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my word for 2022:

I miss writing. Scratch that. I continue to write daily in my journal, my morning pages. This is my forever writing practice that keeps me sane by giving some space to experience.

The writing I miss is writing here on this very old and antiquated blog. I was pulled back here after a meditation. In my meditation on a new project, I received this insight that I needed to tie up loose ends of projects before embarking on a very big one. So my 52nd vignette post was an act of closure.

But after I finished, I felt a whoosh. No it wasn’t like some chakra release or deep breathwork-y exhalation. It was something in between passing gas and an exorcism, to be honest. I giggled and started to read some of my old blog posts when I wrote the “funny,” when I fully embraced the audacious ridiculousness of having five children.

It’s getting even more ridiculous now that my eldest is back at home. More on that in future posts that will probably be titled “The Prodigal Daughter Series.” I joke. Kind of.

After the 52/52 vignette post, I felt good completing the project and didn’t care if anyone would read it. But then I received comments from three amazing women that I haven’t connected with in years. And I cried. I cried because I have forgotten so many things about myself that I have kept hidden for the last five years, things I have not discarded but just folded up and put away in an old chest, like the writer, like my peeps who come to this space for the humour and the inspiration, like my love for beautiful things…

This brings me to my (our) word:

LUXURY.

Typically, when one thinks of luxury, one may think of yachts, Rolex watches, and Chanel bags. Or maybe it’s s traveling first class and five-star hotels? Or a designer wardrobe and a mansion? Generally, we link luxury to expensive stuff. A ridiculous excess of expensive stuff.

That’s right. Diamonds, pearls, and tiny dogs in bags, here I come.

(Cue eye roll.)

We just came home from a vacation on the Pacific side of Costa Rica. My mom and my brother came to visit. The house came equipped with things that we don’t have at home: air conditioning, wifi, a pool, an indoor living area with large screen TV, and a view of the ocean.

Besides the killer view of the Pacific Ocean, it was a “normal” house, but to my family, it felt absolutely luxurious.

My family is interested in changing this “excessive” concept linked with luxury by digging in to the feeling behind the word.

Why do we envy those who “live in the lap of luxury” when we know, according to latest research, that the extremely wealthy are not necessarily extremely happy? What is the psychology of feeling luxurious and what definition can we use to explore that doesn’t lead us down the trap of consumer culture? When we reject consumer culture, do we reject luxury?

The definition of luxury that we are using is that of comfort, ease, and wealth. Living simpler, off-grid, worried about basic necessities like the sun and the rain, we have a money mindset where we don’t spend on frivolous things or to distract from problems in front of us. We have been using it to increase comfort in our home, to focus on experiences and relationships that we find fulfilling and complement our life purpose.

For example, we find hot water a luxurious commodity. And during the dry season, we find water in general a luxury. A key parenting hack over the years has been to set the bar low…remember when my kids thought I was the greatest mom ever when I bought them a Venti hot chocolate from Starbucks and poured it in mini cups?)

It’s the framing of the word – how luxury can relate to the feeling of being taken care of in a novel way that is both exciting and easy. It is a luxury to be able to pay for dinner out for our large family and also invite and pay for good friends at a restaurant where we are also able to support friends that own it.

Luxury is also choosing vacations that support our intention of rest and togetherness and sometimes paying more for a different type of comfort. For example, we rented a home with air conditioning which helped us return to some old family traditions. Icing minus humidity make a structurally sound gingerbread house and a 1000-piece puzzle is easier when you are not dying of heat or getting attacked by bugs.

Is it a luxury to walk away from purchasing anything because you feel content with what you already have? Is it luxurious when you own every moment of your time? (I am leaning towards YES and YES.)

As a family, we will explore and invite this word as we make choices with our time, energy, and money.

Writing and blogging have always been a luxury for me and it brings me more joy than a new wardrobe. Although I did buy a new one this summer with the help of my eldest. (Another future blog post…maybe the prologue to the Prodigal Daughter series.)

Happy New Year.

