Random Thoughts on Birds and Truth

One crisp pre-winter morning while driving my kids to school, I did something I never do—I looked up. My mouth fell open as I discovered the pale blue sky alive with movement, thin lines and curves undulating through the air like ripples of sand created by desert winds. A great flock of birds, the likes to which I’d never seen, flew high above a barren field. I called to my children to look at the pretty birds.

“Where, Mommy? I don’t see any birds.”

I looked back up, confused at how they were missing a sky overflowing with winged creatures.

“Ooo, look, the letter “V,” my daughter called out.

Indeed, the birds were jockeying for position to form a bunch of V’s, intent on their quest for a warmer climate. But they appeared as nothing more than lines sketched by the edge of an artist’s charcoal stick, each bird’s individuality and identity completely lost from our earthbound perspective.

As we travelled, the flock descended, low enough that the shape of each bird could be distinguished. Side by side we rode, one with the avian crowd. My daughter called out again, “Yellow birds! Mommy, look at all the pretty yellow birds!” Now the birds were not, in fact, yellow. They must have been a shade of gray or white. You see, the sun was still rising, low in the sky, casting forth its golden light, bathing each bird in an aura of yellow. I opened my mouth to correct my daughter, to explain the wonders of light reflection and refraction, but how does one explain physics to a kindergartner? (Especially when physics has never been a strength of mine). This observation skipped my ever wandering brain onto the subject of truth. Truth: the birds’ feathers were not yellow, regardless of how they appeared.

My brain then briefly slipped on the slope of moral relativism. Funny how nature doesn’t seem to struggle with truth the way people do. Those birds were the color that they were. Period. It didn’t matter if I called them gray or white or fuchsia. It didn’t matter if I spray-painted them silver. My perspective, whether near or far, was irrelevant. My opinion did not change truth.

 Next, I think of myself. One of the blessings that seems to have come with my age is my level of self-awareness. I pretty much know who I am and who I’m not. Others may have their opinions about me, opinions they have formed from the brief moments they have seen me with their eyes, of the brief bits of conversation or text messages we’ve exchanged. But those opinions, whether complimentary or disparaging, do not change the truth of who I am.

So then I start thinking about God, about how we mortals, drunk on our own acumen, think we can tell God who He is. We piece together all of the happy, rosy bits of various religions and philosophies, creating our own belief system, fashioning it in such as was as to legitimize us doing and saying whatever the heck we darn well feel like.

But the truth is those birds were not yellow. Truth is your opinion of me will not change who I am (though I confess, it may make me cry). Truth is God is who He is, regardless of our own vain fabrications.

“Slow down, Mommy! We’re losing them.”

I snapped out of my philosophical reverie. Good thing, too. My brain was starting to cramp. I looked back out my window and indeed, the birds were slipping behind us. And then my brain shifted to parenthood— the sports, meal preparation, laundry, homework, dishes, repeated lines of “how many times have I told you not to.” We parents grumble and moan and groan about the day to day, lost in the blindness of the mundane, forgetting this truth: We’re losing them. In the scheme of our entire lives, the time we have with our little ones at home, needing us, wanting our undivided attention, is so very small. In a blink they become teenagers and the center of their universes shifts from us to their peers and we will in turn beg for their undivided attention.

We cannot fight the clock. Time continues whether we want it to or not. Another truth which cares not of our opinion of it. While we cannot slow the clock, we can slow ourselves, cross a few things off our list that really weren’t that important to begin with. Right now I have three children who still like to curl up in my lap, who love when I read to them, who beg me to pick them up and spin them as fast as I can. My one son just walked into the kitchen and, while I’m in the middle of making dinner, he asked me to pick him up. He’s getting so big, it makes my back hurt. But you better believe I pick him up. Every single time. Without fail, he puts his head on my shoulder and coos, “Mama,” softly, for my ears only. Worth the slightly overcooked dinner in the pan and the price of a chiropractor visit any day. And yeah, that’s truth. J

          --Suzi Ryan

Failure to Connect

I am sitting at my daughter’s basketball practice, laptop open, desperately trying to get a Wi-Fi connection.  All my feeble attempts at hacking through an unsecured network fail miserably.  I feel hopeless as I stare at the “No connection” message flashing on the screen.

And then it dawns on me.  Is Wi-Fi really what I need to feel connected? Why am I so desperate to get online?  Is it to login to my online classes and tend to students’ “I need this question answered RIGHT NOW!” demands? Or to keep my Facebook window open so as not to miss an all-important status update? Or is it to check in with my three email accounts just in case I’m desperately needed by someone?

