Kathleen M. Basi's Blog, page 19
February 20, 2017
The Negative Loop From Hell
[image error]Life has been feeling pretty overwhelming lately. If I haven’t given out that vibe, just look back at the fluffy blog posts I’ve been publishing, trying to avoid talking about it.
I’m not sure why it seems so much harder right now. Really, not all that much has changed. Maybe this is what people mean when they say they’re under spiritual attack: you resolve to adopt a demeanor of joy and immediately the powers of the universe start aligning to beat you down. This belief, I should be clear, is not my default approach to the spiritual life. In fact, it’s not even on my list of approaches to the spiritual life.
I’m more inclined to think maybe everything is as it has been for a long time–it’s just eventually I get worn down.
One way or another, my outlook hasn’t been too pretty lately. I’m trying really hard to see the positive, because it’s always there—I know that. But my work load is currently higher than usual, and the time to accomplish it has been significantly compressed. I’m not imagining that.
Nor am I imagining the repeated calls/visits to the orthotist, the new PT visits, ENT visits, the ongoing foot pain, the escalating need for homework supervision, or the ridiculous number of early-outs and scheduled no-school days this semester. In other words, the persistent, consistent interruptions that prevent a person who works from home from establishing any momentum. The kind that make you feel like every day you’re trying to launch a rocket from a dead standstill using half a cup of lighter fluid and a single match.
And the global worry. Oh my word, the global worry. And trying to separate hysteria from what really warrants worry. It’s exhausting.
Still, I’m experiencing at a visceral level a truism I’ve bandied about glibly for years: it’s really, really easy to get into a negative loop. And once you’re there it’s really, really hard to knock yourself out of one.
My choir helped me today. So did a walk with my family and a few minutes sitting on the bluff, watching the wind skip from one part of the valley to the next before arriving at our rocky outcrop. Listening to the kids (and my husband) trying to make echoes off the far hills. But of course, multiple extended periods of air conditioner weather in February brings me right back to “global worries.”
I know all this, too, will pass away, and I have to choose joy in the meantime. Take a day off. Say no to things I want to say yes to, and yes to things I want to say no to. Maybe I need to chew on a 5-year-old belly. Maybe I need to list two positives for every negative.
Most of all, now that I’ve said my piece, I’ve got to quit complaining about it. Because, you know…negative loop.
February 17, 2017
Making “Hats” and other photos I’m proud of
The other day, Michael and I looked through a couple of scrapbooks, and I was so impressed with some of the photos I’ve taken in the last couple of years, I just wanted show off share.
First, photos of Christian and his mother making “hats.” Orecchiette, technically, but Christian and his siblings grew up calling them “hats,” and “hats” they remain. You’ll see why.
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Then there’s this solo shot of Christian walking Julianna and Michael across the field to meet my dad and the combine during harvest in 2015:
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And sometimes it’s the group. I really love this scrapbook layout. These are not the angles and images I think of first when I think of the farm where I grew up, but I absolutely love how the three on this page turned out:
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And finally, I might have preferred to play with focus a little more on this one, but it’s such a memory of recent years for my kids and me in visiting my grandmother, I had to share. Do the non-musicians know what this is?
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Have a great weekend!
February 15, 2017
The Minor Frustrations Involved In Raising My Chromosomally-Gifted Girl
[image error]When the phone rang during my oh-so-precious work time the other day, I almost decided to ignore it without even checking the caller ID. But there’s always the chance it’s somebody’s school. Which in this case, it was–Julianna’s.
It turned out there had been a minor altercation on the bus. Julianna kept touching a boy’s backpack, even after he told her to stop, and eventually some ugly things were said…involving the word “ugly,” for one…and Julianna’s feelings were hurt.
Listening to this story, I found myself torn between rolling my eyes–because this sounded exactly like a conversation that would go down in my own house–being irritated with Julianna for persisting in annoying behavior despite being told appropriately to cease and desist…and wanting to laugh.
I told the school counselor, “See, here’s the thing. It doesn’t sound like it was entirely unprovoked. I mean, I’m Julianna’s mom and I can’t tell when she really doesn’t get it, as opposed to when she’s pretending not to get it.”
She truly is a darling child, but it’s far too easy to let things slide, because with four of them, it’s hard to do it all. It seems more efficient to focus on the ones you know “get it.” We have a weekly rotation of chores, and whenever it’s Julianna’s turn to do…well, anything, but particularly sweep or mop the kitchen, I just groan, because it’s such a chore for me to make sure she does it even remotely right. And usually I’m trying to make dinner or clean or fold laundry or, rarely, write (I have to be pretty desperate, like riding a deadline, to try to write while supervising chores), and I think, Oh, we’ll get it done later, after… and it doesn’t happen at all.
