Shosin and Life Changes

Let's just be upfront and say that when you think of "zen-like" people, I am not the first face that probably comes to mind.

I'm a little chaotic, sorta frenetic when I get on a task or idea that's new and shiny, and when I'm on, I'm bouncing around at 1,000 mph.

But this concept of "shoshin," or beginner's or child's mind, popped up last week in a blog I was reading about knitting (go figure), and then again in a business presentation book I grabbed on the way to taking the kids to the playground. (It just so happened to be the top book in a donation pile and the only thing I had time to snatch up in our hurry. Figures.)

Both explain the benefits of this state of mind, especially in the face of stress, major changes, and new experiences. And well, if these days we're living through right now aren't all about stress, major changes and, soon, new experiences, then I don't know what they are.

Sometimes, when I'm knee deep in trash bags and donation boxes and I still can't see the floor, I forget that this is something we wanted. The whole time. This move is something that I made happen, even in the face of opposition, lack of opportunities within my own company, and general common sense. I pushed through lack of cash flow, lack of housing contacts, and lack of employment support and we bought our tickets and sold our stuff anyway.

I mean, really, when does a family just pick up and move within seven weeks when mama is in her third trimester of a surprise pregnancy? Well, when they really, really want something new and positive in their lives, I suppose.

Late at night, I can't sleep. I think about just how awful rolling into a new town with absolutely nothing but the clothes on our backs and a few sentimental knick-knacks just might be.

What are we going to sleep on?

What are we going to eat on?

How are we going to make it all work when the relocation money starts thinning out?

What's our safety net?

I don't sleep so great these days, can you tell? (Hell, I haven't really slept great since about 2009, but that's beside the point. Love you, Boo Bear!)

But then, twice in one week, shoshin has crept into my consciousness and Shunryu Suzuki, the great Zen teacher, whispers things like:

"In the beginner's mind there are endless possibilites, in the expert's mind there are few."

What if the point of this episode is to see the entire thing like a child would? Each new sight and smell is something good and noble and worth pursuing more of. Things like houses and beds and forks find their way to you if you're open and accepting. Do things really work like that?

Do I limit myself by trying to have all the Is dotted and Ts crossed before I even step foot back in Texas? What if there's something amazing on the other end of the journey and I completely bypass it because I had to have it all mapped out from afar before the adventure even began?

Adventure.

That's a word people have been using around me lately as they see us off and wish our family well.

"View it as an adventure and just enjoy it."

I nod and smile and say that I will, but really, I'm thinking about the fact that the money will only get us so far when we get there and then what will we do?

Who wants an adventure with no coffee tables?

Well...a beginner does. A child does.

My son could care less what we stuff the new house full of.

He just wants to see the new neighborhood and look for a pool and a park. He wants new smells, new people, new food, new toys, new sheets, and a new bed.

The rest of those details are unimportant to Boo and when they're decided eventually, they'll be just fine with him.

Brilliant boy, that one.

Moving is a lot like breaking up...

With your stuff. With routines. With comfort zones.

But mostly...with your stuff.

A necessary, painful process, it involves a lot of back and forth, hemming and hawing, some pointless bargaining about being willing to change if I could just get one more chance with my neglected waffle iron, and a whole lot of second-guessing in the wee hours of the morning when load after load of belongings gets hauled off to donation centers and garbage dumps.

"Did I end it too soon with that crate of yarn? Could I have gotten the scrapbooking bug if only I hadn't  sold my stash to the lady with the fierce overbite?"

I flatly refused to part with my cheap handheld mixer last week. It was in the to-go pile and seeing it there, sad and lonely as the gang from Toy Story when the kid goes to college, I suddenly remembered every batch of cookie dough Boo gleaned from their shiny, made-in-China-and-bought-at-the-big-box-store-for-$9.99 tines.

How could I? How dare I abandon our chocolate chip memories?

I nearly suffered an embarrassing meltdown when our kind neighbor bought Boy Wonder's  neon green bike, "Surge."  Sure, it had a cracked pedal and was almost too small for him. Sure, it was going to a kid whose mom was going through a rough patch and they'd just about lost everything recently.

Sure. Whatever.

