Love My Journey Of Learning

The Fixture Story - Recent thoughts series (1 of 3)

4/6/2025

My 23 year old daughter and I were visiting my 21 year old son for the weekend recently…..(They like to stay anonymous, so for this story, they are named “Danielle” and “Griffin.”)

I gotta pause to soak this in for just a moment - 21, young man in 2025 era – first time living away from home, first time working a “real job”, first time depending only on himself for driving anyplace, first time paying rent, first time first time first time. I am in awe that he came out of me a tiny baby and now, dark haired and taller than me, he is putting on a button shirt, slacks, and reporting to work doing back-end coding in computer languages I will never know how to speak. Daily. Woah. Soaking it in.

OK, now I am back in his apartment. A one-bedroom bachelor pad in Oklahoma, a 7 hour drive or short flight from Houston. It has grey floors, a decent kitchen and living room area, and a nice view of big sky and nearby house rooftops. On Saturday we binge-watched Brooklyn 9 9 on Peacock, complete with belly laughs and eye rolls together. I cleaned like a tornado-maid while Griffin and Danielle went to the video game store and mall. I like the workout room at his complex because it is a few steps away and I got to work my triceps, plus dance to my Spotify playlist with no audience. Woohoo! Upon my return, I happened to look up at the light hanging over his PC. The base of the hanging light looked about ¼ inch off. “Huh, that’s weird, oh well," is all I thought. Then I enjoyed the pizza my son had made - by hand!

Well, since Griffin’s birthday was coming soon, on Sunday I picked up a little Confetti-flavor Cake at Walmart and promised to make Annie’s white cheddar mac-n-cheese. To our little clan, it is like “crack in a box”, practically addictive; SO good. Anyhow, when dinner time rolled around, I got the noodles boiling, and heard “whomp”. Griffin and I turned to look. To our surprise, the light fixture had popped out, dangling from the lovely textured drywall of the ceiling. I suddenly envisioned the fixture falling all the way down, taking 3 feet of drywall with it. I did not pause to consider the fact that this was NOT actually happening, and gasped.
Griffin looked at the PC that sat underneath that light. He had worked hard to buy and assemble it during his COVID-quarantine-style Senior year of high school. I assume my gasp added anxiety to the room. He said, “Oh no oh no oh no!” When I heard that, my Mom-heart forgot how grown up he is now and reverted to “rescue mode”. I gathered Danielle and a chair, then proclaimed we HAD to take the whole thing down to prevent disaster. I unscrewed the base. Well, looky there, the fixture then hung by long wires. We could not see how to detach that mess.

Griffin was like, “We gotta get the PC out of the way”,
I was like “We gotta get this thing off, Danielle, hold this, Griffin, hold that”.
We tried, including standing on furniture and almost falling on our butts. But we could not figure it out. Finally, I came to my senses and admitted this was not my area-of-expertise. We decided to call someone who knows about mechanical things: Dad. We sent photos, facetimed, and he said (calm as a summer day), “It was fine before. It is really no big deal, they probably just did not screw it in the right spot. Just put it back how it was and it will be fine until the apartment staff can repair it.”

"Arg," I thought, and bonked myself on the forehead. "You went overboard lady, but now you gotta reign it back in for the sake of your offspring." We teamed up to get it screwed back in. Phew. Danielle was like, “I am now staying out of it”, retreating to her Sudoku and Youtube. Griffin moved his PC to another spot, clicked in a repair ticket on his laptop, then chilled out. We all took a moment to breath. I was not proud of my panic-mode, so I admitted it. We really did move on quickly. For that I feel proud.

We savored some Mac-n-Cheese, then realized there was no lighter or matches. So, Danielle rolled up a paper towel, dipped it in oil, and made a flame on the electric stove burner. Creativity at its best-and funny. It was fun to sing happy birthday in this new space with my grown up kids. That was some damn tasty cake too. We played an ACTUAL hands on board game and chatted about life a bit. That night, when I curled up on the second-hand couch to sleep, I knew I would miss Griffin in the upcoming week, but he had to keep doing things independently.

When the kids were little, time seemed to pause. Their little kid versions seem fixed in time somehow. Now that they are adulting, it seems like there are two parallel universes going on. And somehow I know, in the one where they are grownups, they will fix their own problems....

copyright Lynn Jodeit Ouellette, 2025

___Says it better than I can.

Film

Boyhood

Richard Linklater Movie
Shot over 12 years with same actors!

