October 1, 2013
I feel as if I am falling apart.
A month, maybe more, before I attended my first coda meeting, before I had even heard of coda - I wrote the words above. I felt lost, scared, out of control and unhappy with the way my life was unfolding. I was questioning all the decisions I had made - the divorce, the way I was interacting with my littles, the way I was responding to the people I considered friends. I was practicing little to no self love or self care and beating myself up about it at every turn.
It was that very day that I started searching online, looking for help, in the form of a therapist or group, anything that I could just trust and believe in. Somewhere along the way, I found coda. I read the characteristics that define codependency and I related to them. Not all, but more than a few and definitely more than could be considered healthy. My denial patterns and compliance patterns were classic. In fact I found examples in all the categories that I related to and a little voice inside thought maybe this was the answer I had been seeking for so long.
When I were married, and even today, my ex liked to tell me that he hoped I would find what I was looking for. I believe he intended this to be positive, an encouragement for me along my path to self discovery, although truthfully, I never took it as such. Then and now, I felt as if the connotation was derogatory - painting me in a half empty sort of light, never satisfied with what I had or where I was or even who I was - always searching for something better, something more.
I will never believe this to be true, although I was searching. Most definitely, continually searching. But not for the reasons he may have believed. In hindsight, and after so much work, I have realized that what I was searching for was a way to understand the truth about me. About my feelings. About why I choose to do the things I do, why I feel the way I do. How my choices and behaviors have created shame in my life and how to embrace those feelings, learn from them and not let them overwhelm me and cause me to feel unlovable, unworthy, and a whole host of other emotions that are just as debilitating and sad.
The most difficult part though, was that before coda I could not articulate this - to myself let alone anyone else. I didn't understand it at all. The only thing I knew for certain was that there was a sadness inside me, a lot of which I attributed to my mom's death and I wasn't looking for something to fill the void, I was looking for something to keep me from thinking about it - yoga, triathlon - anything that would keep my mind busy, exhausted and quiet.
Which, when you add in the writing I did on my blog during that time, makes absolutely no sense at all. I didn't want to think and yet, I over thought, over analyzed, every single event in my life, every single thought that passed through my mind. Talk about beating your head against a wall.
Fast forward last year.
Divorce, the loss of my job, the loss of my oldest little to living with his dad, an eighteenth birthday and graduation and inevitably, his moving away. The sale of our family home, my purchase of another. New job, additional new job, both children gone for a month. Surgery, contractors, allowing another man in my life then finally listening to my heart and taking steps to create appropriate boundaries which ended the relationship. Wanting connection and avoiding connection. The loss of friendships - through divorce and for other reasons. Grief.
There was not one thing in my life that was the same as it had been the previous year. And yet, instead of feeling better, I began to feel worse. My relationship with my daughter was suffering. My friend relationships were suffering. I was back to retreating and avoiding and excusing and beginning to behave in ways with people that I loved that were not healthy in the least. To a small extent I was living in fear for reasons that I will not share, but reasons that suffice to say, were very, very real to me.
People kept telling me that words and actions could only hurt me if I let them. And yet, I did not believe them. That fear I lived with forced me to give up. To give away my power before I realized it was happening and there was not one thing I could do to stop it. I just gave in.
And then I wrote the words above. And I went online and found coda. And, as scared as I was and as uncomfortable as it was for me - who would be there, would they judge me, would they look at me like I didn't belong - I went to my first meeting. And I even stood up when they asked who was new and accepted my first week chip.
People have told me that I am courageous. That I had the courage to say when enough was enough for me. That I had courage in how I dealt with my little. That I had courage when I faced the changes in everything I knew to be true about my life. People tell me I am courageous.
I am not so sure about those things. I believe those things were reactions to situations I felt powerless in versus conscious choices on my part to be courageous. I reacted and sometimes I reacted well and I was proud of the decisions I made. But sometimes, well, probably more than sometimes, I reacted poorly - in anger or in pain. And those times, however courageous they may look - have taken their toll.
No, those are not evidence of me being courageous, but I can tell you what I think was...
The day I realized that divorce did not magically solve all of our problems, the day that I realized I could no longer continue to run and hide from the truth of how I felt about myself and those around me, the day I walked into my first coda meeting. That was me being courageous that day. It took courage to look at myself in the mirror and to see that I was unwell and yet to still believe that I deserved to be well. It took courage to face my fears of embarrassment and rejection and in reality, to just walk into that room. It took courage to admit that I had problems and that I wanted to work on them. Yes, that first step took courage, my friends, it was scary, heart pounding I cannot speak kind of scary, because it left me - exposed. That first step screamed - Hi, my name is Melisa I am not perfect and today and going forward, I am choosing to own that. No blame. No shame.
