Imperfectly Practicing Compassion

Last year I read the book “Slow” by Brooke McAlary. I was hesitant to pick up the book just because it seems so “trendy” right now to talk about slow living and minimalism and cutting out the clutter. And I haven’t been in the mood for trendy.

But this book was a pleasant surprise, and I’m so glad I finished it. Throughout it, the author poses a number of questions for the reader to answer. Since I’m not really feeling my muse today, I thought I’d take a stab at one of those questions: What is important to me?

There are so many things that are important to me. First on that list is my family and living and loving every single second with them. It is important to me that they know how much they are loved — and how much Mr. B and I love each other.

On top of that, though, I want them to know that even though we love each other, it doesn’t mean we always agree or we always get along. It is important to me that they know that “Love” means loving each other because of our differences, not despite them. I want them to appreciate, embrace and love differences and not just tolerate them.

(That word. “Tolerate.” It’s always been a thorn in my side. But that’s a post for another day.)

What’s more, especially these days, it is so important to me to teach my kids kindness — to themselves and to others. It’s hard because so much of what our kids learn is not in what we tell them but in what we show them. They learn from our examples, so I need to teach them kindness and generosity and openness by being (more) kind, (more) generous and (more) open.

And, quite frankly, some days that’s hard. The world can be an ugly place. And that ugliness has a way of creeping into every crack and crevice of a person. I mean, I like to think of myself as a compassionate, loving, generous person. But some days the routine of just getting through life takes over and I forget that the world is less ugly when I’m more kind.

Practice Compassion Graphic

That’s why I chose “compassion” as my word for the year. (Here I go, being all trendy with a “word of the year” when I just got done telling you I’m not in the mood for trendy. I’m nothing if not consistent. 樂 ) 

Anyway … I wanted a daily reminder to be kinder to the person in the mirror and the rest of the people inhabiting my little corner of the world. It’s worked to have that peeking out at me when I look at my computer screen or look at the word written at the top of my monthly goal tending list (thank you PowerSheets).

It certainly hasn’t been a cure-all, though. I still catch myself thinking unkind things about myself and not being as loving toward others as I know I need to be. I can do better and I plan to keep working at it. I’m still a work in progress in making sure my actions are speaking as loudly as my words and the motivational quotes I’m so drawn to.

I guess, in summary, it is important to me that my kids know that love always remains — that they loved for exactly who they are, exactly as they are. I also want them to know that a little bit of compassion goes a long way.

By watching me, I hope they also learn that we’re all imperfect and we all can do better. And do better we should.


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Thankfully …

Do you guys ever feel like nothing’s going your way? Like no matter what you do, life has something much less enjoyable in store for you?

I’ve kinda been in that slump for a few months. I can’t really explain it, but it sure has felt like it’s just one thing after another after another — starting with getting T-boned on Christmas Day on our way to a family celebration. Thankfully, no one was hurt.

Not that you necessarily want to hear about all the “drama,” but I’m sharing it here to get it out of the way — and get it out of my head. Warning: it’s long — turns out I had a lot to say on the matter.

And, let me just put this disclaimer on all of this (I know what some of you are thinking): in the grand scheme of life, what follows is nothing — minuscule — small potatoes — a passing unlucky streak. I know how good we have it. I understand that so many people have it “worse” than we do. But, for this stage in our life, it’s been hard. And stressful. And I’m not complaining, not in the least. I’m just telling this chapter of our story. Because it’s been bumpy and this blog (abandoned though it may seem) has been my way of processing my life. And I need to do some processing right now.

After the accident, we were without our van for three-ish weeks — thankfully we had access to transportation from our Village. That accident seemed to have set off a series of unfortunate events. Shortly after that, Piper got sprayed by a skunk and brought the fresh spray into our house, resulting in us needing to have our house professionally fumigated and carpets cleaned. Thankfully it wasn’t the entire house, and we were able to get it taken care of fairly quickly. Shortly thereafter we heard a little critter (or two??) running around in our walls at night and had to call in an exterminator. Thankfullythey were able to remove the little devil, and we haven’t heard any tiny footsteps since. That same week, we lost power in a bad cold spell that swept through the area — practically icing the entire city over and taking out power to thousands upon thousands. We were out of our house for two days and one night. We lost the entire contents of our fridge, but thankfully it wasn’t worse than that: our freezer kept things frozen for the two days we were without power, our pipes didn’t freeze, and our power (heat!) came back on in two days instead of the estimated five. Because of all of the storms and ice and cold, preschool and daycare we canceled numerous times, making getting to work regularly really difficult. Thankfullywe were able to trade days off work and find people to come over and watch the kids so I could work from home a bit.