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Vignette 52/52. Miracles and the Finish Line.

I started these vignettes on November 10, 2020.

I wrote them daily up until December 31, 2020. (I wrote the 49th one on that day.)

Vignette 50 and 51 were posted on July 2 and July 3, 2021 as I began another creative journey (100 Day Project – 100 Days of writing and drawing called “Mujeres del alma mia on Instagram) which also fell short by a few days.

I haven’t always been like this. In 2015, I finished my original 100-Day Project and 42 days of Gratitude. I also finished my month-long MAYbe projects in 2015 and 2019.

When did I stop finishing my creative projects?

It was the 100 Love Notes Project that messed me up. I began them on my 38th birthday in 2016. That summer we said goodbye to our life in Toronto and it was one of the most emotionally challenging times of my life.

I haven’t read those notes since I posted them… until today.

On the first note, I quoted Rumi’s poem, The Guest House, as I wrote a love note to myself.

Sorrow prepares you for joy.

Ain’t that the truth. Looking back, I realize that only me from today could have reassured me from the past that the sorrow that overwhelmed me was preparing me for the overwhelming joy I feel at 43.

I also wrote about encountering three miracles that day:

1. My daughter sent her flight info to us and is not returning on July 29 as we had thought.  She is returning on July 28 which means we can say one last goodbye to the house as a family.

2. My friend, Ulrike, commented on an old post of mine, expressing gratitude for having this blog as a reference.

3. And the third miracle is that I found my Book of Hours. 

https://rozannelopez.com/a-birthday-a-100-day-project/

A quick aside: SInce 2007, I have chosen a word every year to keep an intention and commitment to myself. I was inspired by an old scrapbooking hero of mine, Ali Edwards, who first introduced this concept to me. You can read my most recent word choices here, including my curious choice of a word for 2020 (pre-pandemic) which proved to be the most amazing choice so far.

Back to miracles…coincidentally, for 2021, I chose the world “MIRACLE.” I failed to understand that a miracle comes when all else fails and you try many solutions and only when you are hanging on with the last ounce of energy, are you saved.

It was that kind of year.

Now looking back at my 2016 list of small miracles and my unfinished love note project, I realize that I became afraid to cross the finish line, often retreating back to the start. I was afraid of closing because that meant painful goodbyes. I made excuses about being ok with an “unfinished life” and “continuous progress.” Five years later, I realize that not only are endings are necessary, but fulfilling commitments to oneself and to others allow for miraculous openings.

While the list of miracles for 2021 are extensive and surprising, I will talk about three recent miracles that directly relate to the three from 2016:

  1. I look back on the sorrow of saying goodbye to my eldest daughter in 2016 as she moved to Barcelona and we moved to Costa Rica and today, I see how her living here, for now, is indeed a freaking miracle.

2. Posting here today to finish my 52 Vignettes. Coming to this blog is always bittersweet. I miss writing here but it also reminds me of all the writing I haven’t done in the last few years. But like an old friend that you feel guilty not making the effort to contact (I have a lot of those since moving to Costa Rica), I try to re-introduce myself.

3. I found my Book of Hours. The original…and I turned to this page:

I also reviewed the corresponding blog post for this page. I wrote:

I was reminded of Henry Miller’s essay entitled, “Stand Still like the Hummingbird.”

He writes that ““either you take in believing in miracles or you stand still like the hummingbird” and that “the greatest miracle is the discovery that all is miraculous.”

As I have touched every object, deliberating whether to keep or discard, I have been overwhelmed with gratitude.  I have been in awe of the story of our lives and the countless miracles that led us right here.  Looking back, there were miracles that were disguised as major disappointments, losses, and failures – lost bids on homes, failing to get into schools, and even a death in the family.  Without these experiences, we would not be in this home.

I have come to understand, through this tidying process, that our home is a miracle.

This home where I have spent the last three days getting to know again and loving it as the eighth member of our family.

Henry Miller also writes, “and the nature of the miraculous is – utter simplicity.”