A small, sarcastic laugh escapes my lips as my bench neighbor looks at me oddly and then slides away a few inches.  Now, I am shaking with internal laughter.  My daughter turns from her dribbling practice, smiles, and waves.  And it hits me.  For the past several months, I’ve been going through the motions of living while truly being trapped in the online world.

I had become so conditioned to only feel connected with others by constantly being online that it was a sudden wake-up call to realize that there is life outside the cyber window.  My laughter dies down almost as quickly as it began.  I’m laughing at myself and my own imagined self-importance. The false feeling of constant connection in the online world pales in comparison to looking around and watching my daughter proudly shoot from the free-throw line.  Hearing the whoosh of the ball as it slides seamlessly through the net makes my heart flutter more than any “you’ve got mail” message ever could.  Checking Yahoo News and joining online protests, petitions, and causes can’t hold a candle to seeing my daughter’s teammates clap each other on the back and high-five one another with giddy excitement.  Being online can’t compare to seeing, hearing, sensing, touching, and tasting in REAL life. 

Just as this revelation dawns on me, I hear a little “ding” on my phone letting me know I’ve got an email message waiting.  I resist the urge to grab it and check.  My fingers are itching.  One… Two… Three…I delay a few seconds longer and then can’t hold myself back.  I grab the phone and open the message…another petition lamenting Lowes’ discriminatory stance against the “All-American Muslim” show on TLC. 

I can’t help but feel the giggle gurgling inside me again.  Here I am, poised to respond with a raving rant of self-righteous indignation when I realize that since basketball season began, I have never once stopped to introduce myself to the other parents.  I have never taken the time to make an effort to get to know them.  Why? Not because I am an unfriendly person, but because I have been too consumed with always being “connected” online.  Even the connection I used to feel in writing seems to have faded in favor of the all-consuming cyber interactions.

Embarrassed and a bit sheepish, I put down the phone, close the laptop and turn to my bench neighbor.  “Hi, I’m Suzy.”  A raised eyebrow, a slight pause, and an imperceptible bob of the head… and before I know it, Ann is reaching out to shake my hand and eagerly discuss how well the girls are doing this season.

Basketball practice is wrapping up and Ann is packing her things… I can’t help but sneak back into my laptop.  Yes, I’m addicted.  But, with my fingers flying over the keys, I’m desperately seeking another connection.  Not an online one this time, but a connection through writing. 

And I find it.  The knowledge that someone, somewhere may find this post, read it, and nod in understanding...that’s some powerful connection.

Connecting to the world without Wi-Fi… what a concept!

          --Suzy Ismail

Beware of Onions

Red, White, Yellow, Spanish, Vidalia, Cipollini.  Up and down, I scan the wall of onion filled baskets, by far the ugliest section in the produce department.  If I didn’t know what an onion was, I’d certainly never pick one up out of sheer culinary curiosity. 

Covered in unattractive papery, peeling skin, some even with dings and spots. Different varieties and colors. Various nuances of flavor. But this ugly little vegetable is a base ingredient in a myriad of dishes among cultures throughout the world.  With a sigh, I tossed my unsightly Vidalia into a plastic bag and headed home. 

Onion poised on my cutting board, chef’s knife in hand, I began my dissection, removing the outer black flecked layers.  Are these specks a bad thing?  I really don’t know but as I peeled, the imperfections fell away, leaving behind a pristine yellowy white layer of flawlessness.  Obsession seizing me, I peeled and peeled, negating the recipe at my side. Each layer became more tender, each releasing more juice.  And there I stood, gazing at the counter, surprised at the mess I’d made in my attempt to find what was at the center, which was just a pinky nail-sized oniony core.  Tears trickling down my face, it hit me…people are an awful lot like onions.

What we look like on the outside has absolutely nothing to do with what is on the inside, buried deep within the sanctum of our hearts.  When introduced to someone new, what do we do?  Communicate, of course.  All very surface, all very polite initially.  If we find some common interests, we take it a little further, peeling a little deeper, discovering what lies beyond the façade.

Peeling people takes great care.  Pause and thoughtful consideration should be taken after each layer, carefully weighing the risk/benefit ratio of digging any deeper.  You must also decide how much you will allow yourself to be exposed, for it is a bit of a game of quid pro quo.  When someone reveals something personal, you must now return the gesture.  Failure to do so, and you risk forfeiting the game, losing the chance for a connection.   

