Michelle DeRusha

Every Day Faith. Faith Every Day.

summer vacation

Autumn Is on Its Way

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I feel it in the early morning air. On the back patio this morning I said to Brad, “There’s a hint of autumn today.” He shook his head no. But I felt it, a wisp, suspended like gossamer threads beneath the river birch tree. Autumn…on its way.

The kids go back to school next Wednesday – Noah starts eighth grade, Rowan fifth. Don’t faint dead on the floor when I say this, but I’m not ready; I’m not ready for summer to end. I know. Unprecedented. Usually I’m in full-out count-down mode by now. Maybe it’s because I’m dreading full-time immersion into the Luther project. But I don’t think so…I don’t think that’s the whole story.

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Brad and Noah Crater Lake

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This summer was good, really good. Maybe the best yet. We traveled a lot, explored new places together, spent a lot of time winding along new roads. We sang out loud together with B-107.3. I’m even starting to learn some of the words to the latest pop songs. But when The Police come on the radio, or U2, or Madonna, and I know all the lyrics, every last one, Rowan always asks, “Is this one of your songs? Did you sing this one when you were a kid?”

The boys stay up late now. From my bed in the dark, I can see the light from Noah’s bedside lamp, a thin line, a boundary, beneath his bedroom door. They sleep until the sun has risen high over the white pines. They cook up their own waffles in the toaster oven. This week Brad taught them how to run a load of laundry while I was at the library, and they washed and dried their sheets and comforters themselves.

They read for hours and hours at a time, sprawled on the sofa, legs flung over the arm or propped on the back, feet against a window pane. Sometimes when I walk through the room I startle, glance again. Those long legs look nearly like the legs of men.

I don’t typically live in the backward glance. I don’t bemoan what I may have missed; I don’t sit square in regret. I’m a striver, a planner, a what’s nexter. My eyes are on the future, not the past.

Lately, though, when I glimpse those long almost-man legs, when I snuggle next to Rowan and realize the length of him nearly matches mine, the pangs of nostalgia strike sharp.  A reminder, perhaps, that summer does not last forever. Autumn is on its way.

What a Japanese Garden Taught Me about My Spiritual Life {and my closet}

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Lately I’ve been busy pruning. First I pruned my closet, keeping only the clothes I love and that fit (I finally parted ways with my favorite red pants because clearly “just three more pounds” is never going to happen).

Next I pruned my backyard, yanking errant coneflower, goldenrod and phlox from the flower beds and clipping dead branches and twigs from the river birch and magnolia trees. Eight leaf bags later, I now see open space and bits of sky and earth instead of a tangle of unruly branches and unkempt perennials.

I’ve altered my work space, too. I switched from the small antique letter desk I inherited from my grandmother to a larger table, removed all but three of my favorite knickknacks and wiped the surface clean.

A couple of weeks ago my family and I returned from a ten-day trip to the Pacific Northwest. We spent our last day of vacation at the Japanese Garden in Portland, Oregon, where our guide explained the gardening technique referred to as “pruning open.” She pointed to the various maples, pine and dogwood surrounding us, all of which had been dramatically pruned to reveal an aesthetic presentation of limbs, branches and foliage.

“Pruning open” allows the visitor to see up, out and beyond to the sky and landscape, our guide informed us. It creates a sense of openness and lets in the light.

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As we meandered along one of the garden’s wooded paths, my son Noah noticed that everyone in our tour group whispered as they walked. In fact, every guest we passed during the more than two hours we spent in the garden that morning spoke in hushed tones. Something about being in such an uncluttered, serene landscape naturally quieted us.

I’ve thought a lot about the concept of “pruning open” in the days following our visit to the Japanese garden, not only as it relates to my physical surroundings – my yard, closet and workspace – but also how the practice might impact both my mental health and my spiritual life.

Like most twenty-first-century Americans, my days are cluttered with demands, responsibilities, deadlines, errands and appointments. My personal calendar is full of social obligations, and even my supposed down time is comprised of a cacophonous mix of television, the Internet and social media. My smart phone is always in my purse or my back pocket, and the moment it dings, I pull it out and swipe its face.

What would it look like, I wondered, to “prune open” not only my physical surroundings, but my personal time and my inner life, too?