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Pot Holed Road toward Hope - Recent thoughts series (Part 2 of 3)

4/6/2025

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I feel sorry.
For taking. People are so beautiful, I want to understand each one. After trying, I feel like I took something from them, and don't have enough to fill the holes left behind.

I feel deceived.
About failure. Somehow the message is rooted in me that I am doing something wrong because people are unhappy or disconnected. Because I do not understand fully.
I am realizing the core lies are--
You are wrong and incomplete.
You must do______ to meet THE standard.
I bought this lie for so long that I emptied my whole energy budget on "fixes": Program, study, image, system, message, way-of-thinking, job, routine, lifestyle...will "fill in the blank".

I feel scared and sad
I feel scared and sad that I have hurt people I love by telling them the same lies. Pushing. Pushing them into what turns out to be an abyss. No returns for their labor. Just pain. A continuing cycle of nothing.

I feel determined.
Well, no mo' cashflow is left for lies. I aimed for being an example of letting go, trusting, being. This stage is like the Wizard of Oz. Behind the Curtain there are real people. Ones who observe, enjoy, savor the little things. Work around the rules, be human. Here is where the childlike Lynn finally got to come alive.

I feel forgiven.
Admitting the truth is an ongoing process but getting smoother– Truth that my anxiousness and spending on lies was a mistake, that people around me have the right to hear me own this and not follow any lies I passed along. Thankfully, grace has met me here. For this I am VERY lucky and hope to pay it forward.

I feel alone.
Stepping back from places and spaces to clear my mind, to decide what truths I can carry, what talents I am made to give. This is a place of aloneness but stillness.

I feel hope
The holes of sorrow, deceit, and fear are common to man. The electricity of determination and knowing humanity is made of individuals who are “in the struggle together” is refreshing. The air of grace and truth is what I hope will last and be shared among souls going forward.

copyright Lynn Jodeit Ouellette, 2025

___Says it better than I can.

Book

The Little Engine
That Could

Watty Piper

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Speak Essay- Recent thoughts series (3 of 3)

2/12/2025

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When they will speak Out Loud...
What will they say? The children who speak with movements, expressions, noises, or silences? Not voices, sign language, nor writing?

One thing I have noticed is that people often function around these children like their lack of language means they do not understand.

The kids hear people:

Talk ABOUT them: “Johnny was feeling good today, your time with him should be pretty easy” "Ariana is crying, maybe you can help her feel better..."
Discuss their personal lives in detailed, adult ways in easy earshot.
Process current events and opinions out loud.
Say nothing at all, essentially ignore them and go about their business.

I did respite care for a mom when I was 19. She is one of my heros. Her son, who had been injured by Meningitis, was able only to move his head, arms and make happy or sad sounds. He could chew, swallow, and laugh. She respected him like he DID understand. She spoke TO him, not ABOUT him. She made sure others did the same. She asked him questions and honored his head nods or shakes, argued with his fusses, and shared in his laughs. Fast forward to today. With modern technology and speech therapy, this (now adult) man helps his (now adult) sister make songs and requests tea, opera, or stylish sneakers.

What will these "nonverbal" kids say when their voices can come out smoothly?
Will Ladanian tell the secrets spoken around him?
Will Yasmine create poems and paintings? It sure looks like it because her eyes sparkle when she scribbles.
Will Josiah tell CPS how to improve it’s system after hearing it all around him, bedridden from abusive injuries?
Will Landon tell funny stories about the kids who played, ate candy, or goofed around with him?
Will Jerome speak before congress about better ways to educate and support hard working parents like his?
Will Diana laugh at the silly activities and mistakes I did while trying to make her free time safe and fun?
Will Braxton remind us all to focus on functional skills and communication, rather than mandated curriculum?

Surely their speaking will humble my soul. It takes me quite a bit of verbal processing, asking people questions, journaling, and reflecting to grasp what people really mean or say things clearly. Some people take more time to sift what is heard and felt, then say profound responses. What if you heard it ALL, unfiltered, and had practically your whole life to think it through? What would you tell, say, or advise once your words could flow?

I sometimes see these kids chattering away in dreams, and I sometimes daydream about their voices becoming freed in the great beyond. I also wonder what would happen if suddenly their lips were loosed tomorrow.

When these kids speak loud and clear..