[image error]It’s the same thing when I say, “Julianna, put away these two books.” Or “Julianna, put THAT bag on the bathroom counter and THAT strap on my bed.” Or just “Julianna, go get your pajamas on.” I’m running around trying to get household things done, and she simply ignores me.
She’s learned this about me: I’m frequently juggling multiple jobs, and she can slide by without complying because I’m distracted.
Whether she knows she’s being dishonest or not is an entirely different question, and one that gives me fits. Is it a discipline issue, or not?
Then there are the orthotics. Those who follow me on Facebook know she has recently broken yet another uber-expensive brace. Fortunately, they’re covered, but I’m starting to feel very bad for the orthotist and her staff. The orthotist’s best theory is that Julianna’s heel cord is super-tight and, because the braces prevent that tightness from expressing itself, she’s putting exceptional pressure on them. So now we have two to three more orthotist appointments and regular PT to work into the schedule again.
And finally, there are the academics. Her reading assessment score went down for the first time recently. Given that reading has always been her academic strength, this was a tough thing to see. Her teachers said it was because of difficulty in comprehension–the ability to answer questions about what she had read. And the solution is for us to just practice with her more. But this means her homework, which has been independent all year, is no longer. Now I have to read with her and stop her to ask questions every page.
I’ll spare you talking about math.
Life cycles through times when things seem very smooth and times when it seems harder. And of course, usually some things are clicking along nicely while others seem very high-maintenance. I find myself second-guessing our family planning choices lately, now that the kids are all older and I really see how much more I “should” be giving to Julianna. Perhaps we should have left more space before the third child. Or cut it at three. Of course, I can’t imagine my family any way other than it is–raucous, superhero-filled, overwhelmed by togetherness and richness–but I can’t help wondering if Julianna, at least, would be better served if we were a smaller family in which her parents spent more time with intervention.
And then I shake my head and remember that having three brothers will only be good for her in adulthood, and that no matter how much intervention we did she’d still never make valedictorian and start designing rocket ships or doing brain surgery, so why am I stressing the levels of delay? Let her be who she is and let us be who we are and let us together be who we were called to be.
February 13, 2017
Growing Up And Aging Out
Image by fczuardi, via Flickr
When I was ten years old, I dreamed of being an Olympic figure skater. I didn’t get to go ice skating very often because we either had to wait for the pond to freeze or we had to drive an hour and a half to the nearest rink. We went once or twice a year, and of course, I realized pretty quickly that my dream wasn’t going to happen. Still, that didn’t mean I couldn’t keep trying to teach myself new skills. I never just skated in circles, I was always trying to figure things out: how to skate without holding onto the boards, how not to push off the toe picks, how to skate backward, how to stay balanced on one foot only, how to switch directions.
I like climbing rocks, too. And I didn’t start running at all until I was twenty-five, and I only got real about it until after I’d been doing Jazzercise for a while. Even at Jazzercise, I’m constantly setting goals, because I wear a Polar watch and I know what kind of heart rate targets I need to hit in order to burn 300 calories in an hour.
In other words, I’ve always looked at physical activity as something I can get better and better at the longer I do it.
But this weekend, when we went ice skating to celebrate Julianna’s birthday, I felt less safe doing things like turning around while in motion. I thought at first it was because I hadn’t been skating in almost a year, but I didn’t feel that way last year, and it had been just as long then, too.
It was the first time I’ve confronted the reality that sooner or later, my body is no longer going to be able to get better at physical things. That at some point, I’m going to have to pull back and do less rather than strive for more. And that point may (may? It’s a guarantee!) arrive before my soul is ready to let go.
There’s nothing earth-shattering in this news. I’ve watched many in my family confront the reality of getting older…the ease of injury and the difficulty of recovery expanding in opposite directions, the growing awareness of what your body can and can’t be expected to do. It’s just that I wasn’t prepared to see it in myself—even on the distant horizon (because certainly, I’m not there yet. Thank God!).
And, let’s be honest: I depend on the ability to be active, because I love food. It’s driving me crazy to be reaching a point in my life where I finally feel like I have the financial stability to enjoy certain culinary treats more regularly, only to confront the scales, which point out with unforgiving clarity that there’s a whole different reason why I still can’t, and in fact I can’t have as much as I used to.