In light of that question, I’m trying to carve out a bit of time each day, even as little as a half hour, in which I do nothing but sit quietly in the chaise lounge in the corner of my back patio. I leave my phone indoors, and I don’t read or write, text or talk. I simply sit with no goal, agenda or purpose. I do nothing, and in the process, unclutter my mind and spirit, at least for a short while.

We can’t “prune open” our entire lives; after all, we have jobs, families to tend to, demands to meet and duties to perform. But we can “prune open” a small space and a sliver of time each day in which to quiet ourselves – a clearing in the jumble and tangle of our busy lives that allows us to see up, out and beyond ourselves.

{This article ran June 27 in the Lincoln Journal Star}

The Importance of Doing Nothing

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Lately, because I’m taking this Mindfulness in Place writing workshop, I’ve been thinking a lot about place and its purpose in my everyday life. Last week we returned from ten days in the Pacific Northwest. We mostly traveled the coast, heading north from San Francisco and up the Pacific Coast Highway into Oregon, with a quick jaunt inland to visit Crater Lake. We covered a lot of ground, and the trip, great though it was, reinforced something I already knew about myself:

I like to stay in one place.

This explains why I am a homebody and why my favorite place on earth is my own back patio. But it also explains something about how I like to travel. I prefer to stay put, getting to know the quirks and rhythms of a particular area and its people, recharging and settling in rather than hopping from place to place to place. My favorite parts of this trip were the rare occasions in which we slowed the pace and wandered according to our whims.

One afternoon, while the boys scaled fallen redwood trunks as big as houses, I meandered the lush trail, still-unfurling ferns tickling my palms as I craned my neck to gaze up at the looming giants. After days spent in noisy close quarters, I marveled at the hush, the moist, thick air blanketing the majestic cathedral in palpable quiet.

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Two days later I walked the cold sands of Heceta Beach in Oregon, the lighthouse an eerie silhouette on the rocky point, shrouded by the ever-present fog. I hummed a hymn, stooping now and then to pick up a sand dollar shard. I never found a whole one intact, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself from slipping the broken pieces into my jacket pocket anyway. Later, I lined up the sand dollar fragments in the sand as I watched the boys build a garrison against the waves at the water’s edge. Just ahead of me, an older lady perched on a driftwood stump, petting her dog.

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As much as I loved our vacation and all the new sights, sounds and experiences it offered – careening in a street car up and down San Francisco’s steep hills; sandboarding Oregon’s smooth sand dunes; kayaking the sea caves in Mendocino – it was these unscheduled moments of stillness and quiet that sustained me, and which, it turns out, offer some insights into my ordinary, daily life.

As travel writer Pico Iyer says, “A trip can give you amazing sights, but it’s only sitting still that allows you to turn those into amazing insights.”

Wise words for sure, but I’d take Iyer’s statement one step further and apply it to our frenzied everyday lives as well. Our days are full to the brim with experiences, interactions, goals and obligations (some of them amazing, some not so much), but we can’t understand their relevance, we can’t understand what these experiences and interactions can teach us, unless we stop long enough to digest and process them, to sit with them in stillness for a while.

We can’t turn the sights of days into insights unless we still ourselves from the harried pace of daily life.

Stillness, I’m learning, is a requirement for healthy, fruitful, wise living – and not just stillness every once in a while, whenever we can snatch it, but a bit of stillness intentionally carved out of every day, if possible.

Doing nothing, I’m realizing, is just as important – perhaps even more important – than doing it all.

Though they were far and few between, my favorite moments of our vacation were what I refer to as the “Type B” moments, those in which we pretty much did nothing at all: wandering rain-soaked trails and wind-whipped beaches; collecting shell shards and digging in the sand; sharing a scone with my son in a local cafe; resting on a stone wall watching swimmers in San Francisco Bay; gazing out at an angry sea. These were the “back patio” moments of my vacation, ordinary moments in which I was content to simply sit, observe, think and rest. These were also the moments that taught me something about myself and how I want my everyday, non-vacation life to be.

5 Signs Summer Vacation is Over

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School gets out in mid-May around these parts, which means we begin our summer vacation in Uggs and fur-lined hats with ear flaps. Meanwhile by the middle of August, while the rest of America is just hitting its summer stride, here in Nebraska we’re gearing up for the start of school.