The opposite is also true.  Some people seem to sit around, begging to be peeled, shedding their layers faster than you are ready for.  All you do is ask a co-worker how they are doing and the next thing you know, you’re covered in “I’m eight weeks pregnant and my husband just cheated on me” emotional vomit.  And you didn’t even bring a change of clothes.  Speaking of the workplace, heed extra caution.  You have to see these people every day.  Peel too far for the professional situation and you’re left with a big pot of ‘awkward’ stewing on your desk. 

Sometimes in the process, you’re blessed enough to discover a friend, a friend who on the outside looks so completely different than you—a red onion sitting next to a Cipollini.  Layer after layer, repeated e-mails/texts/conversations/dinner at P.F. Chang’s/coffee at Panera and you’ve found yourself a friend for keeps.  To whom, at the low points of life, you compose epic-long emails to, knowing that out  of everyone, your  friend is probably the only one you’d ever have the courage to hit “send” to.

Perhaps the greatest example for me is the process of falling in love (I am a hopeless romantic, after all). With each personal interaction  layers are loosened—some layers requiring a bit more work as they are jaded from past heartbreak.  Perchance in the process you discover something so sweet and tender…ah true love, then marriage, where you will learn that the peeling yet continues.  It is a lifelong process.  A continual learning experience.

Now, a strong word of caution, oh ye metaphoric onion peelers: just like a real onion, you cannot put the layers back together when you find something you don’t like or when you’ve accidentally peeled too far.  No matter how much you pray or cry, the layers will simply stare back at you from the cutting board, little curled up bowls, leaving you with whatever you’ve found in your dissection…pungent or sweet or downright rotten to the core. 

Concerning people, peel judiciously…and keep a few tissues handy, just in case.

          --Suzi Ryan

Dichotomy Bites

After thirty (mumble) years, I’ve finally figured out what my problem is <insert drum roll>.  I have a split personality.  Completely not qualified to go all psychoanalytical here (though I had such an awesome Psychology professor in college, I almost switched majors).  But the whole theory explains a lot in my life. So for kicks (clearly my life is not very exciting), I’ve decided to name both of them and talk in third person (my husband is thrilled, of course).  I’ve got a friend who’s doing it too. We’ve even discovered one of his alter egos is a female. How’s that for enlightenment?  I dare you to try it when you’re in the mood for some introspection (like after a high school reunion).  Hey, you might even determine you have more than two.  Write them down.  Writing is always a good thing.  Let me introduce you to the two Suzi’s (for the record, my co-blogger Suzy is completely innocent in my lunacy).  Here’s my example:  

Susan— can count to three and have her children snap to obedience (most of the time), is a “what you see is what you get” kind of girl and wishes more people were the same, listens to Contemporary Christian music, impatient but has learned how to fake it, a slightly cynical realist, sarcastic, likes to use big words (especially Latin derivatives) just to watch people fake like they understand what she says, tends to be a bit self-righteous, is quite skilled in emotionally abusing herself for the things she’s done wrong, and believes true love exists but is jaded enough to know that happily ever after isn’t a sure thing.

Suzi—perpetual hopeless romantic 17 year old who has wanted to be nothing other than a writer since the age of 12, puts her heart before her head which has been known to get her into trouble, likes her music loud, played by real instruments, and preferably sung by guys who had long hair and leather pants, billowy open shirt optional though highly recommended, loses her train of thought easily, wait, don’t forget the black boots on the guy with long hair, um what was I saying? Oh, yeah maintains a list of guidelines for a perfect kiss (available upon request), favorite expression is “it’s not fair”, thinks happy endings should be required by law, believes with every cell in her body that true love absolutely, positively exists and is worth waiting for, LOVES to talk…well ramble really, gets her feelings hurt easily and cries without effort, laughs loudly and has been known on occasion to snort if the person she is with is particularly funny, especially her brother, and when she gives her heart to you, she gives it for life.

Oh, alright.  No new concepts here, right?  Bit of id and ego with a splash of superego.  Yay, Freud.  Even Biblically speaking, we are told we are at war with our flesh.  Clearly Susan is the mind and Suzi is the heart and flesh.  And even though they often end up on the floor punching each other like siblings for control, they can’t exist without each other. 