It is unbelievable how far I am today from that scared little girl who walked into the fellowship eighteen months ago. Don't get me wrong, I realize I am far from healed - and may never be completely, step 12 asks us to practice the principles we learn in all our affairs. And it is a practice. But now I have a plan, a map that I follow that is leading me toward that healing. And for the first time in a very long time, I can see a light at the end of the tunnel. A light that is fueled by the belief that it is ok to invest in myself and that I am worthy of this time, and that in the end, the love and respect I show myself will magnify the love I am able to show those around me.
I am loving this journey, this discovering of who I can be when I let go of obsessively trying to control my past and look instead at how it has shaped me and at what I can and have learned from it. When I focus on what I want to take with me into my future and let go of what I want to leave behind. Trust me when I say it can frightening, truly truly frightening, to open ourselves up, to allow others to see those deep and dark places we hide from the world, but I am learning that when I do - a whole new world opens right up before me. A world where all that is required of me is to be authentically, unapologetically, me.
xxo.
Tuesday, April 28, 2015
Thursday, April 23, 2015
april 23. a momma's heart.
Last week, the jewelry company, Pandora, released a video to YouTube for Mother's Day intended to highlight the unique bond between mother and child. In the video, six women form a line and one by one, their young children are blindfolded and led toward the group. The idea is that each mother has a uniqueness about her and to the child that makes sight unnecessary.
As each child comes forward, we watch them run their hands over the clothing of the mothers, grasp their hands, cup their faces, breathe in their scent. We watch the apprehension on the faces of the mothers as the children near, doubting that sans sight, their children will be able to recognize them. We watch as the children, one by one shake their heads - no, not that one, no, not that one, yes - this one is my mother. And we watch the complete and utter relief wash over the mother as she realizes her little has untimately chosen her.
I am his. I am hers. They are mine.
It is beyond cool, and there were tears in my eyes as I watched the embraces between each mother and child. It made me think of my own little ones.
When I look back at my life and all the events in my life over the years, I would have to say that becoming a mother has been the single most significant. From the moment I first held LJ and then Frankie in my arms, to the moment I breathe my last breath on this earth, I will think as a mother, behave as a mother, make decisions as a mother. My life, as much as I would like to pretend it is about me, is in reality all about my littles. And truth be told, I cannot imagine it any other way. I don't want it any other way.
I have heard it said that we cannot understand unconditional love until we become parents. Perhaps that is true, because while there are more than a few people on this earth for whom I feel great affection and even love, there are truly only two whose lives I would put before my own. They are mine.
Now and again, though, I have wondered, will they always know I am theirs?
And as I watched the faces of the mothers in the video, my heart went out to them. I empathized with how they must be feeling. I sensed the nervousness with which they stood still, the strength it took to hold themselves back from reaching out to their children, from whispering, its me, its me, I am yours!
But in the end, the children knew. Of course they knew. How could they not?
Perhaps it had something to with their momma's scent or the texture of her hands or even the shape of her cheeks. But, I would like believe that there is also something else, something our five senses cannot detect, something that cannot be seen with the eye or felt with the hands or heard with the ear - that makes each parent child connection unique.
Perhaps it is just an intuition that our mothers are near by. Perhaps it can be likened to a magnetic pull which becomes stronger the closer we are to one another. Or perhaps it is simply that from the beginning our hearts have always beat in sync.
Maybe in the end, it doesn't much matter what it is. Maybe what matters is simply that it is. That each momma is as unique to her child as her child is to her. That regardless of circumstance, regardless of time and space and sight and sense, that bond is always present, linking our hearts together as one.
xxo.
As each child comes forward, we watch them run their hands over the clothing of the mothers, grasp their hands, cup their faces, breathe in their scent. We watch the apprehension on the faces of the mothers as the children near, doubting that sans sight, their children will be able to recognize them. We watch as the children, one by one shake their heads - no, not that one, no, not that one, yes - this one is my mother. And we watch the complete and utter relief wash over the mother as she realizes her little has untimately chosen her.
I am his. I am hers. They are mine.
It is beyond cool, and there were tears in my eyes as I watched the embraces between each mother and child. It made me think of my own little ones.
