Playing in the Rain

I spent the weekend with my son Alex in his world. I flew out to Houston from Los Angeles to just hang out and do whatever he wanted. Last Saturday afternoon, he invited me to "go to the Bayou" on our bikes. I noticed that he took off without his helmet, so I brought my cell phone in case "an emergency developed." Being his dad, I wanted to contribute to his safety and well-being, but have come to appreciate that parenting is all about taking calculated risks. I also wanted to capture the moment, so I brought my camera.

I laughed to myself at how "complicated" things were for me trying to keep up with him -- literally -- as he sped away on his bike, and I juggled my cell phone and camera while riding my bike. I know there's a lesson in there for me... I felt a couple of water drops on my skin, and asked Alex if he felt some too. He plainly said: "Don't worry, Dad" and kept pedaling faster.

When we got to the bayou, I was surprised to find an intersection of 3 creeks, and concrete platforms on at least two sides that were visible to me. It turns out that word got out that we were headed there, so several of his friends showed up on their mountain bikes, one on a dirt-bike motorcycle, and another on an ATV (all terrain vehicle). They were riding down and up a steep hill as fast as they could.

I must admit that my anxiety rose as my protective fatherly instincts kicked in. I was telling myself things like "he's going to split his head open," "he's going too fast", "I should have made him put his helmet on." I acknowledged my concerns and connected to my desire to contribute to his safety, and remembered the goal was to have a little fun and connection in our shared experience. I've taught him as much about safety as I knew, now it's up to him to implement it. So, I got my camera out and shot some video of him and his friends going up/down the hills.

After watching this for a little while with another dad who hadn't been out there before, I decided to cast my fear away, and I rode down into the creek, crossed over and tried to bike uphill -- finding out it was tougher than it looked.

On the top of the next hill, I discovered a whole new dimension to this area which was not visible from the other side. Another creek and another set of hills with trails became visible, and I heard their invitation to ride them. I went for it -- down hill at full speed, leaning back on my bike so I wouldn't flip over, and after reaching the bottom, putting my full weight into pedaling uphill. Yeah!

I was exhilarated to be there, and I could tell from their faces that the boys were equally "stoked" to be in the adventure of it all. Then, all of a sudden, as if the sky had opened up, a bunch of water started falling on us.

I announced that "we should go now", but my son was way ahead of me, on his way up the first hill and on his way back home. The rest of us started to panic as the dirt paths were starting to get slippery. I biked down the side with concrete, which meant biking through the creek for a bit, then back up the first hill. Alex was way ahead, nearing the opening to the street; I did my best to catch up.

I was soaked within seconds. Everything was soaked, including my water-resistant camera case and my cell phone case. Little puddles were forming at the edges of the street, and I was smilling the whole time. I let out a couple of yells on my way home: "Whoah!"

By the time I caught up to my son, I realized it was pointless to rush inside. So, I invited him to play in the rain for a bit. We grabbed a dodge ball out of the garage and bounced it back and forth on the puddles of water forming in the front of the driveway. I asked Alex if he had ever played in the rain before. He said "no". We kept tossing the ball back and forth. Until I eventually started to feel cold, and he was ready to go inside for a hot shower.

But first, we took a couple of pictures so we could bask in the memory of another adventure together. Like all the others, the pictures are a reminder of the connection that we share, which transcends our time between visits and the distance between us. That's worth writing about...

The "Stupid Evil" Squirrel

I spent a week over Christmas break in Kansas City. One morning, I was having a hot cup of coffee while reading the morning newspaper with a friend in her kitchen. I was sitting at a round-table next to a large glass window facing her backyard covered with white snow. As I peered out the window enjoying the expansive green and white outside, I noticed a medium sized squirrel approaching the house. When all of a sudden, I heard: "that stupid squirrel"; and a few moments later: "It's evil."

I was startled, no longer enjoying the beauty of the outdoors, and my awareness shifted to the statements made by my friend. There was at least one other name that she called the squirrel before she called herself "stupid" for some other reason.

I was alarmed for my own safety because I have experienced that same kind of judgment towards me; I was also confused because my cup of coffee hadn't worked its clarity magic yet. As things happen, my friend quickly went on to talk about other things, and I wasn't able to verbalize my experience; I need extra time to process ideas in the morning, but her comments were bothering me nonetheless. On the inside, I was concerned for my safety, peace and wanting to contribute to my friend's well-being, but I didn't know how.

I worried that if I spoke at the time, that she would hear a criticism, so I let it go. That afternoon, I tried to express my honesty concerning something totally unrelated, and I could see and hear her apply that same judgment toward herself totally breaking down our connection, leaving me frustrated and she experiencing some hurt.

We both needed a "timeout" and went to an outdoor jogging track. After sprinting one mile, I returned to the car for a nap while my friend completed her workout.

Our ride back to her home was uneventful, but I requested some time alone with her in the kitchen. We sat down at the same round table, and I told her calmly that I wanted to share some information with her, but I was worried that she would hear a judgment. I asked if she was interested in hearing what I had to say, and she said "yes". The following is my recollection of the dialog that took place in my conversation with my friend Lesley (I changed her name to protect her privacy):

"Lesley, I'm concerned at your response to the squirrel yesterday." "Would you like to hear what comes up for me?"

"Yes", my friend replied with a worried look on her face.

