I found the mug you see above at the Barnes and Noble Cafe and was immediately offended.  And I knew that this mug, innocently sitting on a shelf waiting to be purchased, would be the topic of this blog post.

“Live the life you have imagined.”

No. 

As if my life must be pre-planned, and I wasn’t allowed to deviate from my imaginary blueprint.  How limiting would that be?

It got me thinking that most of my life isn’t anything like the life I had imagined.  I had never imagined I’d be married weeks before my twenty-third birthday.  I had never imagined that I would be the mother of one child, not two.  I had never imagined that my adult home would be ten minutes away from my childhood home.  I had never imagined that by the age of 40, I would have only once traveled internationally.  And I would never have imagined that I would have retired (due to a disability) from my teaching career after twelve years.

That isn’t to say my current life is worse or better than the one I had imagined.  It’s just that when you’re young and inexperienced, your imagination starts to run wild.  I envisioned trips abroad (to visit my pen pal in Japan and to eat pasta and gelato in Italy) and a semester studying in France.  I imagined owning a house instead of being a life-long renter. 

But, you get older, and you get out into the world and start experiencing life, and realize that your imagination and your reality don’t always match up.  And you realize, that different than originally imagined isn’t bad.  Different than originally imagined can be fine.  Actually, more than fine.

Dear Readers,

On Sunday, Mamalode.com published my essay “On September 11, 2001 We Made Handprints of Hope.” You can read the essay here.

I’m asking you all to please read my essay (on all your devices) and then share the link with others. Mamalode compensates writers based on the number of views a post receives. (Minimum payment requires 500 views within 30 days, but of course, the more the better).

Thank you so much for your support!

Gratefully,

Wendy

I’ve recently started reading Year of Yes by Shonda Rhimes. I’m at a slight disadvantage because I don’t watch a lot of television, so I’m not familiar with any of the shows Ms. Rhimes references.  (Though I do understand that they’re her shows).

Putting aside my television ignorance, so far, I’m right there with Ms. Rhimes.  I want to see where this year takes her.  Because there was something she wrote within the first thirty pages of her book that really spoke to me.

“Whatever that spark is that makes each one of us alive and unique … mine had gone.  Stolen like paintings on the wall.  The flickering flame responsible for lighting me up from the inside, making me glow, keeping me warm … my candle had blown out.  I was shut down.  I was tired.  I was afraid.  Small.  Quiet.”

Sometimes I fear that I will become that person — the always tired, always afraid, always quiet person.  And sometimes I fear that I have already become that person.  And that’s not the person my husband married.  That’s not the person I want my son growing up with.  And that’s not the person I want to see when I look in the mirror. 

So the reading continues.  I’ll go with Ms. Rhimes on her journey, and maybe, it’ll help me with mine.

Sometimes something happens and I’m inspired to write.  I don’t initially react, but the event stays with me, and I react later, the best way I know how, by writing about it.  That’s what happened recently when my son and I were out and we heard a mother tell her young daughter to “shut up.”  (You can read that essay “7 Reasons Why It’s Not Okay to Tell Your Child to ‘Shut Up’” here.

Other times, I write in response to a particular call for submissions.  That’s the case with two recently published anthologies.  One of my personal essays was recently published in Tomato Slices — An Anthology of Tomato Stories, Poetry, Art, and Recipes.

And another of my personal essays was published in So Glad They Told Me: Real Women Get Real About Motherhood.

After all, that’s what happens with writers.  Nora Ephron has credited her mother as saying “‘Everything is copy; everything is material.”  I agree.

  

My son started the third grade last week.  He’s a “big kid” now, taking his recess and lunch with the fourth and fifth graders.  And, for the first time, his classroom is located in the main building, on the second floor.

And, as has become my tradition, this week’s post involves memories from my third grade year.  (In case you missed it, you can read about my own second grade memories here, and my first grade memories here.)

My third grade teacher was Mrs. Chisnell.  She had orangey-red hair, was a Bruins fan, and wore sunglasses that were decorated with small sticker-letters spelling out “U-C-L-A.”  My elementary school wasn’t air conditioned at that time, except for one building.  Two rooms upstairs, two rooms downstairs, and, luckily,  Mrs. Chisnell’s room was upstairs in this special, air-conditioned building. 

I remember we had to learn multiplication that year.  There was no question about it; every student was expected to master the times-tables.

When going through my papers to find my third grade school picture, I also found a thank you note from another teacher at the school.  She thanked me for helping with the “little ones.”  Apparently, even when I was nine years old, I had the desire to help and work with children.

It makes me wonder about what path my son’s life will take.  Will the things he’s passionate about now be the things he’s passionate about in his professional life?  We’ll see.  Meanwhile, I just feel lucky to be his mom and watch him grow up.

I’m a regular contributor at MomsLA.com.  Usually I write informational posts about places to visit and things to do with kids.  This week, in addition to my usual posts (including “20 Things to Do in Burbank With Kids” and “7 Back-to-School Scheduling Apps”), I also wrote “The 9 Similarities Shared Between My Roles as Parent and Patient.” You can read it here.