Now don’t get me wrong, I appreciate summer as much as the next mom. Fireflies, sleeping past 6:30 a.m., hamburgers on paper plates, no soccer practice or choir rehearsal or long division – there’s a lot to love about summer.

But here’s my theory: summer is one week too long.

Ten weeks, I’m good. Bring on the water balloons and the badminton. Isn’t it so great to have no schedule?  So much freedom! So much relaxation! Summer is the best!

But then comes the eleventh week, mocking my “Summer is so great!” enthusiasm, shredding my easy-going attitude, flaunting its seven slow-as-the-last-two-teaspoons-of-molasses-in-the-bottom-of-the-jar days in my face.

This summer, I’ve finally learned to recognize the five signs that indicate summer is over, done, finito for me:

1. Exercise becomes my favorite pastime.

By the seventy-first day of summer my exercise routine looks like Shaun T’s Insanity Workout for one reason and one reason only: the longer I exercise, the longer I’m out of the house. Two days ago I ran six miles for the first time in three years, despite the fact that it was 400 percent humidity outside. A mere 4.5 seconds into my run I looked like I’d been basking beneath the Pulse Kauai II Rain Shower System. By the time I finished, I had just enough energy left to splay my body on to the sunroom rug. I felt like my dog’s destuffified Wubby. But hey, I was still sane. That’s something, right?

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Can you see the remnants of Josie’s destuffed Wubby scattered around my prone body?

2.My kids use the word ennui.

“Mommy,” I think I have that thing you keep saying you have,” Rowan says.  “What’s that, honey?”

My eyes are on my phone, mindlessly scrolling.

“You know, that on the wii thing. The things you always say when you do this” — flings himself onto the sofa, limbs askance, crook of his elbow over his eyes, exhales dramatically through pursed lips.

You know you’ve entered the eleventh week of summer vacation when your nine-year-old son knows the meaning of ennui and can use it correctly in a sentence.

3. A trip to Lowe’s is as good as it gets.

I am frisbeed, miniature golfed, zooed, Cherry Berried, water parked, picnicked, crafted, movied, hiked, road tripped, beached, badmintonned, biked, sleepovered, s’mored, camped, water ballooned and museumed out. It’s a trip to Lowe’s in search of a new toilet seat, people. Get in the car, that’s all I’ve got.

4. Minecraft is now my native tongue.

I have lost all ability to converse with adults my age about topics appropriate for adults my age. Instead, I could teach a graduate-level class on Minecraft biomes. Go ahead, ask me about the Nether. Talk to me about Enderman. I now have a closer relationship with player Steve than I do with my own husband (If you don’t have a clue what I’m talking about, you don’t have boys under age 12 living under your roof).

5. I have entered spacetime…or the fourth dimension…or something funky like that.

Time has slowed to a crawl. One hour is now equivalent to 35 hours, which mathematically looks like this: Δσ=8²x∛45+[Σ∞34ψ]. In English, this means my children have approximately 35 hours of screen time each hour. Ordinarily I would feel guilty about allowing my children to indulge in 35 hours of screen time per hour. However, during the eleventh week of summer, I fail to notice because I am splayed on the sun room floor like a destuffed wubby and suffering from a grave case of ennui.

You may be right smack in the blissful seventh week of summer right now, but beware. The eleventh week is right around the corner. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

 

3 Tips for Your Next Family Road Trip

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We are in the season of road trips here. The boys are the perfect age for this kind of travel – well beyond diaper wipes and sippy cups, but still young enough that they’re not mortified by their parents. Last year we hit the Grand Tetons and Yellowstone. This year we headed southwest, to Arches and Zion national parks. With 20-plus hours of car travel on my hands, I came up with a few tips along the way:

1. Don’t plan every moment

You know I’m Triple Type A, right? So it might shock you to learn that we didn’t plan a single element of this trip beyond booking the motels in Arches and Zion.

That’s right. At 9 a.m. last Saturday morning, I slid into the car, buckled my seat belt and opened the atlas on my lap (What? You don’t use the behemoth Rand McNally for your GPS?) “So, it looks like I-80 then?” I asked Brad, as I flipped the pages between Nebraska, Colorado and Utah. “Yup, I-80 to 76 into Denver,” he said as he backed out of the driveway. That’s all we knew: we were aiming for Denver. Utah was somewhere on the other side.

