though. Other folks would give up things for Lent, but I would say, “I’ll take on a new practice.” It wasn’t until a colleague laughed and said, “Of course, you will,” when talking about Lenten practices, that I clearly saw that my tendency was to add and add. After that, I began noticing what I did need to give up - from bad habits and negative self talk to Diet Coke and eye rolling.

In 2021, I decided to write a book about all the “things” I had given up since making that decision. And, instead of writing, I dreamed and brainstormed. Now, two years later, I have nothing to show for this book that I had decided to write.

Here we are at Lent, the season in which I realized that I am more comfortable collecting than relinquishing. I don’t know if I will ever get that book written, but my Lenten practice this year, 2023, will be writing 40 posts about “giving up.” And, who knows, maybe at the end of Post number 40, I will tell you that I am giving up on the idea of writing a book!

Is it time to let go of your dead plants - those literal and figurative dead plants that are taking your time and resources?

A few notes for the readers:

Please note that the connotation most people have about the term “giving up” is not lost on me. My contrarian side embraces the way the term is jarring and the way that it has a negative connotation. I do like the element of surprise!

I hope readers will embrace this writing because accountability helps me complete tasks. Setting this goal in a public way (not very Biblical, I realize) and with time-bound, specific and measurable details is quite purposeful. If I actually want to do some writing about Giving Up instead of just thinking about it, this is the method I will need.

Thank you for reading this far, and please let me know your thoughts, questions, what you have been giving up and what you wish you could/would give up.