When I look back at my life and all the events in my life over the years, I would have to say that becoming a mother has been the single most significant. From the moment I first held LJ and then Frankie in my arms, to the moment I breathe my last breath on this earth, I will think as a mother, behave as a mother, make decisions as a mother. My life, as much as I would like to pretend it is about me, is in reality all about my littles. And truth be told, I cannot imagine it any other way. I don't want it any other way.
I have heard it said that we cannot understand unconditional love until we become parents. Perhaps that is true, because while there are more than a few people on this earth for whom I feel great affection and even love, there are truly only two whose lives I would put before my own. They are mine.
Now and again, though, I have wondered, will they always know I am theirs?
And as I watched the faces of the mothers in the video, my heart went out to them. I empathized with how they must be feeling. I sensed the nervousness with which they stood still, the strength it took to hold themselves back from reaching out to their children, from whispering, its me, its me, I am yours!
But in the end, the children knew. Of course they knew. How could they not?
Perhaps it had something to with their momma's scent or the texture of her hands or even the shape of her cheeks. But, I would like believe that there is also something else, something our five senses cannot detect, something that cannot be seen with the eye or felt with the hands or heard with the ear - that makes each parent child connection unique.
Perhaps it is just an intuition that our mothers are near by. Perhaps it can be likened to a magnetic pull which becomes stronger the closer we are to one another. Or perhaps it is simply that from the beginning our hearts have always beat in sync.
Maybe in the end, it doesn't much matter what it is. Maybe what matters is simply that it is. That each momma is as unique to her child as her child is to her. That regardless of circumstance, regardless of time and space and sight and sense, that bond is always present, linking our hearts together as one.
xxo.
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
april 22. say what you need to say.
When I first began attending Assumption regularly, I didn't know very many of the parishioners. I had met the priest, and there was a family down our street that attended regularly, but for the most part, in the beginning it was just me and maybe one or both of my littles when I could get them up early on a Sunday.
I am a creature of habit by nature and so immediately, I found a spot where I felt comfortable - about midway back, not too far toward the center of the pew just in case I had to make a hasty exit, and right next to a sweet old man whose name I did not learn for many years. Each week he was there before we arrived and each week, he would greet both me and Frankie with a hug and a kiss as he stepped back to allow us to slide in beside him.
In my church, communion is given toward the end of the service and it is one of my favorite portions of the whole ceremony. Orthodox babies are baptized at three months of age and immediately given communion, and I find such great happiness is watching the young children and the parents with their babies head down the aisle to receive.
After accepting communion from the priest, we are offered a piece or two of the communion bread to take back to our pews as we wait for everyone to be served. For one reason or another, not everyone takes communion. Either they are not a member of the orthodox faith, or they do not feel prepared in one manner or another, but regardless it has become customary for the people who do take communion to bring back a small piece of bread for those who do not. Often times when I attend church alone, I will bring back bread for my littles, my father or someone I feel might want or benefit from a little God love.
I realized quickly that my friend never took communion and so without great ceremony or even much thought actually, I began to bring him a piece of bread each time I went. Year after year, as I slid back into the pew, I would open my cupped hand and give him what I had brought him and each time, he would smile and silently hold my cupped hand in both of his in thanks.
Eventually I learned his name was Don and his wife was in the choir and that they'd been married for almost fifty years. On the weeks I attended when I hadn't for a spell, he would tell me how much he'd missed me. He asked about my littles, he hugged me when he learned I'd divorced. To me, he was as much a part of the tapestry of my church as the candles and icons and the bibles in the pews.
A few years back on a Sunday, after spending the night away, Frankie and I had a little communication mix up and she ended up at church without me. When she arrived home, she told me about the service - where she sat (in our spot with Don), what Father Andrew's sermon was all about, how she felt there without me and finally that she'd remembered to bring back bread for our friend.
In all the years, she never questioned my actions, she must have simply assumed that I had my reasons and that in my absence, it was her responsibility to fill in. There was something so sweet and innocent and loving about her gesture that tears filled my eyes.
The past year or so, our friend developed cancer. His body failing and in pain, his attendance at church became sporadic, and last night, our priest sent us a message that Don's illness had finally taken him and he'd passed away at his home, surrounded by his family and loved ones.
The message from Father said simply, we will miss him more than words can express and today, that is exactly how I feel. Don was my first connection at Assumption, he was the friendly face that welcomed me each week, the gentle hand that guided me to my seat, the quiet peace beside me that always helped me settle into the service no matter how out of tune my heart was that week.