It’s that way for all of us, depending on our location and company.  At work, we show whichever alter ego conveys responsibility.  At our place of worship, whichever is moral.  In front of our children we are authoritative yet loving, an opportunity for a coordination of our different selves.  And lying in the arms of true love, we can hopefully be all of our selves, completely vulnerable and whole.    

So, make your list.  I dare you.  My hat’s off to you if you find more than two personalities.  Two is all I can possibly handle. Please be more original with your names.  And you absolutely must talk in third person.  Just don’t be surprised when your kids start doing it too.  J

          -Suzi Ryan

Power of Prayer

As the holidays approach for many, the upcoming days are usually a great time of reflection and prayer.  Whether the prayers you offer are Muslim, Christian, Jewish, Hindu, or any other faith you adhere to, an inherent belief is needed to give the prayers meaning. 

A common Muslim phrase that is often repeated before embarking on any task is “’id’eelee” which essentially means “pray for me” in Arabic.  Asking others to pray for you is common across religions and cultures and shows the power of prayer to transcend religious boundaries that may otherwise seem insurmountable. 

Recently, a professional acquaintance sent me a link to preview his blurb book of inspirational quotes, images, and stories.  One story in particular caught my attention since I had just been asked by my Christian friend to pray for her, even though my Muslim prayers were probably very different from hers.  The following story struck a chord that showed it’s often the intention of prayer that matters more than how, when, or in what way you offer those prayers.  I hope this story is as stirring for you as it was for me.  Reprinted with permission from Fahim Munshi (http://www.blurb.com/books/1879938).     

“A ship was wrecked during a storm at sea and only two of the men on it were able to swim to a small desert-like island. The two survivors, not knowing what else to do, agreed that they had no other recourse but to pray to God for help.  To find out whose prayer was more powerful, they decided to divide the territory between them and stay on opposite sides of the island.

The first thing they prayed for was food. The next morning, the first man saw a fruit-bearing tree on his side of the island, and he was able to eat its fruit. The other man's parcel of land remained barren.  After a week, the first man was lonely and he decided to pray for a wife. The next day, there was another ship wreck, and the only survivor was a woman who swam to his side of the island. On the other side of the island, there still was nothing.

Soon the first man prayed for a house, clothes, and more food. The next day, like magic, all of these things were given to him. However, the second man still had nothing.  Finally, the first man prayed for a ship, so that he and his wife could leave the island. In the morning, he found a ship docked on his side of the island. The first man boarded the ship with his wife and decided to leave the second man on the island. He considered the other man unworthy to receive God's blessings, since none of his prayers had been answered.

As the ship was about to leave, the first man heard a voice from heaven boom out, "Why are you leaving your companion on the island?"

"My blessings are mine alone, since I was the one who prayed for them," the first man answered. "His prayers were all unanswered and so he does not deserve anything."

"You are mistaken!" the voice rebuked him. "He had only one prayer, which I answered. If not for that, you would not have received any of my blessings."

"Tell me," the first man asked the voice, "what did he pray for that I should owe him anything?"

"He prayed that all your prayers would be answered."

Pray as we might for ourselves, it’s often the unselfish prayers of others for us that are most likely to be answered.  This holiday season be sure to repeat the mantra of “id’eelee” in whatever language you speak to anyone who believes in the power of prayer.  If we all pray for each other, the prayers of the world are bound to be answered one by one.  May all your prayers be answered this season and happy holidays to all!

     

          -Suzy Ismail

         

       

One Good Gig

When I was younger, my favorite scene in Mary Poppins was when the proper British kids head over to the house of laughs with their magical nanny.  The high-flying fun that results at the ceiling tea party always made me wonder if laughing super-hard could really set your feet a-flyin’.  Mary Poppins wasn’t the only movie to firmly plant the seeds of this notion in my seven or eight year-old mind.  After all, Peter Pan clearly told Wendy, Michael, and John that they could fly to Neverland just by thinking happy thoughts.  And didn’t Chitty Chitty Bang Bang stay afloat with the help of delightful laugh-inducing tales?

Speaking of laughter, as elementary school flew by and the days of naively believing in flying feet passed with them, my own laughter seemed to decrease each day.  Sitting down to dinner awhile back, my oldest daughter cleared her throat as if she had a big announcement to make.  Over the giggles of her siblings who were competing in making mountains and molehills out of their mashed potatoes, she used her best ‘grown-up’ voice to command everyone’s attention.  “I need to read the back of my Snapple cap, now.” 