Living simply, asking ourselves what is serving us here and now without clinging to a past that can’t be changed or in complete anticipation of a future that doesn’t exist, is living miraculously.

The definition of a miracle that has guided me this year was “object of wonder.” Today I take my own advice as I cross this imagined finish line at the end of 2021, with plenty of other things left unfinished, touching each object of wonder that has led me here, a life of celebrating simple joys born out of sorrow.

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Vignette 51/52. Another 100 Day Project.

I am a creative person. I have to make things. I am old enough to understand myself that when I am not creative, I am not thriving.

In 2015, I embarked on my first 100 Day Project – a lofty mission to create something every day for 100 days. In the beginning I chose to write “100 scribbles” and blog about it every day. It then transformed into my Book of Hours that I began on July 1st, 2015 and continued it daily well past the 100 day mark and finally ended on Dec 31, 2015.

This year I committed to doing it again but I had no idea what form it would take until a trip to San Jose. I figured I would write every day or re-do the Book of Hours. But like most of my creative projects, this one took me by surprise. About a week before the start date of June 1st, I stumbled upon a book in the grocery store titled Mujeres del Alma Mía by Isabel Allende. For my level of Spanish, it was difficult to read because of the vocabulary and grammar that was more complex than the conversational nature I was accustomed to and so I bought it as a challenge for myself.

I read the first few pages that night in the hotel. As she talked about her mom and her family, I immediately began to think of my own mom and the women that raised me. My mind started making a list of all the women – those I have known and those long gone before I found their works – that made an imprint on my own soul. I took my computer out and typed out their names. There were at least 100 of them.

The wheels turned. I could write every day about one woman. I could read a page of the book and then create my own entry. I need to keep it to 20 minutes in order to be able to commit to this no matter where I am. If I try to write in Spanish, then I will definitely keep it short and simple while pushing my comfort zone. I could use a dictionary only to check on meanings and translation tools only after I gave the verb conjugations my very best try.

So it was set, one written passage a day about a woman that made an impact on who I am.

Day 1: My mom. There was so many things I could have written but the first thing that came to my mind weren’t words. It was an image. Her hands. My hands. The image came powerfully and I knew what to write.

This has been my process each and every time. I sit and see an image – a symbol from a story; a snapshot of a memory; a visual reminder of that woman. I draw quickly before it leaves me and then I write. All of it is done with a mechanical pencil. It is the only way that my perfectionist self can take risks in another language and with the fuzziness of time. With the permission to erase as my friends or my students correct me, I can stretch my writing. My sketches also don’t have to be refined. I draw quickly and with the practice mindset.

Each entry is a moment for me to remember. I have divided the entries into my childhood, adolescence, young adulthood, and midlife. My daughters wonder when they will be an entry. I am on Day 33. Soon, I say. I am still a little girl in this first third of the project.

100 days. The last project changed my life and I rewrote my story. It led me to my life in Costa Rica. I tell people about the power of creating for 100 days, of committing for 100 days. Only through the persistence and consistent “showing up” does the magic unfold. It is another form of my Book of Hours project – an appreciation of the wisdom of women and female figures who have shown up at the right time in my life. It is an absolute privilege to have this opportunity to name them.

**For accountability purposes, I posted the first month on a private account. Now I am also posting on my @book_of_hours instagram account. You can follow me there. (I may share here once in awhile in English.)

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Vignette 50/52. Unraveling.

This is my first attempt to write in a long time and of course, the first thing I do is try to change this font. I actually wrote the following vignette in May and forgot to put it here. This explains a lot of why I just couldn’t finish the last three vignettes. It has almost been half a year since I have blogged. Life got real again with my projects but now I am back because apparently, I am on vacation.

I felt the urge to write because I started to unravel a sleeve after five years of failed attempts to finish the sweater. Mikey asked if she could knit something for me for Mother’s Day and I said a scarf would be nice, the kind of scarf I could throw around my neck for the cold mornings here in the jungle. She found a nice pattern with lots of delicate holes and all she needed was yarn.

