This morning I took the girls to a Quaker meeting. It was lovely.
The time change occurred this morning and as I lay in bed with an extra hour to think about what I really wanted to do I realized that I simply could not abide another Sunday morning of talking and sitting and standing and flipping to the right page and bowing and reciting and singing, followed by awkward attempts at socialization in the five seconds I have to make eye contact with another adult inbetween ferrying plates of cheese and crackers and glasses of juice to two little girls who lose their minds at the sight of any buffet spread because they want it ALL and they want it all for MYSELF so they grab and spill and break down into tears unless I can perfectly do the parental dance of dodging and distraction.
It's two hours of being on! when I just want to sit quietly and turn everything off.
So I lay there thinking in the extra hour I had and remembered the blessed stillness and companionable quiet of the Friends meeting that Theo and I were married under so long ago. It's been nearly two decades since I last sat in a meeting and yet I can still feel the peacefulness that was soaked into that simple room of one large window and worn-smooth dark wooden benches arranged to face each other.
I hustled the girls into their church clothes, punched into GPS the name of the local Quaker meeting in town that I've known about for ages and meant to go to so many times before, and off we went.
It was lovely. There were about 50 people there which seems large for a meeting so it must be healthy. I had to practice and re-practice and re-practice the art of centering oneself and sitting in the Light. It is a learned skill that needs tending. I had only the briefest moments where I could deeply feel the stillness of the room and settle into restful meditation. But even when my mind was bouncing it felt like productive, uninterrupted thought that was working on and settling ideas, one by one.
Afterwards we had our plates of cheese and crackers and glasses of juice and yes that was as frantic as ever--the girls scrabbling for every last crumb on a shared plate--but the difference was that I was more calm as I watched over them.
This calmness continued out to the car. I buckled them in, walked around to my side, got in to drive away and felt this luminous peace enveloping me as I drove. My head actually rested against the head rest.
And then Jane started banging her foot against the seat in front of her, tapping the window with her finger, and tunelessly, frenetically, chanting the words to the Happy Birthday song. It wasn't anyone's birthday. That was just the first thing that came to her mind and the girl cannot abide any quiet (I'd told them no cartoons on the car's video system for this drive and that stressed and angered her).
I took three deep breaths while carefully composing a very brief, simple explanation of mindfulness. When I was ready I described for her what my church experience had just been like.
Then I said, simply, patiently, kindly, but firmly, "We are now going to practice Quiet."
I led the girls in some settling breaths while directing them to relax their limbs and then said we were going to practice this kind of quiet until we got home.
Jane struggled. Kate lost interest a few times (she's only 2.5) but then remembered and returned to a quiet state on her own. Jane struggled because Kate was not struggling and so Jane tried to distract Kate. When that didn't work Jane leaned far out of her seat and wiggled and stretched her whole body to try to get into my sight line and tried to engage me three different times with inane questions, "Whatcha doing?" Each time I only held up one finger to remind her that I was practicing quiet but chose not to engage with her verbally.
It was a 15 minute drive and I arrived home still deeply in a calm, peaceful state.
And committed to teaching Jane mindfulness with an intentional curriculum. Tomorrow I get a sand timer and a chime.
Nearly every little quirk about Jane that drives me batty involves her ceaseless sound and movement. It's not just sensory seeking. It's about living in a constantconstantconstantconstant state of distraction. She cannot allow one moment of stillness. She eats noisily and fingers her food all over, making the simple act of nourishment ten times more intense and less restful than it needs to be. She chants repetitive phrases over and over anytime her body must be still just to maintain constant noise around her. She wiggles so much while watching cartoons (I've timed it and she isn't still for more than 10 seconds) that she constantly falls out of her seat. She's even a restless cuddler and sleeper, constantly shifting her position when I try to rock her and smacking or kicking me any time she's slept next to me.
We started the Brushing protocol last week after her first OT session. Doesn't seem to help at all. I'll continue and add in deep joint compressions, and use it as much for a bonding tool as for a sensory tool, but neither is going to solve all her problems. This girl must be directly, explicitly taught to settle her mind.
At her therapists session yesterday Jane did not want to play the feelings game (naming either a happy, sad, angry, or scared memory) and even cried with real distress twice during the session. That girl is deeply, deeply repressing and pushing away some big stuff.
Jane is the least peaceful 4 yr old I've ever met.
Thoughts like this rekindle my exhausted compassion. And give me a mission. I'm a teacher! I can teach this! (Well, I can teach her the methods to use to be at peace. The choice to use them and feel peace is hers.)
But first I need to feed my own weary soul.
So we will go back. I will sit in a quiet room soaked in gentleness and light and allow the silence to heal the places in me that have worn thin. And I will teach all three of my littles a few mindfulness lessons at a time so that we can practice here and there as needed.