I routinely praise my parents for the grace with which they’ve grown older; in part, I do so in order to call myself to the same standard. But I must say, it’s far easier to recognize that trait and praise it than it is to live it!
February 10, 2017
Mr. Strong-y Smash Man and Other Adorable Michael Moments
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The youngest child is always the funniest one. It’s a rule. While I was gone for Liturgical Composers Forum, the two women who had morning duty both sent me messages to tell me things about my youngest child.
Exhibit A:
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Uh-huh. Star Wars. Avengers. Hark the Herald Angels. Oddwalk’s Gorilla song. Frosty. Rudolph. Songs of his own making. And every one of them sung
AT THE TOP OF HIS LUNGS.
(Why yes, in fact, I am shouting. Actually, that’s not true, because currently I have no voice at all and my head feels woozy like I have a fever. I’m shouting internally.)
Exhibit B:
(An email received mid-week):
I know you keep track of funny things the kids say so I thought I’d share one I got from Michael this morning.
February 8, 2017
The Couple That Plays Together…
[image error]I’ve heard people say that wallpapering is a test of a marriage. I think they should try critiquing each other’s creative work.
Christian has always been my earliest set of eyes on a piece of music, and unlike most people, he’s never felt inhibited about telling me exactly what’s wrong with it. In the early years of our marriage, I didn’t handle this well. For those who have never had a creative work critiqued, imagine setting your child out on a pedestal for people to say, “He’s got decent teeth, but the fact that he chews with his mouth open is clearly a reflection on your parenting skills.”
In some ways having a book or a song critiqued is even worse, because a child at least is an independent human being, responsible for his or her own choices. Any flaws in a creative baby are no one’s fault but yours.
It took me several years to learn to accept his feedback with enough emotional distance to be capable of objective receptivity. It also took Christian that long to learn to identify the actual element in a measure or melody or text that doesn’t work. For one thing, he’s taught me not to get all airy-fairy-flowery about religious concepts, but to stay grounded in reality.
But his biggest help to me is with piano parts. I’m an ear-and-chords player (a bad one), so although I can write an interesting enough piano part, I can’t play it, so I never know if what I hear in my head actually works in reality. I tend to assume that if my husband can’t sight-read it, it’s too hard. He has no patience with this particular assumption. “Just give me a minute to play it through first, will you?” he’ll say. “I’ve never seen this before!”
But the photo at the top of today’s post shows a very different sort of shared musical moment. For the past two and a half years, I’ve been going through draft after draft after editorial revision of a collection of Easter hymns arranged for flute and piano, a complement to my Christmas collection, “Come To The Manger.” Some of them wrote themselves; others, well, let’s just say I never knew I could suffer so much angst over a song I’ve been singing since I was old enough to carry a tune.
So it was very satisfying to spend an hour last weekend playing through 25 pages stamped with these words:
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Proofs, for those who aren’t deep in the publishing world, are “this is what the inside of the finished product will actually look like,” and as an author you have to go through and make sure there aren’t any mistakes.
This Joyful Eastertide will be available sometime this spring, and I’m quite proud of how it came out. I’m grateful to my editor, Keith Kalemba, for pushing me to dig deeper and not go with the obvious. And I’m grateful to my husband for the countless evenings we put the kids to bed and wanted nothing more than to sit down and veg in front of the TV, and yet instead we went down to the piano to play through yet another attempt at VREUCHTEN or O FILII ET FILIAE.
I guess the couple that plays together, stays together.
February 6, 2017
On Appropriate Superbowl-Watching Techniques
Because you know you ate way too much guacamole, plus a soda and a glass of wine, and you figure you’ve got to burn off a few of those calories, your Superbowl gathering becomes a session of:
Communal Planking.
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It turns out those band director friends of yours make their marching bands do sprints, pushups, situps, and planks as part of practice. Who knew? Madame I-think-I’m-so-fit-because-I-go-to-Jazzercise couldn’t keep up!
Communal Bicycling
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And Leg exercises…
AKA turning Michael upside down and tossing him. (I did this with all the kids, but Michael’s the only one small enough still, and he’s not far from the edge. Waaaaaah.)
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February 3, 2017
Kate’s Universal Laws Of Parenting
Give them rocks to climb and they won’t fight. Oh wait. They had that fight over the walking stick, didn’t they? Never mind…
Ear infections always and only come up after the doctor’s office has closed for the night.
Or during a 20-inch snow storm.