And the pièce de résistance: in the middle of all of this, Mr. B was fired from his job quite unexpectedly. It’s a shock when you’re not prepared for it emotionally or financially — when control is taken out of your hands. Thankfully, we have an amazing support system and people who held us up as Mr. B searched for another job and we tried to keep things as normal as possible for our little family. Also thankfullyMr. B found another job pretty quickly and is now employed as a barista — step one on his way to learn the coffee business from the inside out. And, even more thankfully, he’s finally on his way to a career path than can be more soul-filling.

Here it is March 3, and we’re finally feeling like we can breathe again and that the light is starting to shine. (Could it be that spring is finally on its way?!) This hasn’t been an easy chapter in our story, and at times, it wasn’t pretty. There have been arguments and uncertainty and rethinking goals we had set for ourselves for this year — both individually and as a family. At times, tempers were short and tears fell (mostly mine).

But, honestly, two things helped keep us grounded in reality through it all: Dorothy and Hobbes.

Family pictures

Were we happy about the situation we were in? No. Were we a bit stressed out and anxious about how we were going to manage everything? Yes. (Also mostly me.) Did we want to keep things as “normal” as possible for the kids? Yes. So we did what we had to do and kept moving forward. We tried our best to keep the stress and anxiety we were feeling between the two of us — though, we’re not perfect. And we tried our best to remind each other about our Big Picture.

Dorothy is very excited about her dad now working in a coffee shop, and she points out every Starbucks we pass and asks if that’s her dad’s new coffee shop. And Hobbes is happy that his dad still gets to drop him at daycare every morning and pick him up afterward every afternoon.

Another thing that I know helped me through all of this was my gratitude journal. On Jan. 1 I started recording one thing in my planner that I was grateful for each day. Focusing on the good things helped me recenter and re-align my thoughts. Through all of this … chaos, I did find something every single day that filled my heart with gratitude:

  • having access to a babysitter so we could go the the laundromat and wash every item of clothing, bedding and towels we owned to de-skunkify them
  • not taking the time to clean out our freezer all those times I said I should, so it was full to the brim and more protected when the power went out
  • finding out we had a free sub when we checked out at the restaurant one day when we were debating how we were going to pay for dinner but just needing to get out of the house for our sanity
  • being surrounded by so many people who love us and step in to help — whether we ask or they just know

I have something similar for every single day this year, and it has helped me keep myself focused on what really matters — even when it felt like things were somewhat coming apart at the seams around me.

Full disclosure: it was not all “I’m so grateful” and “using this to make a positive change in our lives” and “it could be worse” and “#blessed” … just ask my mom, who was the recipient sobbing, stressed-out phone calls on my way to work a few times. 

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Age is just a number

Subtitled: How I learned to embrace my inner pee-sneezer

Some time back, I was talking about age with some friends. Actually, the discussion has come up quite a bit lately in various circles. As it often does, the conversation turned the past and what age we’d return to, if we could. Teen years (yeah, no one wanted to return there). The college years and the 20s — those were the ones most people felt the most nostalgic for.

Me? I wouldn’t change a thing. I would be right where I am: creeping closer and closer to 40 with every key stroke. Other than eighth grade (I’d just as soon forget that year, thankyouverymuch) and a portion of my freshman year of college, I feel like every age I’ve ever been has been my favorite — and they just keep getting better.

Kimi Through the Years

Through the years …

While there are a few things I look back on and think “hmm, maybe I’d do things differently if I knew then what I know now,” none are true regrets. I truly, utterly and firmly believe that every step I’ve taken and every decision I’ve made have brought me to the life I have now. To my Mr. B. To my kids. To my home.

My hair may be is grayer, and my face may have definitely has more wrinkles. But neither of those things bother me. In fact, I embrace them and I celebrate them. Every gray hair has been earned. Cliché as it may be, my wrinkles remind me of everything I’ve experienced — every smile, every tear, every laugh and every thought.

I wholeheartedly welcome every single gray hair and every single wrinkle. I’m even OK with some of the aches and pains that have found my joints in the mornings or after a long car ride. But, if I’m being honest — and I promised I’d always be honest — there is one part of getting older that I’m not ready to embrace.

After each of my three pregnancies, the inability to sneeze or laugh or cough or jump without needing to rush to the bathroom has gotten worse. And worse. And worse. I mean, I’d heard women joke about this before. But you. have. got. to. be. kidding. me. I had no idea how bad it could be.

Recently, I had a nasty cold that came with an even nastier cough. And, for the first time ever, I found myself staring down the aisle of incontinence products wondering what had become of my body and its ability to control itself. On the upside, there are a lot of options available out there for us pee-sneezers.

Now, to be fair, this isn’t just an age issue — some of it is attributed to the three gorgeous children I carried and birthed (#blessed). Apparently nothing does a bladder good quite like giving birth to three kids within three years, two of whom weighed almost 10 pounds. And, if I had to choose either bladder control or my three kiddos, I’d choose the kiddos in a heartbeat every single time.