I never told him how important he was to me. I never even thought to tell him, I guess I just believed he would always be there to greet me when I arrived. They say that you should never miss an opportunity to tell someone how much you care about them. In this instance I very much failed in the words department, but as I sit here and remember him and the lesson I am learning from his passing, a big part of me prays that the bread we shared between us each week told a completely different story.
Yes, I am going to miss Don, more than words can express. Rest in peace, sweet man and say hello to my momma for me.
xxo.
I am a creature of habit by nature and so immediately, I found a spot where I felt comfortable - about midway back, not too far toward the center of the pew just in case I had to make a hasty exit, and right next to a sweet old man whose name I did not learn for many years. Each week he was there before we arrived and each week, he would greet both me and Frankie with a hug and a kiss as he stepped back to allow us to slide in beside him.
In my church, communion is given toward the end of the service and it is one of my favorite portions of the whole ceremony. Orthodox babies are baptized at three months of age and immediately given communion, and I find such great happiness is watching the young children and the parents with their babies head down the aisle to receive.
After accepting communion from the priest, we are offered a piece or two of the communion bread to take back to our pews as we wait for everyone to be served. For one reason or another, not everyone takes communion. Either they are not a member of the orthodox faith, or they do not feel prepared in one manner or another, but regardless it has become customary for the people who do take communion to bring back a small piece of bread for those who do not. Often times when I attend church alone, I will bring back bread for my littles, my father or someone I feel might want or benefit from a little God love.
I realized quickly that my friend never took communion and so without great ceremony or even much thought actually, I began to bring him a piece of bread each time I went. Year after year, as I slid back into the pew, I would open my cupped hand and give him what I had brought him and each time, he would smile and silently hold my cupped hand in both of his in thanks.
Eventually I learned his name was Don and his wife was in the choir and that they'd been married for almost fifty years. On the weeks I attended when I hadn't for a spell, he would tell me how much he'd missed me. He asked about my littles, he hugged me when he learned I'd divorced. To me, he was as much a part of the tapestry of my church as the candles and icons and the bibles in the pews.
A few years back on a Sunday, after spending the night away, Frankie and I had a little communication mix up and she ended up at church without me. When she arrived home, she told me about the service - where she sat (in our spot with Don), what Father Andrew's sermon was all about, how she felt there without me and finally that she'd remembered to bring back bread for our friend.
In all the years, she never questioned my actions, she must have simply assumed that I had my reasons and that in my absence, it was her responsibility to fill in. There was something so sweet and innocent and loving about her gesture that tears filled my eyes.
The past year or so, our friend developed cancer. His body failing and in pain, his attendance at church became sporadic, and last night, our priest sent us a message that Don's illness had finally taken him and he'd passed away at his home, surrounded by his family and loved ones.
The message from Father said simply, we will miss him more than words can express and today, that is exactly how I feel. Don was my first connection at Assumption, he was the friendly face that welcomed me each week, the gentle hand that guided me to my seat, the quiet peace beside me that always helped me settle into the service no matter how out of tune my heart was that week.
I never told him how important he was to me. I never even thought to tell him, I guess I just believed he would always be there to greet me when I arrived. They say that you should never miss an opportunity to tell someone how much you care about them. In this instance I very much failed in the words department, but as I sit here and remember him and the lesson I am learning from his passing, a big part of me prays that the bread we shared between us each week told a completely different story.
Yes, I am going to miss Don, more than words can express. Rest in peace, sweet man and say hello to my momma for me.
xxo.
Monday, April 20, 2015
april 20. ben.
Last night, Danny and I watched a movie called Gifted Hands which is the true story of Ben Carson, the acclaimed Pediatric Neurosurgeon who was the first to successfully separate twins conjoined at the head in 1987 and who is expected to announce sometime soon that he will joining the 2016 race for President.
The past year or so, I've heard bits and pieces about Carson and the possibility that he might run for President but in truth, I knew little to nothing about his background, his education, his family or his career to date. In fact, I assumed quite a bit about his upbringing that after watching the film, I realize was neither true nor fair and spoke more to my bias than to the reality of Ben Carson's life.
The youngest son of a single mother, Ben Carson grew up in Detroit in the 1950s. He was learning challenged, poor, black and had what he himself has described as a 'violent temper'. His mother often worked two or three jobs to support the family and at one point, realizing that Ben's behavior was leading him down a very tough road, came up with the idea to task her boys with reading two books each week and writing book reports that they would turn in to her for review. Later in life, Ben would learn that his mother had very limited education herself and often could not even read the reports he'd written.