The only yarn available here in the jungle was the crappy polyester kind where you can only choose from colours that could also be found in the play-doh section. I remembered that I had balls of yarn lying dormant and uncared for in my homemade handwork drawstring bag tucked away in a plastic bin. We dug out the bag only to find one completed sweater sleeve. There was evidence of the second one that I had started, complete with bent bamboo knitting needles. There were untouched circular steel knitting needles waiting to be used for the main body of the sweater. She grabbed them and a ball of yarn, one that was unattached to any half-finished piece of the sweater, and began to cast on. I looked at the sleeve and partially finished second sleeve and made the decision to unravel.

Five years of not wanting to give up and also not wanting to finish. It is the story of our life here in Costa Rica. I probably unravelled the second sleeve twice already because I had forgotten where I had left off. As I contemplated the unraveling, I thought about all the hours on planes that I had knitted the sleeves. I found it difficult to knit here in the jungle because my hands would get sweaty and the needles and yarn would feel sticky and rough. As I thought about it more, I knitted during our visa runs, our multiple visits back to Canada to make the move feel less traumatic. The knitting on planes and airport terminals and shuttles helped me cope with travel with the constant arriving and departing.

Five years of making sleeves. Sleeves are things I hardly wear now. I have my morning long-sleeves and sweaters but my days are spent mostly in tanks and tees or at the very minimum, sports bras and bikini tops. It is funny to me that I was so intent on this sweater yet not being able to finish. The act of it was meditative but finishing was unimaginable.

Now it is time to unravel and let go of the sunk costs – the time, the energy, the fake optimism. It didn’t feel like a waste of time. I didn’t regret. I didn’t look at the sleeves as a lack of discipline and fortitude as perhaps I would have five years ago when I started knitting the sleeve on our first plane ride that signalled the beginning of a new chapter.

Q unraveled as I wound the yarn into a fresh new ball. He found it fun to unravel the sweater, row by row, pulling apart the knitted piece. As each stitch was set free, all that was left was a single line of yarn, neatly organized into a ball. This was fascinating: It’s almost back to its original self, but with a few more crinkles in the line, ready – a raw material waiting for hands to shape it again for use.

When I began knitting the sweater, I did not know that the final purpose was not for the yarn to be a sweater. It was the safety blanket of a woman who did not need the sweater but the idea of it, the idea of sleeves to cover bare arms that were not yet used to new air and new beginnings.


I did not know that this yarn would be meant for my almost 14 year old to give her a purpose as well – to create something that her mother would actually use now that we know what to expect of what we need here to feel comfortable. It is now for her to make and gift.

As I unraveled, Frankie asked me if I ever used the word “ravel.” I laughed. I said, “No, it seems my life has always been more of an unraveling event.” I tend to use other words like stitch, knit, create, gather, and collect.

Maybe my knitting days are on hold until I can get a handle on my sweaty palms. I watch her knit and see how it calms her, how she finds purpose with each stitch. Knowing it is for my birthday, she works with focus and discipline. She supposes that she will knit five rows a day. She will do it.

Isn’t that a parent’s ultimate hope anyway? That our children always do better than what we ourselves intend.

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Vignette 49/52. The Magic of Limits.

“What are the new restrictions?”

It’s become a normal question like “What are we doing today?”

After a few months of a merry-go-round of different levels of restrictions, we have gotten used to sudden changes in social distancing, closures, and driving. It was a dizzying spring and summer for a lot of people.

For us, limits mean an opportunity for creativity.

I love limits. Limits are at the heart of The Serenity Prayer: to accept the things that I cannot change and change the things that I can.

This is also at the heart of Stoicism, a philosophy that has guided our family over the years, and especially this year. We often forget the most important part of that prayer: the wisdom to know the difference.

It’s as if my family had been preparing for this for the last few years of living with our own set of restrictions – no internet, no electricity, no water, and at times, limited rainwater.

With these limits, we learn how to be efficient with our time, our available resources, and how to be creative with those available resources.