So, I guess that brings us back to my original point — pee-sneezing aside: I like the age I am; I welcome every passing minute because each one fills my life with something new, gives me something I didn’t have before.

My hair’s grayer. My skin’s wrinklier. My body’s sorer. My britches are wetter. And, you know what, I couldn’t be happier.

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It Takes a Village

I had the joy of talking with my friend Bri Luginbill today for her Compassionately Yours podcast, which focuses on self love, compassion and body image. When she first reached out to me to be on the podcast, my initial response was a little hesitant.

Why in the world would she want me to talk about body image self compassion. So many times I’m hard on myself and feel at my weakest — mentally and physically. I am a work in progress. 

But I decided to do it — to share my weaknesses, my struggles, as well as the things I’ve learned about being hard on ourselves and giving ourselves the same grace we’d give to others.

I think that’s one of the things that’s hardest for me — showing myself the same flexibility, compassion and grace that I give to other people. I feel like all the advice I’d offer someone else about giving themselves room to be human is advice I should really give myself in the mirror every single day.

Another bit of advice I need someone to send back to me is that I need to learn to let people in. Ask one of my closest friends, and she’ll tell you that it’s hard to get me to open up about certain things — and she’s known me for almost 15 years. This fact may be hard to believe since I share so much of myself on this blog, but I promise you there is a lot beneath the surface. I hold some of my stuff close.

And talking with Bri during the podcast and after, it made me think a bit. It helped me realize something that’s not all that shocking or surprising: we need our “people.” People who get “it” and who get us. Whether it’s through shared experiences or shared history, we need people around us. I need people in my village, even if I’m more comfortable spending my free time in a quiet corner with my nose in a book.

As I sit writing this post while Dorothy is in ballet class, I’m feeling contemplative and thinking about ways to build my village, to build my family’s village. Sometimes when I’m writing, I’ve been known to look at the wall for a bit while the thoughts find their way to my fingertips. When I looked up a bit ago, I saw a picture that makes me think the universe is trying to tell me something.


Isn’t that always the way with the universe?

Bri and I talked about so much during the podcast and after that has made me think — and rethink. It’s so nice chatting with another mom who’s going through many of the same things I am and who knows my story.

I won’t go into detail about what else Bri and I talked about — because I want to save that for you to hear when the podcast airs. But I will say this: after the podcast, I kept thinking about all sorts of additional things I wanted to share. That means I’ll have to share those thoughts in a post after the podcast comes out — a sort of addendum, I suppose. Stay tuned.

And, in the meantime, I urge you to check out what Bri’s doing. It’s pretty great.

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5 years, a beach and a cupcake

Yesterday, we celebrated what would have been Penelope Joy’s 5th birthday.

Penelope Joy on her birthday

One of our first family photos with Penelope Joy.

For some reason, we always find ourselves headed to the water on Sept. 9 — whether it be the lake or the river — to honor our precious girl’s memory. There’s just something about the water that always calls us back for her birthday, and yesterday it was exactly what our souls needed.

Family Photo on 9:9:18

On the way to pick up our traditional Penelope Joy birthday cupcakes, Dorothy asked us when she’d get to see Penelope: “I just really miss my sister Penelope and I want to see her and eat a cupcake with her.”

We talked, then, about how sometimes the people we love and miss the most live in our hearts and in the stars. And, if we want to talk to them, we don’t even have to see them — we can just look up or hold our hand on our heart and talk to them whenever we want. And we can feel them when we think about them because our hearts will get warm.

And Mr. B and I assured her that we missed Penelope Joy very much, too. We want Dorothy and Hobbes to know how much their sister was loved — and will always be loved, just as they are.  What’s more, we want them to know it’s OK to be sad and feel emotional when we think about people we miss.

After picking up the cupcakes and a deep, emotional conversation with our 3-year-old rainbow, we headed out to the lakeshore. On the way there, Mr. B got quiet and thoughtful and said, “You know, it’s not just Penelope’s birthday; it’s the anniversary of the day we became parents.”

So, on the shore of Lake Michigan on a blustery-but-beautiful Michigan morning, we celebrated our parent-iversary as well as the birthday of our beautiful star.


You won’t see a lot of tears or sad faces in these pictures. Now, don’t get me wrong: Mr. B and I each took some time yesterday morning to cry our tears. Mine were particularly ugly. But once we got to the beach, we spent the time filling each other up with love and enjoying the antics of our wild and wonderful kids, grateful for every mouthful of sand and shriek of laughter — for they were reminders of the gifts we’ve been given.