Regardless, her idea worked and Ben pulled himself up from being the self proclaimed dummy of his class to a man in love with learning. He attended Yale and ultimately graduated from the University of Michigan School of Medicine before joining John's Hopkins where he now holds the title of Professor Emeritus. Along the way, he faced challenges that many of us today would be hard pressed to find believable and yet they are true.
To be sure, I realize and am so thankful that our country was built upon the backs of the multitudes of people who were not afraid to roll up their shirtsleeves and work hard, people whose names we will never know. People who refused to take no for an answer, people who overcame obstacles so high and so big that to the rest of us, they would have seemed entirely impossible to scale. I guess I just didn't equate the public personality we see in the media with a person that would have had those kinds of obstacles, and there were moments in the movie where I was both shocked at their magnitude and appalled at the fact that in our country, he would have had to overcome them at all.
I sometimes wonder about my littles, I worry if the life their father and I have provided is such that they will never know how it feels to work hard toward a seemingly unattainable goal. We've been blessed and in turn, we have blessed them, and in doing so, have we done them a disservice? I'd like to hope not. I'd like to believe that each of them will at some point in their lives have a passion that ignites the fire in their bellies and forces them to climb any obstacle in their path, to endure any hardship, to be what they are destined to be.
But it seems that life can be easy these days and so we learn to accept the status quo when perhaps what we really should be striving for is excellence at any cost.
Ben Carson's story got me thinking about that song by Eminem, Lose Yourself.
If you had one shot,
Or one opportunity
To seize everything you ever wanted
In one moment
Would you capture it
Or just let it slip?
Would I? Have I? Would you? If everything I'd ever wanted required just a little more work, just a little more passion, just a healthy dose of fear of failure, would I capture it or just let it slip?
I don't know the answer to that question some days. Some days I am definitely all fired up and I know what I want and I am going for it and well, some days, I'm just happy to be sitting in my pjs, working from home in my little cave, practicing yoga and facetiming my littles over the internet.
Maybe its just that at forty six, I still haven't figured out what I want to be when I grow up, and I guess that's going to have to be ok right now. God willing, I have many, many years ahead and maybe a few thousand blog posts to figure that one out. But in the meantime, I'm going to be thankful for people like Ben Carson, people who have paved the way and provided us with living, breathing examples of all we need to unlock the greatness that lies within each of us - hard work, faith, determination and a healthy dose of imagination.
xxo!
The past year or so, I've heard bits and pieces about Carson and the possibility that he might run for President but in truth, I knew little to nothing about his background, his education, his family or his career to date. In fact, I assumed quite a bit about his upbringing that after watching the film, I realize was neither true nor fair and spoke more to my bias than to the reality of Ben Carson's life.
The youngest son of a single mother, Ben Carson grew up in Detroit in the 1950s. He was learning challenged, poor, black and had what he himself has described as a 'violent temper'. His mother often worked two or three jobs to support the family and at one point, realizing that Ben's behavior was leading him down a very tough road, came up with the idea to task her boys with reading two books each week and writing book reports that they would turn in to her for review. Later in life, Ben would learn that his mother had very limited education herself and often could not even read the reports he'd written.
Regardless, her idea worked and Ben pulled himself up from being the self proclaimed dummy of his class to a man in love with learning. He attended Yale and ultimately graduated from the University of Michigan School of Medicine before joining John's Hopkins where he now holds the title of Professor Emeritus. Along the way, he faced challenges that many of us today would be hard pressed to find believable and yet they are true.
To be sure, I realize and am so thankful that our country was built upon the backs of the multitudes of people who were not afraid to roll up their shirtsleeves and work hard, people whose names we will never know. People who refused to take no for an answer, people who overcame obstacles so high and so big that to the rest of us, they would have seemed entirely impossible to scale. I guess I just didn't equate the public personality we see in the media with a person that would have had those kinds of obstacles, and there were moments in the movie where I was both shocked at their magnitude and appalled at the fact that in our country, he would have had to overcome them at all.
I sometimes wonder about my littles, I worry if the life their father and I have provided is such that they will never know how it feels to work hard toward a seemingly unattainable goal. We've been blessed and in turn, we have blessed them, and in doing so, have we done them a disservice? I'd like to hope not. I'd like to believe that each of them will at some point in their lives have a passion that ignites the fire in their bellies and forces them to climb any obstacle in their path, to endure any hardship, to be what they are destined to be.