"I heard you call the squirrel 'stupid', 'evil' and some other name that I can't remember." I was guessing that my friend was afraid of judgment, so I tried to convey a desire to connect and understanding with my voice tone and body posture. "I am worried that you are trapped in a box of judgment and I want to contribute to your freedom." "Would you be willing to tell me what you heard me say?"

Lesley said, "that you are worried and want to contribute to my freedom?"

"Yes", I said. "I'm wondering if you could tell me more about what goes on with you regarding the squirrel because I'm confused by your response." "What's behind your calling the squirrel 'stupid' and 'evil'"?

Lesley said, "That damn squirrel digs up my plants in the spring, eats up all of the bird feed making a mess in the yard. And I'm afraid that he'll dig a nest in our home, bite into an electrical wire in the house causing a fire."

She gave me three reasons before I had the chance to give her empathy, so I picked the last one in her list.

I said, "So, you are afraid and wanting to keep your house safe?"

"Yes", she said. "And I have to spend a lot of time in the spring replanting my flowers after the squirrel digs them up."

I replied, "Are you feeling annoyed because you want more ease, less effort, and to protect the beauty of your garden?"

"Yes." she said. "It’s a lot of work to plant and replant the flowers."

I responded: "So, you'd like some acknowledgment for the effort it takes to replant the flowers?"

"Yes." she said.

I noticed that her body posture was starting to relax a bit, as her explanations got shorter, the sound level of her speech decreased. I wanted all of the issues to be addressed, so I asked: "Are you also feeling annoyed when you see the bird feed shells scattered around the feeder because you want more beauty and order in your backyard?"

"Yes." she said, almost in tears.

I was guessing that she had received enough empathy for now, so I asked to give my honesty. I asked her: "Would you like to know what went on for me when I heard you calling the squirrel 'stupid' and 'evil'?"

"Sure!" she said enthusiastically.

I said, "Lesley, when I hear you call the squirrel 'stupid' and 'evil' I get scared that you'll turn that judgment towards me, and I'm wanting consideration and acceptance." "Would you be willing to tell me what I just said?"

"That you are scared of my judgment?" she said. I noticed that she heard what I didn’t want instead of hearing what I did want. She was hearing part of my honesty.

"Thanks Lesley." I said. "That was close." "I really want you to hear that I want consideration and acceptance, which are the needs behind my fear of judgment.” “Would you be willing to tell me that?”

My friend seemed to be hearing me more carefully now. “So, you are want acceptance and are afraid of judgment?” she said.

“Yes.” “Thank you.” “I also want you to know that I felt some sadness because I lost connection with you." “Would you be willing to tell me that?” I said.

“That you are feeling sad because you lost connection with me?” She said.

“Thanks Lesley.” “So, how do you feel at hearing me say that?” I asked.

“Gosh, I had no idea all of this was going on.” “I’m especially sad that we lost connection.” “I know I have a tendency to judge, but I didn’t know how this affected others.” She said. After recognizing that we had a common understanding of our experience, I turned our attention toward the squirrel.

“So, Lesley, what do you think is motivating the squirrel to do the things it was doing?” I asked.

Then Lesley and I explored how the squirrel was getting its needs met. It buried nuts underneath the plants to protect them from the cold and save them for later – meeting its needs for security. The squirrel was eating the bird seed because it was hungry – meeting its need for sustenance. And the squirrel occasionally digs into homes to build its own shelter. My friend came to the realization that she was connected to the squirrel somehow; that both she and the squirrel had similar needs for food and shelter.

I was sensing that we had a full connection and deep understanding, given that both of us had given our honesty, and gave empathy to the squirrel guessing at its needs. I knew that my friend read the bible every day, so I added something for her to ponder. “Lesley, do you remember in the book of Genesis when Adam and Eve bit into the apple from the forbidden tree of the knowledge of good and evil?” She nodded. “Well, when you cast judgment on the squirrel you are doing the same thing.”

My friend had a flower arrangement in the middle of the kitchen table which happened to have apples in it. I grabbed a red shinny apple, and took at huge bite out of one for emphasis. “You are playing God with the squirrel, thinking that you have the power to cast judgment.” “And you also turn that judgment on yourself.”

We laughed a bit after I made my point with the apple. My friend expressed her gratitude to me in helping her see something that was hidden to her.

Later that day, she looked at the front page of the newspaper, and said “that stupid person, she …” It seems that old habits are hard to break.

I looked up to her, she looked down to me, and I said: “It’s not about the squirrel.”

Shoveling Snow

I spent the holidays in Kansas City with my family, and especially with my father who is ill because his lungs are not functioning properly. It snowed a couple of inches a few days back and I had the opportunity to shovel snow from my father's driveway. I had planned on doing it after breakfast on my own, but was surprised to hear the conversation in my head after my father asked me to do it. I'm not sure if it was the way in which he asked in this instance, or the ways in which he asked in the past, but my first internal reaction was of resistance. I was annoyed and wanting the autonomy to make my own choices, and disappointment because I was hoping to surprise him. After I slowed down and acknowledged my internal dialog, I was able to return to the state of wanting to do it --> to contribute to the household and well-being of my family.

So, I shoveled snow while feeling joy and getting some needed exercise at the same time. And because I have never shoveled snow with joy before, I asked my sister to snap a few photos of me and I shot a few myself. I figured that joyfully shoveling snow was something worth celebrating!