I’d been particularly nervous about this birthday — this 5th birthday. In my mind, since she died, Penelope Joy has always been 5 — skipping around, pigtails bouncing, wide smile grinning back at me from a face full of freckles and a pair of laughing emerald eyes sparkling in the sun. What would happen when she actually would have been 5? Would my thoughts and dreams and visions of her disappear? Would I no longer be able to call her to mind? Would she suddenly be 10 or 18 or 30? Would I lose my little girl all over again?

Leading up to this birthday, my nerves have been shot and I’ve been preoccupied with the what-ifs and what-nows. I am happy to report that I woke up this morning, Penelope Joy still a joyful 5-year-old skipping around in my mind.

Penelope Joy’s death still hurts, and my heart grieves daily for her. But, living in the light with those who love us most dulls the pain and brightens the sky.

Oh, and by the way, if you’re a West Michigan local, definitely check out The Salted Cupcake in Grand Rapids — as Dorothy told me, “the cupcakes are deeeee-licious!”


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A Grief Story

My “grief story” starts in May 2013 — just about six months after Mr. B and I got married. I was three months pregnant and the ultrasound tech walked out of the room and a maternal fetal medicine specialist walked in with the words “I have some bad news.”

All they could tell me is that my precious daughter would be born with a severe heart defect. They didn’t know how bad it would be — only that it would require surgery and long-term hospitalization and care.

I suppose that was the day my grieving began.

Click here to read more of my grief story at For Our Grieving.

About F.O.G. (For Our Grieving)

Grief is a universal emotion, one that can overwhelm children as well as adults. When we lose a loved one, there are many feelings that may need to be processed — feelings of sorrow, loneliness, and even anger.

F.O.G. is a nonprofit 501(c) 3 that provides a safe, friendly and professional environment where bereaved individuals of all ages and their families can find uplifting, encouragement, support, resources, education and strength while dealing with all types of loss.

Tamesha Rouse the founder of F.O.G. started this nonprofit 501 (c) (3) in 2011 to provide support for adults, teens and children grieving the loss of a loved one. After the loss of Tamesha’s sister Talaya in 2010, and the loss of her own children shortly thereafter, Tamesha felt that this cold world was turning on her and that there was no turning back. “Nothing was clear to me anymore, it felt as if the fog never let up, it was just one thing after the other; I went to a dark place and wasn’t sure how I was going to get out!” stated Tamesha. One day when she woke up from her fog, she said things became clear and she knew what she wanted to do, and it was to help others heal, find hope, and embrace their “here and now.” From there F.O.G. was born.

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Oh, to be a river

Last weekend I went on a mini retreat with one of my oldest — and dearest — friends while Mr. B stayed home with the kids for an adventure only two toddlers can provide. Saturday morning my friend and I packed our computers, books, music and wine and spent a glorious 24 hours in the company of a river at a small cabin in the heart of The Mitten.

Chippewa River View

It was quiet and peaceful and everything my soul had been needing for some time. I have talked before about how bad I am at making time for myself, but I’m trying to do better. I recognized my need to get away and have a night to myself to focus on things I enjoy doing: reading, writing, thinking, dreaming and planning. And what better place for this annoyingly stereotypical Pisces to do that than by the water.

My goal for the retreat was to just focus on things I enjoy that fill my soul. I read two novels, wrote a blog post and spent a lot of time sketching out my dreams for my future — for my family’s future. And, I spent some time thinking about rivers, up to my ankles in the flowing water.

Feet in the river

There’s so much I love about rivers. The peace of the smooth, flowing water. The whispery sounds as wind slides through the trees on the shore and the water snakes past. The chirping birds and splashing fish. The waving grasses and plants on the banks. The coolness of the water on my unsteady feet as the sand and rocks massage my achy arches.

But there’s so much more to rivers than all their beauty and peace, though. And I wonder: is it possible to love and fear and envy rivers all at the same time?

Rivers — even more than bodies of water — scare me. I’m never so intrigued and nervous as I am in the spring when the rivers swell, flooding roads and homes as they wash away what remains of our cold, Michigan winters. And those who aren’t careful very easily could get swept along with the river. Rushing spring river waters carry with them danger for the people and property that get in their way.

But, oh the way they flow — not taking no for an answer, cutting new paths with a fierce stubbornness and conviction only a river can know. There’s a special kind of patience in a river, too, knowing their path won’t be cut immediately. If there’s something in their way, they push through it. It might take years, or decades, or eons, but the river holds firm in its goal. Some of the most beautiful landscapes in this world were cut by a river — earth never the same after a river’s run through it.

There are days I wish I could be more like a river — to have that peace and patience with a fierce streak of determination running through me. Perhaps that should be my goal — perhaps I should focus on finding peace with my path while knowing it’s within my power to cut a new one as I go. Because it is, after all, my path. It is my story.

A view of the river

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