But it seems that life can be easy these days and so we learn to accept the status quo when perhaps what we really should be striving for is excellence at any cost.
Ben Carson's story got me thinking about that song by Eminem, Lose Yourself.
If you had one shot,
Or one opportunity
To seize everything you ever wanted
In one moment
Would you capture it
Or just let it slip?
Would I? Have I? Would you? If everything I'd ever wanted required just a little more work, just a little more passion, just a healthy dose of fear of failure, would I capture it or just let it slip?
I don't know the answer to that question some days. Some days I am definitely all fired up and I know what I want and I am going for it and well, some days, I'm just happy to be sitting in my pjs, working from home in my little cave, practicing yoga and facetiming my littles over the internet.
Maybe its just that at forty six, I still haven't figured out what I want to be when I grow up, and I guess that's going to have to be ok right now. God willing, I have many, many years ahead and maybe a few thousand blog posts to figure that one out. But in the meantime, I'm going to be thankful for people like Ben Carson, people who have paved the way and provided us with living, breathing examples of all we need to unlock the greatness that lies within each of us - hard work, faith, determination and a healthy dose of imagination.
xxo!
Thursday, April 16, 2015
april 16. life is change.
After graduating from college and getting married, my parents packed up their car and began the long trip south for flight school and for the entirety of the first half of their marriage, moving was the theme. Every two or three years, my father would get his orders from the military and my mother would begin the packing up process.
Before I finally left for college, we'd already lived in a half dozen states plus Japan, Greece, and South Korea, where we spent my last two years of high school. We moved. A lot. But we knew nothing different, so it didn't seem difficult and was generally made easier by the fact that when we moved, for the most part, we moved to military bases and everyone was doing the exact same thing as our family. Transitioning.
We were professionals at weeding out and packing up, the military being notorious for household belonging weight limits and because my parents made everything about moving fun. They loved it and so in turn, we loved it too. For the most part, we lived in base housing, but periodically none was available or provided and we lived on what we called the economy, which was exactly the way it was when we moved to Greece.
I have the most incredible memories of that first few months in Athens. It took my parents and the military about a month to find us permanent housing so in the interim, we stayed in base officer's quarters (the boq). Generally the boq is a drab apartment-like temporary situation on base but in Greece where there was no housing on base at all, consisted of a full-fledged hotel called the Bona Vista converted to boq facilities.
It rocked. There was a pool and Monday night bingo and Friday night all you could eat Mongolian bbq and all sorts of places that kids our age could get in trouble. My dad taught me to play blackjack at the Bona Vista and I learned to french braid my own hair from the lady across the hall - a skill that has actually been invaluable over the years.
Of all the moves, the trip to Korea was undoubtedly the most difficult. Korea was considered a remote assignment which basically meant that my dad had the option of going for a year on his own, or two years with the rest of us. I guess I wouldn't want to be alone for a year either, and in hindsight running away from home for a few days in protest probably wasn't the smartest move I have ever made since obviously, we all ended up in Korea.
Alright, maybe I didn't exactly run away from home, but I did go to school one day where I was a cheerleader and on the student council and madly in crush with the quarterback of the football team, and subsequently refuse to return home until my mom signed me out of math, took me to lunch, said she'd miss me and... cried. I hated to make my mom cry and I am certain my mother was well aware of that fact since now that I am a mother myself, I might also have used tears on demand to my advantage a time or two.
So, we all moved to Korea and to this day it remains one of the most significant growth periods of my life, both in terms of what I learned about myself but also what I learned about the world.
Since then I have lived in Arizona, Tucson for a few years while I attended college and then Scottsdale afterwards when I found a job, met a guy and started a family. For many many years, I shopped at the same grocery store and filled my car with gas at the same pumps. I lived near the same people. I frequented the same places and I ran the same trails, mile after mile after mile.
For a military brat, twenty plus years in the same place can be a lifetime, and for me in more than one respect, it was a life time. One that changed leaving me no choice but to change as well.
I didn't move out of state, or out of country, in reality our new home is not terribly far away from the old, just a thirty minute drive, although it might as well have been to a new planet for as different as everything is now. I have a new love, new neighbors, a new hair salon and a new path to get to my trails. I can ride my bike to yoga and walk to a taco shop that serves the greatest breakfast burritos ever. There is a farmer's market every Saturday at the church around the corner and at rush hour the traffic on the side street can sometimes be loud, but somehow after just three months, I don't seem to hear it anymore.
