Saturday, September 30, 2017

Oh, September

How's September been for you?


Do your wheels feel squeaky? Or maybe your wheels feel like they just can't quite get on the track. Worse, perhaps your wheels feel that they are going way to fast down a hill a hill towards a cliff.
That's how September can feel for me some days.

August feels slow and lazy, the way I remember it did when I was a kid. August is like a bunch of Saturdays strung together. In August I took  to putting in my headphones and listening to my favorite Avett Brothers songs while swinging in the backyard. Auto insurance, wrong decisions, and homeschooling fall away the closer I get to the clouds.

August is blissful, even with it's oppressive heat.


Sleeping late, savoring the last days that the pool is open, evenings at the park - all of it.

 


Looking back on September, now, though, it feels like a bunch of Mondays strung together.


September was a bunch of start and stops with a new schedule. There was a lot of unfinished checklists as we figured out what was actually humanly possible in a day versus what my recovering perfectionist mind told me we 'should' be doing. Parts of September involved me sitting in a stupor as I let my brain and body catch up.

September is when all the things I want to do collide with reality. September is the month that forces me to slow down. 

I spent too much time debating which planners might be the most useful. I don't even want to talk about the printing mishap; the one in which I hit print without registering that there were 84 pages in the printable planner sample I found. WHO DOES THAT?

I read and re-read about unschooling. I bring home way too many books from the library. I attempt to be organized and on top of meals - yet resort to weekly spaghetti and taco nights.

We're in what's supposed to be the last hot spell of the season. It's been near 90 every day. The leaves piled up in corners of the yard are brown and  ugly  yet the grass is green and needs to be mowed every week. It's just as well, I suppose, because Spencer doesn't want to put his flip-flops away.


Actually, he lost his flip-flops.

This is the time of year that requires work to find our groove. I struggle to do the same things every day. I feel jealous of homeschoolers on Instagram who have Waldorf/Montessori children playing with wooden toys while classical music plays in the background. Here at the Shepherd Abode we're just trying to find spoons to eat breakfast with.

Spoons are a hot commodity around here.


Some days I love it all and some days...I just don't.

Such is life.

Now we're at the end. That's it. We're turning the corner into fall. Here in central Kentucky we'll be getting actual autumnal weather soon.

Why is that I always get it at the end?

This little heat wave we've been having is a perfect metaphor for my life. September felt like that heat was building up to something, I just didn't know what. Last night I took a walk at 7:30 and it was cool and see-through dark. I felt like I could fill my lungs again for the first time in weeks.

The pressure-cooker feeling was gone and in its place was a brand new season.

That's where I am, too, as are all of my people. My young adults are adulting away. My 13-year-old is on the verge of all the changes. My almost eight year old helps me see that everything is awesome. My hubby is settling into his new life. My parents make senior-citizening look easy, even with knee replacements and other difficulties. I'm doing okay, too, figuring this 40-something gig out.

I laugh a lot, but I cry when I need to.
September seems to be when my part of the world breathes a sigh of relief.

How can I not join in?

Whether you're homeschooling, life schooling, or just trying to make it to work every day with both pairs of shoes on - we've got this. We're all in it together. Let's sigh together as we turn the calendar page. 

 

Be brave, misfits, and use pencil in your planners.


 

 

P.S.

I'm mailing out the Brave Newsletter this evening - make sure you're signed up so you can get the good stuff, too.

 



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Saturday, September 9, 2017

Five Hours

If you prefer to listen to this post just press play below.

[audio mp3="http://www.karakshepherd.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/Blog-Post-Five-Hours-91117-7.55-PM.mp3"][/audio]



I noticed one of my friends on my way in to the drop-in center this morning. She was talking with a man so I knew not to wave. It was early to see anyone out and I found myself thinking of all the scenarios that found her out on the sidewalks at that time of day.

Did she get kicked out of somewhere semi-safe?

Did she need something to eat?

Had she been out all night?