Will we listen?
Be surprised?
Feel embarrassed?
Jump for joy and dance all night?

I hope they will speak, be heard, be known, be celebrated.

___Says it better than I can.

Video Channel

Special Stories

Swapping stories with kids who use a range of ways to communicate

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Momma Call - Kid Imagination series (Part 5 of 5)

2/12/2025

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This story starts in a narrow hallway, complete with 37 year old Mama, 5 year old daughter, and 2 bags. Kid survival kit* and Library bag**. Mom radar was on high alert. 3-year old son was in the public library bathroom so I stood guard. We were accustomed to free local adventures like this. Being that I worked only extremely part time and Dad was in graduate school, budget was TIGHT. Good news is, I believe tight budgets breed adventure.
And so it was. Walking to the library, exploring fresh titles, treasure hunting for familiar DVDs, and playing with the puppets there was fun already. But today my daughter noticed the pay phone. She touched it with one little finger, looking up at me with mini-defiance, as if she dared me to forbid it. No forbidding here, just opportunity (my childhood imagination was very active inside of parenting!)
The shiny squares with black engraved numerals beckoned. I whispered, “Hey you’ve never tried a payphone before. You should pretend to call someone…” So she picked up the black receiver and put it to her ear. "Mmmmmmmm" went the dial tone. “click clack went her strong but dainty 4-year-old fingertips--At that very moment--my son emerged from the bathroom.
His round toddler palms turned upward to show me he had washed his hands. How sweet. Per our little ritual, I leaned in to make a show of sniffing for clean-hands-scent. There it was; Eau-de-antiseptic public restroom soap. “Clean hands!” I proclaimed. While he worked on getting his jacket back on for the walk back home, the dial tone behind us stopped. A voice began pleading out of the payphone receiver in my daughter’s hand, “What is your emergency? Are you ok? 9 1 1, what is your emergency?”. This was one of those slow motion moments – sprinkled with surprise and embarrassment. My daughter’s eyes looked like she had seen a ghost! “Oh no!” she whimpered, "I didn’t think they would answer!” (Honestly, neither did her Momma)
Nonetheless, Momma KICKED INTO problem solving mode. No time to waste. Precious characters to mold!!!.
“It was my idea. You are not in trouble. I bet they won’t come. But we need to tell the truth. We must go tell the librarian.” My son was getting hot and anxious to get going, so we scuttled quickly. We were a well-oiled trio, sticking together to flow in public.
Dressed in thrift store outfits and Target brand jackets, we returned to the check-out counter. I tried to show them good manners in action. “Excuse me, I take responsibility for this, but we have to admit, we accidentally dialed 9 1 1 on the payphone and someone answered. How can I make this right?” The lady standing there, who had just loaned us a pile of tantalizing materials, gave a glare. But she spoke with calm control. “I will call.” This public servant lifted the receiver of her grey business phone and we waited. “Oh, I see,” she sighed. Then she turned to us and explained, “They said they have to dispatch anytime someone calls, so they were heading over here, but they said thanks for letting them know. They will turn back now.” Distant sirens emerged in my ears for a moment. (I can’t confirm if the sound was real or imagined, but this sound is part of the story.)
It felt like eyes were judging us from behind, but that may have been fabricated. My daughter hung her head, a sensitive spirit coated by a tough opinionated exterior. My son tugged at my hand, ready to move on. I wanted to demonstrate confidence despite mistakes. So...
Head held high, we traipsed out the back exit.
Once outdoors, I took a healthy gulp of fresh air. We walked along the cracked sidewalk, and over the creek bridge. We paused to watch the water carrying sticks downstream. We checked to make sure the grocery cart was still there, lodged in the muddy bank under a log. A breeze streaming through leafless fall trees got us chilly, so we continued. As we floated along, I felt proud. Among the rules and routines of simple life, living in this small city so from family, being the only sibling in my family to be raising kids, we had managed to weave a new tale. By accident, and not something I’d repeat. A “just us” little tale. We laugh every time we tell it. And, yes, all this for zero dollars! KID SIZED FUN ROCKS!

*Kid survival kit typically contained Twizzlers, pull up, wipes, sugar-free Kool-Aid, sippy cup, and favorite stuffed animal.
** Library bag typically contained library card, wipes, return items on the way there, newly borrowed items on the way back.