I find that I really love it here and I feel such gratitude to the people who have eased this transition for us, who have welcomed us with open arms and helped to make us feel part of this space. I think back to the experiences I had as a child moving with my family, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that those experiences contributed to the content I feel now.
They say that life is change and I can attest that this is true. The past few years, what has not changed in my life has been a much shorter list than what has. But on the heels of that truth also comes growth is optional and the admonition to choose wisely.
Our lives are in a state of constant change, from our relationships to our jobs to the places we live. Sometimes those changes come about by our own hand, and sometimes they are changes that we neither appreciate nor are willing initially to accept. However, in both instances, I find that it is my attitude toward that change that will inevitably set the course I follow. Will I accept, open my heart and subsequently, grow? Or will I fight that change, inevitable as it is, ending up frustrated, resentful and bitter?
I am consciously choosing acceptance these days. And believe me, it is a choice and it is a hard choice at that, at least for me. I find it so much easier to play the victim and to complain that life is not fair and yet, on the occasions I choose that path, my happiness quotient, or whatever that thing is that measures our contentedness in life, takes a face first fall into the abyss tout de suite.
What are you choosing?
xxo.
m
Before I finally left for college, we'd already lived in a half dozen states plus Japan, Greece, and South Korea, where we spent my last two years of high school. We moved. A lot. But we knew nothing different, so it didn't seem difficult and was generally made easier by the fact that when we moved, for the most part, we moved to military bases and everyone was doing the exact same thing as our family. Transitioning.
We were professionals at weeding out and packing up, the military being notorious for household belonging weight limits and because my parents made everything about moving fun. They loved it and so in turn, we loved it too. For the most part, we lived in base housing, but periodically none was available or provided and we lived on what we called the economy, which was exactly the way it was when we moved to Greece.
I have the most incredible memories of that first few months in Athens. It took my parents and the military about a month to find us permanent housing so in the interim, we stayed in base officer's quarters (the boq). Generally the boq is a drab apartment-like temporary situation on base but in Greece where there was no housing on base at all, consisted of a full-fledged hotel called the Bona Vista converted to boq facilities.
It rocked. There was a pool and Monday night bingo and Friday night all you could eat Mongolian bbq and all sorts of places that kids our age could get in trouble. My dad taught me to play blackjack at the Bona Vista and I learned to french braid my own hair from the lady across the hall - a skill that has actually been invaluable over the years.
Of all the moves, the trip to Korea was undoubtedly the most difficult. Korea was considered a remote assignment which basically meant that my dad had the option of going for a year on his own, or two years with the rest of us. I guess I wouldn't want to be alone for a year either, and in hindsight running away from home for a few days in protest probably wasn't the smartest move I have ever made since obviously, we all ended up in Korea.
Alright, maybe I didn't exactly run away from home, but I did go to school one day where I was a cheerleader and on the student council and madly in crush with the quarterback of the football team, and subsequently refuse to return home until my mom signed me out of math, took me to lunch, said she'd miss me and... cried. I hated to make my mom cry and I am certain my mother was well aware of that fact since now that I am a mother myself, I might also have used tears on demand to my advantage a time or two.
So, we all moved to Korea and to this day it remains one of the most significant growth periods of my life, both in terms of what I learned about myself but also what I learned about the world.
Since then I have lived in Arizona, Tucson for a few years while I attended college and then Scottsdale afterwards when I found a job, met a guy and started a family. For many many years, I shopped at the same grocery store and filled my car with gas at the same pumps. I lived near the same people. I frequented the same places and I ran the same trails, mile after mile after mile.
For a military brat, twenty plus years in the same place can be a lifetime, and for me in more than one respect, it was a life time. One that changed leaving me no choice but to change as well.
I didn't move out of state, or out of country, in reality our new home is not terribly far away from the old, just a thirty minute drive, although it might as well have been to a new planet for as different as everything is now. I have a new love, new neighbors, a new hair salon and a new path to get to my trails. I can ride my bike to yoga and walk to a taco shop that serves the greatest breakfast burritos ever. There is a farmer's market every Saturday at the church around the corner and at rush hour the traffic on the side street can sometimes be loud, but somehow after just three months, I don't seem to hear it anymore.
I find that I really love it here and I feel such gratitude to the people who have eased this transition for us, who have welcomed us with open arms and helped to make us feel part of this space. I think back to the experiences I had as a child moving with my family, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that those experiences contributed to the content I feel now.