Dutifully, we all put down our forks, stopped making designs out of the rivers of gravy atop the mashed potatoes (my husband, not the kids), and waited for the profound Snapple wisdom to come our way.  “Children laugh about 400 times a day while adults only laugh 15 times a day.”

The Snapple sage had spoken and I was awestruck at the truth in those words.  Her announcement was followed by another eruption of giggles from the younger two, but barely a smile from anyone else. 

In that moment, I saw my first-born growing up.  It wasn’t the adult teeth that had somehow stolen into her smile while we were all sleeping.  Nor was it the proper way she held her dinner knife to cut through the over-done steak.  It was the realization that she was slowly winding down that path of only sharing “necessary” laughter.  The unabashed mirth of just a few months ago had been replaced by a much more “grown-up” seriousness.  As her younger siblings cracked up at everything and anything, her solemn nine year-old eyes just stared them down with a new-found knowledge.

I quickly calculated the age in my head when I stopped believing in the flying power of laughter and realized that it was right about the age of my daughter.  I decided I would have to count my laughter for the next few days just to prove the darn Snapple bottle wrong.   But, I couldn’t do it.  Every day I counted and found that I was barely making it to the 15 genuine laugh marks on my barometer.  That’s when I knew it was of the utmost importance that I reverse the trend.

Luckily, I didn’t have to wait long for a solution for this laughter deficiency to come my way.  My hubby and I had been planning a weekend in the city for ages which we finally followed through with.  On the agenda was a trip to a comedy show with Jim Gaffigan.  Reluctantly, I went along with the plan, sure that I would hate the show.  Surprisingly, I found myself laughing for a full hour way past the 400 mark with side-splitting belly-aching mirth that would have made my six year-old proud.

On coming home to tell the kids all about it, I realized that I couldn’t remember a single joke, but only the feel-good sensation of long latent laughter.  As I giggled absurdly with my little ones while botching up joke after joke, I saw my nine year-old break out into a grin.  Slowly, the smile with the out of place teeth widened even more and began to turn into a laugh.  The laughter was contagious.  Before I knew it we were all shouting out silly knock-knock jokes and ridiculous riddles while rolling on the floor with laughter. 

It wasn’t a ceiling tea party, but it was probably just as fun.  We were flying, but with our feet planted firmly on the floor.  In a final burst of funny, my oldest daughter suddenly shouted out “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.”  The room silenced in awe at the magic of the word and then the uncontrollable giggling began again. 

I probably hit a thousand laughs that day.  Every heartfelt chuckle took me a little higher up and a little closer to Neverland.  Snapple was wrong.  Adults can definitely rival kids in the laugh quota if they want to.  But in the end, who’s counting anyway? 

"Knock knock"

         "Who's there?"

"Boo"

         "Boo who?"

"Oh, don't cry, it's only a joke!"  J

          -Suzy Ismail

Thankfulness is a Choice

Curled up on my personal side of our leather sectional with my laptop perched upon my lap, my iPhone 4 at my hip, I glanced over to my husband, on his side of the sectional, his laptop perched on the back of the couch.  He started complaining about his job which somehow led to both of us whining about all the leaves in our yard and the excessive amount we pay each month for the rental of a storage unit.  All while our children laughed as they ran through the house as we yelled for them to keep it down.  Standard stuff.  A normal day.  Until we got the call…

My good friend’s toddler had just been hit by a car and killed.  He was only nineteen months old.   And everything seemed to freeze as the air was sucked out of the room.

Medical staff told my friend when she was pregnant that her baby boy might not survive. This was a baby who was born with a congenital heart defect, requiring two open heart surgeries. Then they said he may never walk.  But walk he did.  From there he ran, and not silently either.  Oh no.  He laughed and squealed while he ran, as if to say to the doctors and experts, “I’ll show you.”

And so the little boy who was not supposed to make it, not only survived but happily thrived in the care and love of his mother, family, friends, and dedicated medical professionals, charming all he met with his exuberant smile.  A precious, tiny life who touched all who knew him.  Gone much too soon. 

Here we are at Thanksgiving and I find myself humbled.  I have a home and a job that if I quit tomorrow, no one would go hungry.  My husband at least has a job to complain about when so many have lost theirs.  We have a bothersome amount of leaves in our yard but we are both healthy enough to go out and rake them up.  And we have so much “stuff” that we have to rent out a storage space to contain it.  My children are healthy and happy.  And I still have a God who is good, even when I don’t understand all that happens in the world, even when I rarely have the answer to the question “Why?”