One of the restrictions that we have had since spring was driving days. We haven’t been able to drive on Mondays. We turned Mondays into another weekend day. A home day. If Chris needs to go down for internet, he walks for 40 minutes down the mountain and hitches a ride to town.

We do not spend one second on complaining about the limit. We immediately switch gears into planning and working with and around it.

Beaches are closed? It’s a good time to develop inner work practices at home?
No travel? We stay and save money and finish the bathrooms.
Classes are cancelled? How can we switch to zoom or keep connected? _
Strength club is cancelled? Let’s work out at home together.

And my kids have watched us use limits to our advantage, use limits as a point of curiosity, and pivot without overthinking.

Universities are all online for 2021? It’s ok, Mom, I will do a gap year and wait and see.
The job opportunities are scarce? It’s ok, Mom, I will start my own business.
Classes are cancelled? It’s ok, Mom, can you recommend some books I should read with this spare time? It’s ok, Mom, I wanted to work on my drawings…I wanted to work on my baking…I wanted to organize the house…I wanted to write…

I frequently give them activities with limits to stretch their imagination.

Our sofa was an island in the middle of lava. You can’t touch the floor. How can you get a banana from the kitchen?

We can only use two colours for this art exercise. How can use two colours to express this idea?

Sometimes too many choices lead to indecision or paralysis. When we can see limits as freeing, we understand how to apply our wisdom to know the difference.

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Vignette 48/52. Slow and steady.

Albert Einstein called it the eighth wonder of the world.

Compound interest. Exponential growth.

When I introduced this concept to the students, we began with the simple problem of would they rather receive a fixed amount of $325 at the end of one month or the option of an amount doubling starting with a penny. Most thought this was a trick and guessed the penny of course but then they wanted to figure out why so they kept doubling the amount for thirty days. $0.01, $0.02, $0.04, $0.08…

They were astonished at what they accumulated after 30 days.

We looked at the variables of time, interest rate and the principal amount. We manipulate these variables to see how fast or how slow money can grow.

Then we looked at the cost of borrowing, for example, credit card interest or mortgages. This is something new. Some had never really understood what a credit card is or why it is different than a debit card.

We play with amounts and I tell them how time is on their side. If they start early with a small amount and a decent interest rate, and over a large amount of time, they can accumulate a large amount.

This leads us to the theme of delayed gratification and instant gratification. The stable yet gradual curve of long and steady growth versus the volatile spiked curve that can lead to massive gains but also risk of massive losses.

Sequential learning is an important skill – to understand the sequence of events; to understand second, third, and even fourth effects of decisions.

Taking time to make decisions also means delayed gratification because we have to be methodical in our learning and our thinking. We have to understand before we take action. We have to be clear with our intentions.

This framework of compound interest can also be applied to habits which I talked about as we set up a goal commitment contract.

James Clear, author of my older kids’ current favourite book Atomic Habits, writes:

Habits are the compound interest of self-improvement. The same way that money multiplies through compound interest, the effects of your habits multiply as you repeat them. They seem to make little difference on any given day and yet the impact they deliver over the months and years can be enormous. It is only when looking back two, five, or perhaps ten years later that the value of good habits and the cost of bad ones becomes strikingly apparent.

When we look at the aggregate of marginal gains and adopt a philosophy of aiming for a the tiniest improvement in everything you do, we see a shift in a different direction take place. All of a sudden that penny has turned into hundreds of thousands of dollars or those extra 10, 15, 20 pounds have disappeared.

It is this that I want the kids to learn – the way of the tortoise. The beauty of slow and small movements. The consistent repetition of each step moving in the right direction.

The patience of the long game.

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Vignette 47/52. Stay Awhile.

I wake early and I sit in the same spot on the sofa.

I spend the very first moments sitting and sometimes I think that if I moved, I would break the spell.

I never knew a tree could cast a spell.

From over three decades living in the city, with occasional trips to parks, I was never enchanted by such quiet audacity. There were many beautiful encounters with trees in the North but none like this.