But that's my kid's bike you're wheeling away without so much as a nod to its significance to me as a mama. This is the bike we bought him the summer he discovered how fun yanking earthworms from rain puddles was. The one he road on those marathon walks I would take him and his younger brother on last summer we we all waited on the arrival of a baby sister. (And whoever said walking helps stimulate labor is a damn liar, anyway.)

These are are memories you're pawing through and haggling over, you vultures.

My mom is sort of broken-recordish about how long it took her to learn that objects don't hold memories--our hearts do.

It's all well and good for her, but as I'm sorting through which beloved kids books to keep and which ones won't make the trip south, I'm not exactly open to opportunities for personal growth. I'm open to an anonymous benefactor bequeathing me enough money to rent a barge the size of Rhode Island for my memories, my rick rack, my "will fit into someday when I stop having babies," my "I'm sure he'll need these coloring books eventually"...and all of my potential memories, too.

Starting over is a messy process. But as box upon box of "coulda beens," "nearly happeneds" and even those "sure were funs" go out the door, a load is lifted from our shoulders ounce by ounce, albeit painfully.

Just like that gut-wrenching breakup you swore would be the end of you, but ended up being a brand new start.

I'm sure my old t-shirts won't harbor any abandonment issues or laugh about my lack of folding skills behind my back with whoever plucks them from the thrift store bin. I might regret my old Celtics shirt that doesn't fit not being in the same place in the dresser drawer, but I'm sure the universe won't get knocked off it's axis.

"It's ok," my old silverware whispers from the shoebox on the garage floor, ready for this weekend's garage sale. "It's all going to be ok."

The Best of Times and the Worst of Times

Feeling very Dickens-ian there. Did you catch that?

I spent the past week teaching creative writing to second through fifth graders at a local elementary school and am still recovering. Wow. They're some of the most creative, spontaneous, exhausting creatures God ever made. Truthfully.

I came back altered, I'd say. I look at young writers differently now (way more capable than I ever gave them credit for), and I look at myself differently. It became apparent that I'm most myself when I'm in a position that interacts with other humans and where I feel like I can make the tiniest bit of difference. Not that I can't achieve both of those in my current situation (though it's a struggle in my industry), but just the fact that I haven't been. Eye opening. Made me realize I need to live my days where I come home tired and spent from giving everything I had that day and I can't say that I always do that.

The week also ended on a bit of a sour note. If you'll recall, my husband was laid off this past month. Yikes. It's a nasty situation and I get myself angry just thinking about, so I decided a few weeks back to leave it in God's hands and not stew. So this is me not stewing. However, an email from our landlord Friday afternoon informed us that he's going to sell the place immediately and it's going on the market soon. Like next week or something. Sure, we have a place, technically, until May 1. But c'mon. Really?

Lost job, lost home. What the hell?

We've made plans to move out of Alaska recently, but they were much slower plans. Seems now that we're in a place where we need to move much quicker. And if I can't find a position to relocate us, well, we're selling everything we own like a bunch of gypsies and arriving in Texas with our clothes and hopefully our dog. It sounds dismal and sometimes, during the darkest hours of the night when I can't sleep, it feels that way. But for the most part I don't feel like we're being jerked around yet, that it's all part of a bigger, more meaningful plan.

But damn, ya'll. How about some good news soon, eh?

Once I quit pouting and stewing, I spent the weekend sewing my hiney off. Maybe I'll toss the blankets and dolls on the new Etsy shop and try to grow our "Boogie Back to Texas"fund. Maybe I'll just add more stuff to our already HUGE pile of stuff we can't take with us. And yes, I have moments of panic where I look at my beloved books and piles and wonder how on Earth I'll be strong enough to purge all but the barest of bare essentials.

And then a tiny voice in my head reminds me that the dream is more valuable than the stuff and I take a breath.

So there we have it. Highs, lows, in betweens. In the meantime, here are some more photos from this past week. My minions are kinda adorable, even if I do say so myself.

1. It should be noted that the above photo was taken on Friday. Not Christmas Eve or even in January. Nope. Friday, end of March. Spring time, even. Holy moly.

2. She is her daddy's girl in most senses of the word. They adore each other, and rightfully so.

3. What boy doesn't love baseball bat-sized icicles?

4. Our house grows teeth. How about yours?

5. My Boo. My constant travel companion. So much so that we call him Mama's "road dog." I think it's some sort of reference to "Road House," because my husband uses the term interchangeably with "Wade Garret."

Have a blessed week!