She made it down to us just before lunch was served. Leftover drunk hung around her head making it too heavy to hold up. We each asked what we could do, what we could give, that would make it more bearable. Silent tears cause her mascara run.  Another friend stood to tenderly wipe the black marks away.
The bloody scratches on the woman’s arms confirmed what I’d always assumed: she was a fighter.





 
“If you treat an individual as he is, he will remain how he is. But if you treat him as if he were what he ought to be and could be, he will become what he ought to be and could be.” ~ Goethe

 

Every day that I spend in the drop-in center is an education, a reminder of how little I actually know of the world.

The table we all sit at is old and covered with a brightly colored vinyl tablecloth. The bowls holding chips and packaged sweets serve as a small comfort to women who are struggling with homelessness, addiction, and sexual exploitation.

We color together, sometimes play with play dough, and share a meal. We break bread at that table, us women. We share holy communion with one another, amongst crude language and a sadness that I do not know.

They swap tales of slum lords, pimps, and past times shared with one another. I’m informed that if you don’t have tits and ass you won’t get anything down there. Nothing to rent, nowhere to stay.

There is laughter and teasing. One friend shares a couple of jokes she knows as she cleans her feet with peroxide. She can’t see to put on her bandaids so I ask about the glasses on her head. She tells me, “Those don’t work. They just hold my hair back.” This strikes me so funny I roar with laughter and everyone else joins in. It’s all so absurd and normal.

Over the course of my five hours I am changed.


I have had to tell a woman that no, I cannot get her a pair of underwear because our clothing closet is closed on Saturdays. She takes it like a champ and says she’ll go to the store and work it out. I’m still ruminating on why I have 12 pair of underwear at my disposal and she has none.

I see a gunshot wound. I hear stories of destroyed childhoods that make me want to claw my eyes out. I learn some new slang words that I will not be trying out any time soon. I learn that joy is always attainable, if only for some moments. I learn that the truth doesn’t always come out in words. I learn that my unwillingness to call out wrongness has a cost.

Five hours. All that and more in just five hours.






 

After the place has cleared out and it’s just us volunteers I confess my occasional irritation with our friends. I don’t understand why they don’t all jump in the life raft we offer in the form of rehab, shelters, and job training. We talk some more over happenings of the day and then head our separate ways.

I drive to Kroger and purchase some pre-made sushi and on an impulse buy a peach pie. Once home my family asks about my day but I can’t talk about it right away. It’s too much to verbalize. I still have some processing to do and I’m tired.

I find myself in the kitchen mindlessly eating a pretty hefty portion of that impulsive peach pie. It seems that even I, good Christian woman that I am, can fall prey to mind-numbing addiction just from hearing their stories. What must it be like to live them?

 
The thing about my five hours is this: I know it will end.

No matter how heavy or chaotic or wonderful our time together is at the center I know where I’ll be sleeping. I know that I’ll have dinner. I know that the men in my life aren’t going to hit me. I will not be sexually exploited where I’m going. I am valued for more than my genitalia.

My friends live in crisis every second of every day.

“Stress will kill you,” one of them said to me in between phone calls searching for an apartment. “I have got to get off the streets.”

I nod my head like I know what she’s talking about.

But I don’t.

I mean, I know the feeling but not the reality.

We in the church don’t like to talk about class privilege, but that's the thing separating our realities.

That’s a post for another day, though.

 





Today I’m content with my five hours.


This evening I sit and look at the sky as I always do. My five hours today has my friends on my heart as I gaze heavenward. I wonder where they are and if they’re safe. My prayer is that they don’t die; that they know they are loved.

I also give thanks for all the things that they teach me, for how patient they are with me. They treat me not as I am but as I ought to be, as I could be, and that leaves me changed. My friends see me as Jesus does, not as I am or the things that I do. How can I not learn from that?

Tonight I think of their names and faces and smile that I get to know them. I can’t remember the funniest joke I heard today, the one with the super naughty word. I look forward to getting to ask about it next time I’m down there.

I can’t wait for my next five hours.
Be brave, misfits. May you be blessed to know others who see you as you could be.



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