So this Thanksgiving I’m going to quit my whining about all the things I wish had, the things my heart longs for, the things that I most likely will never have.  I chose to be thankful.  And yeah, it’s a choice.  Being thankful doesn’t come naturally to humans.  It’s a learned trait.  Anyone who’s brought up kids under the age of five knows exactly what I’m saying.  We teach our children to say “thank you.”

I’m thankful for so many things but I am especially thankful for the little boy who touched so many lives in his brief life.  No matter what complications he faced, no matter how many surgeries, doctor appointments, physical therapy treatments, he always faced it with a smile.  There’s a lesson in there for me.  In my faith, I believe I will see baby Riley again.  And I have complete confidence that when I do…he’ll be smiling. 

We miss you, Smiley Riley.  You will always be in our hearts. 

Happy Thanksgiving to those of you who celebrate.

            -Suzi Ryan

Hitting the Target

A few days ago I entered my local Target store with literally one item on my shopping list.  Within two minutes of entering the money pit, I was completely distracted and had a shopping-cart full of items that I really had no good use for.  Trailing behind me, my three kids were up to their usual “ooohhhing” and “aaahhing” about the mercantile wonders of the superstore.  Suddenly, my six year-old dropped the red-tagged, toothbrush-shaped back scratcher that he’d been arduously trying to convince me to purchase and stopped me in my tracks.  There, in the middle of Aisle 16, between men’s shoes and kids’ underwear, my son gave me a wake-up call. 

“Mom… you have to FOCUS!  Remember the important things!”  There I was; comparing a clearance priced generic bath bubbles’ set with the full priced name-brand one, when I realized that we barely even use bubbles in the bath!  My son’s comment snapped me out of my crazed consumerism moment, catching me off-guard with its simple truth.

A mental epiphany followed the amazing revelation that just as my Target trips usually lack focus and often deviate from their initial purpose, so does much of my own scatter-brained race through the aisles of life.  Suddenly, it dawned on me that when a spill happens in Aisle 33, it’s a lot harder to get there in good time when you’re still stuck in Aisle 4.

In that moment, I found myself wondering whether or not having a life that compared to Target in its messiness and hodge-podge aisles was really a good thing.  Wouldn’t it be better to focus on just one specialty, like a handbag boutique that only sells really pricey, high quality bags instead of cramming all sorts of knick-knacks under one roof?

Within seconds, the answer to my mental question was abruptly delivered by my nine-year old.  “Mom, look!  Here’s the poster-paper I need for my science project.”  The comment was quickly followed by my two year old jumping up and down with a bag of crackers shouting “Goal-fish! Goal-fish!  I love Goal-fish!”

I glanced at my over-flowing cart, threw in the poster paper and the Goldfish crackers and whispered a fervent “Thank you” to God and to Target for saving me from having to make another stop. 

So, even if you lose your focus or change your purpose while meandering through the aisles of life, I’ve come to conclude that it’s better to be gifted with the fullness of choices than to be limited by only one specific product.  As nice as that Prada bag might be, I’d much rather pick up some crackers, some poster paper, and a useless back scratcher all in one shot. 

We left Target that pivotal day without the bubble bath but with a shared feeling of contentment… even though we forgot to pick up the item we’d initially gone in for.  I guess tomorrow could always be another Target day. J

                -Suzy Ismail
     

    

You know you're getting old when...

Grandparents.  I was fortunate to have good ones who I spent oodles of time with.  And even though they were the best mommom and poppop I could have asked for, there was still something about them that confounded me.  The whole ‘waking up at the crack of dawn even though I’m retired’ thing. 

Please understand, I was busy staying up late studying and working on papers (cough, cough…and talking on the phone to my boyfriend at the time…and reading the latest 800 page fantasy novel published by Del Rey or Tor) and I still had to get up by 7:00 a.m. to get ready for high school/college.  I only dreamed of being graced with the luxury of ‘sleeping in’. 

Yet, every morning, whether weekday or weekend, my mommom would be up before the sun dared to peek over the top of the cemetery near their home, often humming a hymn or two.  She was always certain to get up at least a half hour before my poppop. And I would lie in bed and moan and think to myself, ‘when I retire, I’m going to sleep until noon.’ 

 And so this summer, I had a plan. Heck with waiting for retirement. On the days I didn’t work (I work part time), I was going to sleep in.  My kids are pretty well behaved first thing in the morning and are content to play in their rooms for a while.  Plus they’re old enough that I’m not worried about anyone poking their fingers in outlet sockets or guzzling window cleaner.  I waited eagerly for summer to begin. 