Lynn Jodeit Ouellette copyright 2025.
Photo pixabay free to use

___Says it better than I can.

SONG

Keep Ya Head Up

Tupac Shakur

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Come In Rose - Kid Imagination Series (Part 4 of 5)

2/11/2025

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Lingering scents of greasy school pizza and teacher perfume in the room, when the teacher wasn’t looking, I raised my finger to give commands. Like Ground Control to Major Tom. : “Crrrr Chhhh Zzzz, Come in, Rose?” (Rose, a soft brown plush bear wearing a red checked dress, says ‘here’). “OK, here’s the plan. Take the group to the mall until 2 P.M. and then quickly get back in position so no one knows you are real. They would freak out.” (Rose signaled, ‘got it'). “Gotta run, time for the spelling test. Over and Out” Here was 11-year-old Lynn, sitting in my 6th grade classroom at my generic wood topped desk, inside an orderly row of exact duplicates. We were the oldest kids at Burroughs Elementary School . I had a warm grandmotherly teacher and aimed to please.
The kids around me were growing up (or so I thought). Rumors of crushes & giggles about Saturday Night Live. I felt “cancelled from the culture.” Most kids had stopped talking to me after I spoke up during a popular playground game called foursquare. The ball hit the line and there were rules about that. Not sure why I got hate for this, because others spoke up and stayed popular. But imagination kept me company, and I had plenty of that.
Story characters can feel ALIVE in our lives. At that time, 'stuffed animals' (now called ‘plushies’) were my characters. I really enjoyed nurturing them. My ragtag group had developed over my earlier kid years. Some wooed me to buy them with my allowance coins at musty local garage sales. A few were gifted to me, brand new. Those had soft, glistening, fur and vibes from the givers. The rest were handed down from random friends of the parents. Three central personalities were: Rose-My Teddy Bear who listened to all my woes. She was naturally in charge, my leading lady. Penguin-Bold orange bellow, black flappable wings, and beady eyes. He was the ‘nosy neighbor’, the anti-hero. Koala-He was the baby of the bunch. Innocent and sensitive. Koala literally needed protection. My siblings kidnapped Koala once, ransom note and all.
On the weekends, I made sure they got to hang out together. They got arranged on the top bunk, the landing at the top of the stairs, or once we did a photo shoot. My heart went out to these friends because they had to hold still. (Keep up the ruse).
In contrast, during the week, us kids were each at different schools. Mom was at the downtown office-building, doing her computer/insurance/wear a suit thing. By this time, my Dad was resettling after the divorce in his own apartment. The petite, fragile housekeeper came only after school to perch on the mustard yellow kitchen stool, dust, or tidy up a bit. Thus, from about 7 AM to 3 PM, those plush personalities got to RULE-THE-ROOST. I believed in them, celebrating their ability to play around and get into mischief.
Speaking of mischief, I got an emergency interruption from Penguin during math later that week. Eye roll please. Leaning forward, hiding my hands under the desk (how teens in the 2020s use their cell phones in class), I whispered into my “finger-coms”. “What is it Penguin? Make it quick, she’s teaching long division.” “Beaver and Red are arguing bad. Sorry to interrupt math, but they are starting to fight! What if they destroy each other?”. This young lady led calmly. “I’ll call Rose in 5 minutes with advice. Sit tight.” With proper midwestern etiquette, I sat up straight, raised my hand, and asked permission to go to the restroom. Granted. Phew!
Across the grey speckled hallway, I creaked and latched the tall stall door, then sat on the black wooden toilet-seat. A makeshift office. “Buzz, buzz” “Come in Rose, emergency!” “Commander Lynn, Penguin reported the scuffle. What shall we do?” “Have them sit in different rooms for 15 minutes, then get them back together to talk it out. Everyone should be on alert to help for safety. I know those two can get rambunctious.” “We will handle it, thanks.” “If things turn out ok, send me 3 beeps.” If I don’t hear from you, I’ll check in at recess”.
After the math test, it was finally time for recess. I ran and hunkered down under the gargantuan oak tree, it’s wide gnarly roots like welcoming arms. “Beep, beep, beep” came in my human telecommunications system. PHEW, all is well, my friends. Feeling secretly proud, I scurried off to wait for a turn on the swingset.

Lynn Jodeit Ouellette copyright 2025.
Photo by me as a kid

___Says it better than I can.

BOOK

Mary Poppins

by PL Travers and Mary Shepard

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Gold Star - Kid Imagination (Part 3 of 5)

2/11/2025

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Doing some guitar in my basement during a sleepover. Closest to our dancing I could find. Ha ha.