Not planning or scheduling every last moment of your trip allows for the unexpected. Now, if you’re like me, this might make you want to light aromatherapy candles and commence Lamazing, but believe me, you won’t regret leaving room for a little serendipity on your trip.  Sometimes the unexpected is pure gift.

We aimed for Denver, but after driving dazed across the ranchlands of western Nebraska for eight hours, the boys were eager to head into the mountains, so we kept going. Later, as we cruised main street Glenwood Springs for a motel, Rowan yelped from the back seat and pressed his nose against the window. Turned out, he’d spotted the spring – a gargantuan pool naturally heated by Glenwood’s mineral hot springs. From the begging and pleading gushing from the backseat, you’d have thought he’d glimpsed Atlantis itself.

Early the next morning before the crowds hit the spring, we floated in the pool as the sun tipped over the canyon walls and steam curled wispy into the cool air. Across the water, I watched through the mist as an older lady in a floral bathing cap and goggles backstroked from one end of the pool to the other, her arms circling rhythmically like the blades of a windmill. I hooked my knees over the edge of the pool and lay on my back, buoyed by the warm, salty water. Both arms stretched out weightless by my side, I stared at the broad, blue, cloudless sky.

It was unplanned. It was unexpected. And it was pure bliss.

2. Cut yourself some slack.

I’m just going to say this straight up. We’re not a “play road bingo sip probiotic smoothies and snack on organic peach slices” kind of traveling family. Before we’re even out of the neighborhood my kids have queued up MineCraft and SuperMario Bros. on their portable game players. After their brains have been properly melted, they load the DVD player, drape a blanket over their heads to block the sunlight and watch movies. I pack enough movies to travel to Bhutan. Round trip.

I also pack snacks. Bad-for-you snacks. For this trip I bought a bag of snacks so large it could have carried a litter of Wiemaraners.

I used to feel like a mom failure for letting my kids chow down on Cheetos and sizzle their brains like Fourth of July fireworks while I paged through Better Homes & Gardens in the front seat. But I’m over it. Long car trips are the sixth circle of Hell for me, so I do everything in my power to ensure that I will arrive with at least a quarter of my sanity intact.

My advice? Do what it takes to get to your destination without clawing at the windshield and pleading for spirits (of the alcoholic, rather than the holy variety). Even if that means packing a bag of Tootsie rolls so large it could double as a travel pillow.

3. Take a vacation from your vacation.

It was 4 in the afternoon and we were in bed, Noah and I in one queen, Brad and Rowan in the other. We were watching TV, in the middle of the day, under the covers, a mere two miles from the stunning grandeur of Arches National Park. The air conditioner whirred cool air, and the room was dim.

“Why are we just laying around?” Noah asked, burrowing deeper under the duvet. “Shouldn’t we be doing something, like outside?”

“This is what I call a vacation from the vacation moment,” I said to Noah. “Sometimes you have to take a break, even on vacation.”

We have young boys. They crave action, preferably constant action. On vacation we hike, we explore, we raft, we tube, we play games, we swim and we hike some more.

I’m typically on board with this kind of trip – I call it the Mildly Adventurous Vacation. In fact, it’s taken me nearly 43 years to learn that I am not a Fancy and Restful Vacation type of girl.

Case in point: For this trip I packed my flatiron, a pair of platform sandals and a leopard print jewelry case containing 12 pairs of earrings, six necklaces, four bracelets and multiple hair accessories. Apparently I thought I’d be vacationing on Rodeo Drive.

Instead I was white water rafting and traversing canyons in 107-degree heat. I wore a tank top, shorts and hiking boots with my hair in a ponytail every single day (And lipstick. What can I say? I apply lipstick to drive to the ATM, so yeah, I wore lipstick on the Mildly Adventurous Vacation).

Anyway, my point is, even a Mildly Adventurous Vacation Family who likes a lot of action needs to take a break, a vacation from the vacation, so to speak. Allow yourself pockets of time to do nothing, whether it’s cozed into the hotel bed watching Animal Planet or stretched next to a gushing stream, your arms propping your head as your kids play a make-believe game called “Snake Pit.”

In between hiking, rafting, tubing, swimming and more hiking, it’s usually in these do-nothing moments that I take a breath, open my eyes and see God.

What are your fool-proof tips for a successful family road trip? Share, please!