“This Is What ‘Mindfulness’ Looks Like to Me”

That’s the title of one of my personal essays that was recently published at RoleReboot.org.  This week, I invite my readers to take a look at my essay and maybe, as a result, you’ll take a new look at the term “mindfulness.”

You can read the article here.

 

“Nature is incredible.”

Those were my son’s words on Sunday.  He and I were holding hands, our bare feet in the sand, waiting for the next splash of ocean water to cover our feet.

It was our family day, and while Dockweiler State Beach isn’t Cambria (our favorite ocean-side spot), it is still a beach.  We spent a few hours at the beach, and though we had packed a Frisbee, a book, and my son’s sand toys, we didn’t use any of them.  We were content just to be there at the beach.

We heard seagulls, shrieks of others splashing in the not-very-cool water, and the sounds of the ocean.  And airplanes.  For those who aren’t familiar with the area, Dockweiler is located close to Los Angeles International Airport, so we were also serenaded by the sound of aircraft climbing higher and higher into the sky. 

Even with the noises and the crowds that descended onto the beach as the day went on, I was still able to find myself lulled into a trance-like state at times.  There is something very soothing about the ocean, about the in-and-out of the water, about the endlessness of it all. 

And after we got back home, I found myself re-visiting a piece I wrote last year for Breath and Shadow.  You can read my essay, “Seven Lessons I’m Learning From the Ocean” here.

The biggest news in our family involves my son.  My eight-year old son is now a bike rider! 

For my son’s eighth birthday, we gave him a shiny red two-wheeler.  He had specified the color, and we all knew he was ready to give up the training wheels that had been attached to his smaller-sized bike.

Practice was done in stops and spurts.  It’s not easy learning a new skill, and though I repeatedly told my son that he had mastered a lot of new skills during his eight-year life, he was skeptical that he would ever learn to ride a bike.  He doesn’t remember learning to walk, learning to use the restroom, or learning to put on his socks, for example.  And though I tried to tell him that those skills were once difficult for him too, he did eventually learn them and now does them on a regular basis without really thinking about it.

But riding a bike was different.  My son was afraid of falling.  My son doubted himself.  And practicing riding wasn’t always fun; a lot of times, it felt more like a chore.

Until the day, I got Ryan out on his bike and told him he just had to try to put his feet up on the pedals (instead of letting them dangle down at the sides) and see what would happen.  He surprised us both by pedaling away. 

Each day since, we’ve been out on our bikes.  Each day, Ryan’s riding has gotten stronger, more steady and confident.  And because Ryan’s been out there riding, I’ve been out there riding too.  (Two years ago, I bought myself a bike.  You can read about it in this earlier blog post:  http://wendykennar.blogspot.com/2014/07/i-bought-bike.html) 

So now Ryan and I are out there together, both of us going further than we originally thought we could, riding for longer periods of time than either one of us knew we could.

When we’re back home, I’m definitely more tired and more uncomfortable than Ryan is.  Some days, I experience mild amounts of pain.  On those days, I feel proud to have used my body in this physically active way.  I feel good to be exercising, to be engaging in an activity I’ve always enjoyed and to be able to share it with my son.

On other days, I take off my helmet and am thankful that we’re back inside safe and sound.  Because my left leg really hurts, and I wonder how I’ll go about the rest of my day.  But I look at my son, at this new skill he’s mastered, at this new activity that we can do together, and any amount of pain I may suffer just doesn’t seem as important as the memories we’re making together.

I recently finished reading Ray Bradbury’s collection of essays titled Zen in the Art of Writing.  Mr. Bradbury states that writers need two things — “zest” and “gusto.”

“… if I were asked to name the most important items in a writer’s make-up, the things that shape his material and rush him along the road to where he wants to go, I could only warn him to look to his zest, see to his gusto.”

“If you are writing without zest, without gusto, without love, without fun, you are only half a writer.”

Mr. Bradbury’s words got me thinking about my own levels of zest and gusto.  Back in the day, I think I had a lot of zest and gusto.  I’ve had adventures — I’ve gone parasailing and taken a sunset hot air balloon ride.  I drove myself around San Francisco, exploring and seeing the sites, by myself, and in the days before there were Smartphones to help me navigate.  I used to take myself to Santa Monica for the day (via the bus), to wander around the Promenade just because I wanted to.  I often had limited finances and limited transportation options, but I went out and did things.  I had zest.  I had gusto.

Now I wonder if I still do.  And the fact that I wonder is perhaps a sign that I don’t have as much zest and gusto as I once had.  In all fairness, it became much more challenging to continue some of my adventuresome activities once I became a parent.  Two years after that milestone, I was stricken with my autoimmune disease.  And I’ll be honest, it’s difficult to feel zest and gusto while I’m feeling pain.

It’s easy to be self-critical, to come down hard on myself for the things I no longer do, to accuse myself of not living with zest and gusto.

But that’s not right.  Because I look at my family, and I marvel at my eight-year-old son, and I know I’m loving with zest and gusto.  And I look at my own writing, and I know that I’m putting my heart out on the page, and that certainly qualifies as zest and gusto.