“Where words fail, music speaks”-Hans Christen Anderson (author!).
Early 1980s, music brings it back - “Celebrate good times, C’mon…There’s a party going on right here…” Kool and the Gang sang out from Boom-Boxes passing on muscular brown shoulders strutting by Lake Harriet beach 5 blocks away from my childhood home. I enjoyed walking down there sometimes to hang out, swim in the murky water, and build sand castles.
On school days, while waiting for my turn with the curling iron (had to go for that feathered hair like Farah Faucet of course), “Celebrate” sang out from the clock radio on my bedside table, cranked up to hear it in the hallway. Chicago’s “Hard to Say I’m Sorry” lamented or “Eye of the Tiger” invigorated from that little contraption too, among others.
Our house ran with precision, Mom presiding over the routine. Breakfast, school, snack, homework, practice instrument, take your pile of neatly folded laundry from the step and waltz upstairs put it away in the drawer, wait for dinner to be called, eat what’s been presented upon your plate. Just maybe a merciless game of Parchesi, “20 questions” or competitive math problems, if offered afterward dinner. There was the politeness rule too: You MUST knock on ANY door, say “Please, May I come in?” and enter in ONLY if granted permission.
But, there were exceptions. The basement was one. It was our “free zone”. No door to knock on, just a dark rectangle at the bottom of the steps, past the spider-webby laundry room. Out of sight, out of mind. The concrete floor was covered in pine green industrial carpet. Scratchy brown plaid couch and TV on one end/Picnic table, dollhouse, Legos. Bookshelves on the other,And yes, a Boombox of our own!!! Radio, antennae, cassette player, and round speakers built in. Black plastic masterpiece.
Weekend routines existed, but with some embedded wiggle room. We milked as much flexibility as possible. Saturday mornings the big people slept in. Me and my sister, aka “the girls”, tip-toed downstairs to indulge in THE cartoons. Dad got up next to set about his gourmet cooking. He puttered, letting us watch or ask questions. Often eggs, herbs and wooden spatulas were involved. The smell was like garden meets browning butter. Good memories.
Sunday evenings were precious metal to this soul. Set the mood: Every week, the interview show, 60-minutes, ticked along on the little TV on the kitchen table, while Mom tested the griddle with drops of water, then poured pancakes. Just when most of the emerging bubbles had popped, she flipped ‘em. Golden circles of homemade puffiness. We even got to choose when to request our stack!
I timed my ask for the ending credits of 60-minutes. I grabbed that warm plate, plopped down, lathered them with peanut butter and syrup. Those were tasty, but what I was really waiting for was that next show: SOLID GOLD!
Here it comes! Mom was too busy tidying up to come over and turn the knob. Those dancers moved to the songs from the top hits list. The Solid Gold dancers embodied the side of feminine I did not see in real life. I was glued. Secretly I wanted to be like them - curvy, athletic, confident. Dare I say sexy! I wondered if I could be paid attention to, like them. This was CLEARLY NOT the case for my awkward personality, but ]A GIRL COULD DREAM.
**Down in that basement, my sister and I found a way to become SOLID GOLD STARS**
There was a narrow built in wooden shelf that had Knot holes in it. My sister and I strung a jump rope through it. The handles magically transformed into the sturdy hands of the male Solid Gold Performers. We held those hands, moving back and forth, up and down, sexiness FLOWING through us with no shame. One of my prized possessions was an 8-inch “Disco Ball” whose battery operated motor said “rrrrr” as it spun, spewing out colored lights. When we added that to the mix, our Gold Star show surpassed even the one on TV! Music blaring, we did high KICKS, lay on the FLOOR, SPUN, and GLOWED.
Then we laughed. Laughed and laughed ..... at our award winning performance. It was such a high to feel alive like that. My sister was older and lost interest in it after a-while. But I made my own dances too. No one else saw, but I felt shapely, beautiful, attractive and healthy in those moments. PSSSST, Don’t tell anyone, but I still grab those solo moments to dance here and there now.
Why not!? LIFE is a golden gift.

Lynn Jodeit Ouellette copyright 2025
Photo from personal collection, taken in the 1980s

___Says it better than I can.

Sample of Solid Gold Dancing

Solid Gold

MDA Marathon performance

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