 On the first day of summer, I woke up all on my own, no alarm clock.  I swear I heard a choir of angels singing the Hallelujah chorus!  I examined the bedside clock and gasped in horror.  6:30 a.m.  Same time I got up to take my kids to school.  But I was wide awake!  So I fired up the Keurig and flopped in my chaise lounge (otherwise known as Mama’s Throne) and opened up my laptop.  Ah, my laptop.  My favorite present my husband ever bought me.  And there I was, just after six thirty in the morning, snuggled up with a mug of Donut Shop coffee splashed with a smidgen of half and half.  The only noise in my house or  the entire neighborhood was the happy hum of my computer—I’d found utter delight in the early hours of morning, much like my mommom, who woke up extra early just to have some quiet time with a cup of coffee, instant Taster’s Choice no less <she gags> , and the newspaper. 

 Swirling some caffeinated joy around in my mouth, I checked my email, my blog, Facebook, and last but not least, I proof-read whatever words of fiction I’d conjured the night before.  A bit of Heaven on earth.

Looking back now, far too late to tell her I concur, I’ve discovered my mommom was quite a wise woman.  The wee hours of the morning (as my mommom would say) have turned out to be my moments of peace and sanctuary.  I guess that makes me officially old.  Oh well.  Worse things to be. 

--Suzi Ryan 

                 

               

In Predawn Darkness

It’s 5:00 am and as I sit here typing, I can’t help but wonder why I am punishing myself by sitting in the cold downstairs office feeling a pressing need to do something.  The house is silent except for the tiny waterfall cadence of the fish tank filter.  The thought flits through my mind that the filter needs to be changed along with a thousand other things that should be taken care of; the dishes in the sink, the dirty laundry in the hampers, the exams and papers that need to be graded, the book that needs to be edited, the chapters that need to be written, the girl scout badges that need to be sewn on, the soccer uniform that needs to be mended and a million other things that need to be done.  Instead, I sit here, shivering slightly and typing away.

Each day begins with this usual sanity-saving ritualistic routine; the early waking up, the pre-sunrise prayers, the moments to make my mental to-do list and the built-in “me” time that precludes any logging in.  In those early morning moments, it’s the silence that I relish… the quiet so loud that it’s only slightly broken up by the tap, tap, tapping of the keys on the keyboard.  Like the chanting mantra of a studied yogi, this is where I find my peace.  An extra hour of sleep seems like a small sacrifice for the chance to do something that doesn’t need to be done.  In less than two hours, I know that the Jekyll and Hyde transformation of my sanctuary will begin as every corner is filled with the rowdy getting-ready-for-the-day shouts of my husband and three children chasing each other down the stairs, crashing into the office, and filling every corner with their impossible to ignore presence.  This alone is enough motivation for the keyboard clicking to double its pace.

Yet, as much as I relish the rambunctious noise and crazy schedules that fill the day and leave me utterly exhausted after my emails and online classes are wrapped up by midnight, I can’t help but look out into the early predawn darkness and hope for an extra moment of quiet before the sun starts streaming through the cherry wood blinds, urging my lightning bolts to wake up.  It’s the calm before the storm.  As minutes change to hours, I find myself bracing for the deluge and mentally prepare for the start of another insane day.  And with that thought, the calm begins to break before the thin line of dawn even winds its way through the dark skies.  Soon enough, I hear the clichéd pitter-patter of three pairs of little feet, sounding more like the stomping of sleepy elephants, making their way towards me.

Deep breath… big smile… it looks like an early start today. J

     -Suzy Ismail

On the fast track

So my friend Suzy recently finished observing Ramadan, a month of daylight fasting.  And we started chatting about fasting and whether or not Christians fast. I’ve had a few thoughts.

My Catholic friends are all very accustomed to fasting during the Lenten season, forty days from Ash Wednesday to Easter.  Unlike Ramadan where no food or drink can be taken in during daylight hours, Catholics during lent give up something in their lives as a sacrifice to God.  My dear Catholic friend (one who I have had many enlightening Catholic/Protestant debates with over the years) feels that fasting during Lent draws her closer to the Lord instead of the things of this earth. 