She was a gift from a friend grown from a seed. She was a little sapling that Mikey and I planted near our house. We wanted her to be close. To be able to love her through it – the process of getting used to the land and the elements. We didn’t have much luck with some other trees we planted.

But there must have been more than enough sun, more than enough water, more than enough space, and more than enough love.

I love her wildness. The wildness of a tree that comes into your living room like an unexpected but welcome guest. The wildness of a tree where the leaf is bigger than a small child.

Every morning I sit and she takes up more space, more of my view, more of my attention. She blurs the line of home and garden.

She is the tree of the Mary Oliver poem that I never met until now:

When I am among the trees
By Mary Oliver

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world,
but walk slowly, and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,
“and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.”

**


So she casts the spell to stay and I stay.

I stay long enough to imagine how easy it could be.

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Vignette 46/52. Scumbags and Superstars. Part Two.

If you have spent this year navigating school at home with your children, you will relate to this concept of the Scumbag and the Superstar.

I first wrote Part One in 2014.

After almost 23 years of parenting, you may assume that I understand how to be the most amazing mom in the world, that I have learned from all of my mistakes, that my experience allows me to avoid pitfalls and damaging my children’s sense of self. When you meet my children, you may think that I actually did a good job.

But to be honest, I am pretty sure there is a positive correlation between the amount of my scumbag moments and the average age of my children. There is less room for error in parenting when they can spell and understand big words.

Another positive correlation is the amount of time I work with the amount of scumbag moments. I went back to work full-time this year for the first time in almost 12 years.

It wasn’t a conscious choice. Like most of the biggest decisions in my life, my crossing threshold decisions, this door materialized in front of me and I decided to walk through it not knowing that a massive tightrope was waiting for me on the other side.

As I talked to the kids about my first year going back to the work, they had some feedback for me.

“It was strange having to make an appointment with you to talk about my progress.” Scumbag.

“It was nice to see you passionate about your work and less focused on your identity as a mom.” Um, Superstar?

“You were always busy with work this year.” Scumbag.

“Mom, you always had other projects as we grew up but you still always made time for us. This really wasn’t any different.” Superstar.

“I didn’t see much of a change except I had less tantrums when you taught me because I had classmates now.” Superstar moment… for her.

One daughter reflected, “We all had our own stuff to do but it was nice to come back together at the end of the day and talk about everything. You always stopped working to keep connecting with us at the end of the day.”

Superstar.

For my youngest, he was used to life with me all the time. Now he had to navigate learning with a new guide and with classmates whereas I still teach my other children.

When we were in Canada, he enjoyed time with me as I homeschooled him again, just the two of us. Looking back on this moment he told me, “Mom, I wish you could teach me too again.”

Scumbag.

As I re-read that post from 2014 and listened to my children in 2020, I finally noticed a pattern.

I don’t have to go to the other extreme and entertain them all day. I just have to build in a moment or two when I pay them undivided attention – through listening, doing a lesson, reading together, getting off the screens entirely. But with five children, a moment in time multiplies. Time becomes the most precious resource in my day.

One card game and then I have to finish my writing.

One chapter and then I have to send messages.

One conversation and then I need to go to sleep early.

One lesson and then I have to plan.

One coffee and then I have to train.

So I am keeping it simple for my family. To my kids: Choose one thing you need and I will be there. Grab my arm and make me look at you if you need me NOW. I promise that if you ask, I will be there. I get absorbed in my work, in my teaching, in my writing because I love it. One day you will know what that means to love to do something so much that the rest of the world falls away. You will be a scumbag to others while being a superstar for yourself. It’s ok. You can always try again. And you can remind those you love that yes, sometimes you have to make an appointment.

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Vignette 45/52. Crossing thresholds.

I remember the days when I used to hold my children’s hands as they crossed the street. Sometimes I still grab for their hand and realize that they are taller than me now and their hand is not where it once was – lower than mine – or my son ignores me and runs across the street before I can grab it and embarrass him.

They look at me funny as if I am having a senior moment.