The time change occurred this morning and as I lay in bed with an extra hour to think about what I really wanted to do I realized that I simply could not abide another Sunday morning of talking and sitting and standing and flipping to the right page and bowing and reciting and singing, followed by awkward attempts at socialization in the five seconds I have to make eye contact with another adult inbetween ferrying plates of cheese and crackers and glasses of juice to two little girls who lose their minds at the sight of any buffet spread because they want it ALL and they want it all for MYSELF so they grab and spill and break down into tears unless I can perfectly do the parental dance of dodging and distraction.
It's two hours of being on! when I just want to sit quietly and turn everything off.
So I lay there thinking in the extra hour I had and remembered the blessed stillness and companionable quiet of the Friends meeting that Theo and I were married under so long ago. It's been nearly two decades since I last sat in a meeting and yet I can still feel the peacefulness that was soaked into that simple room of one large window and worn-smooth dark wooden benches arranged to face each other.
I hustled the girls into their church clothes, punched into GPS the name of the local Quaker meeting in town that I've known about for ages and meant to go to so many times before, and off we went.
It was lovely. There were about 50 people there which seems large for a meeting so it must be healthy. I had to practice and re-practice and re-practice the art of centering oneself and sitting in the Light. It is a learned skill that needs tending. I had only the briefest moments where I could deeply feel the stillness of the room and settle into restful meditation. But even when my mind was bouncing it felt like productive, uninterrupted thought that was working on and settling ideas, one by one.
Afterwards we had our plates of cheese and crackers and glasses of juice and yes that was as frantic as ever--the girls scrabbling for every last crumb on a shared plate--but the difference was that I was more calm as I watched over them.
This calmness continued out to the car. I buckled them in, walked around to my side, got in to drive away and felt this luminous peace enveloping me as I drove. My head actually rested against the head rest.
And then Jane started banging her foot against the seat in front of her, tapping the window with her finger, and tunelessly, frenetically, chanting the words to the Happy Birthday song. It wasn't anyone's birthday. That was just the first thing that came to her mind and the girl cannot abide any quiet (I'd told them no cartoons on the car's video system for this drive and that stressed and angered her).
I took three deep breaths while carefully composing a very brief, simple explanation of mindfulness. When I was ready I described for her what my church experience had just been like.
Then I said, simply, patiently, kindly, but firmly, "We are now going to practice Quiet."
I led the girls in some settling breaths while directing them to relax their limbs and then said we were going to practice this kind of quiet until we got home.
Jane struggled. Kate lost interest a few times (she's only 2.5) but then remembered and returned to a quiet state on her own. Jane struggled because Kate was not struggling and so Jane tried to distract Kate. When that didn't work Jane leaned far out of her seat and wiggled and stretched her whole body to try to get into my sight line and tried to engage me three different times with inane questions, "Whatcha doing?" Each time I only held up one finger to remind her that I was practicing quiet but chose not to engage with her verbally.
It was a 15 minute drive and I arrived home still deeply in a calm, peaceful state.
And committed to teaching Jane mindfulness with an intentional curriculum. Tomorrow I get a sand timer and a chime.
Nearly every little quirk about Jane that drives me batty involves her ceaseless sound and movement. It's not just sensory seeking. It's about living in a constantconstantconstantconstant state of distraction. She cannot allow one moment of stillness. She eats noisily and fingers her food all over, making the simple act of nourishment ten times more intense and less restful than it needs to be. She chants repetitive phrases over and over anytime her body must be still just to maintain constant noise around her. She wiggles so much while watching cartoons (I've timed it and she isn't still for more than 10 seconds) that she constantly falls out of her seat. She's even a restless cuddler and sleeper, constantly shifting her position when I try to rock her and smacking or kicking me any time she's slept next to me.
We started the Brushing protocol last week after her first OT session. Doesn't seem to help at all. I'll continue and add in deep joint compressions, and use it as much for a bonding tool as for a sensory tool, but neither is going to solve all her problems. This girl must be directly, explicitly taught to settle her mind.
At her therapists session yesterday Jane did not want to play the feelings game (naming either a happy, sad, angry, or scared memory) and even cried with real distress twice during the session. That girl is deeply, deeply repressing and pushing away some big stuff.
Jane is the least peaceful 4 yr old I've ever met.
Thoughts like this rekindle my exhausted compassion. And give me a mission. I'm a teacher! I can teach this! (Well, I can teach her the methods to use to be at peace. The choice to use them and feel peace is hers.)
But first I need to feed my own weary soul.
So we will go back. I will sit in a quiet room soaked in gentleness and light and allow the silence to heal the places in me that have worn thin. And I will teach all three of my littles a few mindfulness lessons at a time so that we can practice here and there as needed.
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