So what about me, a Protestant Christian?  I have fasted before in similar to Lent mechanics.  I always give up my greatest temptation, sweets.  That’s what hurts the most (check out my hips if you don’t believe me).  I start out by letting God know:  I tell him what exactly I’m giving up (I need to be precise, otherwise I find ways to cheat), I tell God for how long, (this gives me a finish line to keep my focus, and anyone who knows me, knows I have focus issues) and most importantly, I let God know why I’m doing it.  I present my specific prayer request since in the Bible fasting and praying go together like chocolate and peanut butter.  See, how hard giving up sweets is for me?  So, I’ve found in my own life, that fasting is my way of letting God know that a specific prayer request is extra important to me. 

  -Suzi Ryan

Would love comments on your own personal experiences with fasting. 

Life is like a lawn full of dandelions...

Have you ever seen a child pick up a dandelion and blow all the seeds into oblivion?  And as those seeds scatter all over your perfectly manicured front lawn, you get that sinking feeling that a trail of new weeds will be left in their wake dotting the perfect expanse of green that you just spent all morning weeding, fertilizing, and mowing? 

Then, right as you are about to launch into your lecture about the perils of weeds, you look down and see the smile on your kid’s face with eyes scrunched up and lips fervently moving in an indecipherable wish.  And, suddenly, you realize that a few dandelion weeds here and there are totally worth the lit-up eyes, the sense of wonderment, and the spreading wisdom that a few drifting seeds can grow.

Now, picture life like that green lawn and the dotted dandelions like the people we meet that break up the infinite green.  When I first met Suzi, I knew that this was a weed worth hanging onto.  Open, honest, well-caffeinated and a writer to boot… how could I go wrong getting to know this fascinatingly perky person? 

Many millions of email exchanges later, we both realized that our similarities far outweigh our differences and Muslim or Christian, we both still love our coffee, our families, our spirituality, and our writing—not necessarily in that particular order.  With all the controversy swirling around at a time when differences seem to be consistently highlighted, we figured it was high time to spread those dandelion seeds far and wide and show that finding similarities is way more fun than focusing on the differences. 

Between teaching at the university, taking care of my family, promoting my latest book and working on the next, I wasn’t sure if I was ready to dive into the world of blogging.  But, spreading perspective and maybe just a tiny bit of sense both seem like a worthy cause.   Feel free to take a cue from my three kids and snatch a dandelion, close your eyes, make a wish and blow the little white puffs as hard as you can.  You just might be surprised when the seeds grow into something way more beautiful than just another ordinary weed. J   

--Suzy Ismail     

When Suzi Met Suzy

Deep dark confession:  I am a seventeen year old hopeless romantic (trapped in the body of a…um…let’s say over twenty nine year old).  YA (Young Adult) is the only thing I’ve ever had any interest in writing.  Hats off to all you picture book/MG’ers out there.  I can’t write anything that doesn’t contain at least one (preferably more) turn your spine to pudding (preferably chocolate), kiss.

SCBWI has a very active chapter in New Jersey.  So, I signed up for their summer conference, eagerly signed up for a group and author critique.  Anyone ever done a group critique with a bunch of strangers?  I hadn’t.  So as the overly excited ‘pee on the carpet’ puppy, I reached out to our critique group first, anxious to start reading other people’s manuscripts.  The first one to respond was Suzy. 

Suzy was so cool (well, she still is but I tend to write in past tense).  She had a great husband, and a great house, and three great kids, and we were both potty training, and we both loved to email, and write, and cook (Suzy is much more skilled at cooking large pieces of meat for a crowd) and we started emailing these super long emails to each other.  They even changed my sleep cycle.  Suzy loves to write late at night.  So I would go to sleep and wake up at 2 a.m. just to read her email. I had a total hetero girl crush.  We were so much alike it was crazy!

And so Suzy said, “Why don’t you check out my website?”  And I skipped on over, singing a happy little tune to check out what my new friend looked like.  And my mouth fell open (I mean spittle on the keyboards and all).  My dear friend Suzy who was so much like me was very clearly <insert drumroll>…a Muslim.  I swear I heard crickets chirping in the background. 

When I started writing again, desperate to remember who I was before I became a mommy, I prayed.  I prayed for someone, a friend, a confidante, a fellow writer, someone I called talk shop with about writing (my whole life, writing was something I did very privately; my own brother didn’t know I wrote), someone who would understand the drive to create a story and have it read by someone else.  Such was my prayer. Never, ever let it be said God doesn’t have a sense of humor.  Because God did in fact answer my Christian prayer—he sent me a Muslim. 

Suzi Ryan