But what they don’t see, what most people don’t see, is that I am holding their hand all the time, figuratively-speaking. As a parent, I feel like I am always crossing thresholds. Or bridges. Or tightropes.

Sometimes I am walking the child across only to return to the other side to receive another one coming off a different bridge. At other times, I watch them go ahead of me, cross on their own, and keep walking while I stay where I am. (This happens mostly at airports and on actual bridges.)

When you have many children, you soon realize there are always milestones that occur concurrently. They become so normal and ordinary, I forget that they are huge shifts that take place within the individual child. With the first child, there is novelty. With the fifth child, unfortunately, it’s old news.

I recently asked my 11 year old son about his 12 year old molars because I was curious to see if any were loose or potentially falling out. It was strange that none had even begun to fall out yet.

He said, “Mom, two fell out months ago.”
I asked, “Did you tell me about them?”
He said, “I can’t remember.”

I felt bad I missed it but he didn’t seem to mind. (The last big parenting fail was realizing we forgot to teach him how to ride a bike when he was nine years old. He forgave us when he realized he could learn in fifteen minutes.)

The threshold I remember most are the tightropes over raging rivers. The ones where I am on the other side already and I have to coach the child how to cross because this particular threshold should be difficult in magnitude to ensure exponential growth.

This is the one where they have to make an adult choice that could change their life, the one where they have to make a decision about the type of person they want to become.

Some adults never cross this one and live a life unfulfilled. They wake up one morning and are full of regret using words like should’ve and could’ve. With this threshold, there are no crossroads where the paths seem the same. The choice is to take a risk, cross through danger, teetering on a single rope or stay put on the shore where safety is guaranteed.

In my life, there have been many tightropes that I have avoided, fallen from, and crossed. The first step always takes courage. I tell my children that there is such a thing as muscle memory so after the first time they get themselves across, they will remember how to balance and more importantly, they will remember that they were able to do it.

Launch your first business. Apply for that program, internship, or job. Begin and commit to that relationship. Go all in.

I miss the days when I just needed to get safely across the road or when I just needed to be close by as they balanced across a log over a small creek. I was responsible for them. Now I know the best way to guide them is being responsible for myself – for continuing to walk across my own tightropes. They watch my technique, they watch my process, and above all, they watch what happens when I fall and when I make it across.

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Vignette 44/52. Christmas.

It’s weird to say that this whole year felt like Christmas.

But as a mama, it was an unexpected gift. For years I had begun to prepare myself emotionally for the time when my children would leave and maybe not even be together for the holidays. When AJ decided not to come to Costa Rica for Christmas in 2018, it felt like our time together would be fewer and far between.

Then everything changed this year. We received a bonus gift of the seven of us spending more time together than we had in four years.

Every morning, during our walk, Chris and I would list all the things we were grateful for and the number one thing would be that we were together during this time. We appreciated this unexpected gift at a time when it was difficult to be optimistic.

This year we did all the things we normally did at Christmas time. We watched movies, we baked cookies, we crafted, and we had meals together. There were also mild tantrums over chores and clothes but even those felt precious and nostalgic.

What I observed most about myself was that I never became attached to the situation or longed for the past when they were little. I knew this was nothing short of a miracle. I knew this was a limited time offer. I knew that Chris and I had won a small jackpot to spend frivolously. I knew, eventually, like the ebb and flow of the ocean, life would pull them back out and send them on their own journeys once again.

Just like Christmas, I treated it like a special opportunity to reflect and to be present. I took my time seeing them in the moment of their lives today and not who they were or who they ought to be. I sat with them watching their favourite shows instead of reading a book on the side. I lectured less and listened more. I focused on myself so they could focus on themselves.

Today we are all together again. As things become uncertain, I no longer take anything for granted. I know I am not exempt from the hands of fate that could make today the last time. As I see them all pile on the bed together to watch a movie and eat gummy bears, it is like they are little again.

And as much as I want to hold on to this moment, I let it go knowing Life keeps moving and there will be other Christmas moments if I choose to see them.

Wishing everyone a happy holidays…from all of us.

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