The child who gets chronic ear infections is inevitably the one who’s also allergic to penicillin.
Paperwork is evil.
Where children, there noise.
If no noise, beware.
Just because they don’t react doesn’t mean they didn’t hear you.
Paperwork is evil.
Boys are just different.
1 boy= destruction. 2 boys = mayhem. 3 boys = total annihilation.
Did I mention paperwork is evil?
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February 1, 2017
The Challenge of Achieving Zen When Your Kids Are Wrestling On The Floor
The women of the 2017 Liturgical Composers Forum
I spent last week hobnobbing with my fellow liturgical composers…which means I got to geek out about hanging out with people I have looked up to since I was old enough to pay attention to the names in the copyright line at the bottom of the hymnal pages. And yes, I am fully aware that this paragraph outs me as a complete Catholic nerd. But I don’t think that was a big surprise to most of you, so…y’know. It is what it is. I am who I am, and all that.
(Bracing for the lightning strike.)
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Long days and late nights….my camera tells me I took this picture of the Eagles jam session at 10:45 p.m. That’s an hour past my bedtime. 
January 30, 2017
When My Life Is Good, But So Many Others’ Lives…Aren’t.
Photo by KOREA.NET, via Flickr
I dreamed last night that I met Pope Francis. Well, not so much met as happened to be standing right there when he blew by, laughing and carrying, of all things, a part of a broken toilet that needed to be thrown away. I was supposed to be meeting up with a friend from grad school to attend a concert. And I was supposed to be meeting up with my family, too. But I couldn’t find either one, so I was standing at the back of a long, grand church and clerics were processing out, and suddenly there he was: the pope, wearing jeans and a blue t-shirt, covered with a black plastic hair cutting wrap and hurrying by with a big smile and a carefree laugh and an utter lack of concern about dignity.
And I woke up so happy.
Lately I haven’t felt like I could deal with the news, so I’ve been ignoring it. But I knew I couldn’t go on like that forever. All of us who thought, “At least it’ll be over after the election” were totally wrong. I’m beginning to realize we’re entering a time of ongoing struggle for identity in our country. Me and conflict don’t get on well. (Is that grammatically correct? Whatever. I’m supposed to be writing off the cuff this year.) Interpersonal conflict, internal conflict, philosophical and moral conflict—the situation in our country now involves every blessed one.
It’s hard to recognize how good my life is—despite my propensity for complaining—and how, in contrast, many people are suddenly facing situations I can’t even imagine. People who did everything right and are still being penalized for their ethnicity.
I’ve been growing more conscious in recent months of race and wrestling with how to get past the hurdles that separate us. I made a new friend last week who spent a long time talking with me about it, and who affirmed my ability to bridge those gaps, at least on a person to person level.
But since I came home from the composers’ forum last week, I have re-entered the news cycle and found my joy in the immense blessings of my life taking a beating. It feels insensitive to share my joy with my friends when so many people are suffering from upheaval and a fear I can’t begin to comprehend, because my life is so far removed from it.
How can I focus on how great my life is when Jewish community centers are getting systematic bomb threats? When so many people have to tiptoe through their days, knowing people are going to put the worst spin on everything they say or do because their skin is brown instead of white? (This is not made up, by the way, as much as the white community would like to brush it off. People I know and care about have told me about it personally. Just because we don’t have a common frame of reference to comprehend it doesn’t mean it’s not real.)
And then there’s this: at a basketball game on Saturday night, my five-year-old saw two men in uniforms and said, “Mommy, there are police officers.” “Would you like to go meet them?” I asked, and he said, “No. I’m afraid they’ll shoot me.” Of course, he’s also afraid of Truman the Tiger, so maybe I shouldn’t overreact to that comment. Still, what future are we preparing, if this is what our communal actions are teaching the next generation?
How does a Christian respond to the suffering of others? I share your sorrow, all of you out there stuck in situations dire and bleak and getting more so by the day. But I know I can’t possibly feel it as keenly as you do. Nor do I know what to do next. I have no faith at all in politics, and even at a personal level, how do we engage in productive dialogue when so many people only hurl fallacies, biases and out-of-context facts at each other across the great abyss?
Pope Francis’ presence in my dream—the joy, the humility, and above all the fact that he had clearly been fixing a toilet—a symbol of small and practical, un-flashy things—was a signal to me of hope. A reminder that my job isn’t to impact political systems but to be the hands and feet of Christ, person to person, and trust God to put me where I need to be.