They say that life is change and I can attest that this is true. The past few years, what has not changed in my life has been a much shorter list than what has. But on the heels of that truth also comes growth is optional and the admonition to choose wisely.
Our lives are in a state of constant change, from our relationships to our jobs to the places we live. Sometimes those changes come about by our own hand, and sometimes they are changes that we neither appreciate nor are willing initially to accept. However, in both instances, I find that it is my attitude toward that change that will inevitably set the course I follow. Will I accept, open my heart and subsequently, grow? Or will I fight that change, inevitable as it is, ending up frustrated, resentful and bitter?
I am consciously choosing acceptance these days. And believe me, it is a choice and it is a hard choice at that, at least for me. I find it so much easier to play the victim and to complain that life is not fair and yet, on the occasions I choose that path, my happiness quotient, or whatever that thing is that measures our contentedness in life, takes a face first fall into the abyss tout de suite.
What are you choosing?
xxo.
m
Tuesday, April 14, 2015
april 14. practice.
The Huffington Post ran an article recently that talked about how the Encintas Unified School District in California was offering yoga as an alternative to regular physical education classes in their schools. The classes are made possible through a local non-profit that promotes yoga and the grant provides twice a week, thirty minute classes to the district's 5600 students.
A family in the district filed a lawsuit attempting to block the classes, stating that they believed teaching yoga would promote Hinduism and inhibit Christianity, in particular that they encouraged praying to, bowing to and worshipping the sun god. The family's lawsuit was unanimously thrown out and the court stated that the classes were devoid of any religious, mystical, or spiritual trappings.
I have been practicing yoga on and off for probably twenty years, but it has only been in the last two or three that I have begun to take my practice seriously. At first, it was all about flexibility. I am and always will be a runner at heart and yoga allowed me to work out the tight hamstrings and hips, to stretch those hard to get to areas that running wanted to tighten up. It created balance and strength and I do believe it made me a better runner - if only that with regular practice, it kept me from any of those common overuse injuries that are the nemesis of runners.
Recently, however, yoga has become something else entirely. Around the time of my divorce when it seemed that every piece of my life was in a state of utter chaos, the yoga studio was my safe haven. Second only to church, yoga was where I went to find a little peace in my day. For the eighty minutes I was in class, there were no fears, no doubts, no judgment. During those early days of my practice, my thoughts were centered solely around staying upright and somehow not passing out and face-planting in front of everyone.
Slowly I began to adapt - to the movement, to the heat - and as I did, I was able to focus less on the physical adjustment of my body and tune in to what was happening within me.
I realized that thoughts had begun to return to me while I was practicing. But unlike before, they simply flowed in and immediately flowed right back out - like the waves of the ocean as they hit and recede from the shore. I breathed them in and before they could take root and do damage, I breathed them right back out again.
I have heard yoga described as a moving meditation and I believe that is probably the most beautiful and accurate definition possible. Because while I have tried repeatedly to meditate outside of yoga, it is only in class within the confines of the four corners of my mat, where I have finally found success.
Through yoga, I am learning to let go of what does not serve me. Through yoga, I am learning about grace and acceptance and joy and love and forgiveness and selflessness, which seem very much like the lessons I have learned through Christianity. Through yoga, I am learning to practice self care and do no harm. And ultimately through yoga, I am learning to be still and to listen for God's voice in that silence.
So while I am thankful that the court upheld the decision to continue allowing the practice of yoga in the Encinitas schools because the benefits our children will reap, even if solely physical, will be immeasurable, I would disagree that yoga is completely devoid of spiritual trappings as the court suggests. At least for me.
xxo.
A family in the district filed a lawsuit attempting to block the classes, stating that they believed teaching yoga would promote Hinduism and inhibit Christianity, in particular that they encouraged praying to, bowing to and worshipping the sun god. The family's lawsuit was unanimously thrown out and the court stated that the classes were devoid of any religious, mystical, or spiritual trappings.
I have been practicing yoga on and off for probably twenty years, but it has only been in the last two or three that I have begun to take my practice seriously. At first, it was all about flexibility. I am and always will be a runner at heart and yoga allowed me to work out the tight hamstrings and hips, to stretch those hard to get to areas that running wanted to tighten up. It created balance and strength and I do believe it made me a better runner - if only that with regular practice, it kept me from any of those common overuse injuries that are the nemesis of runners.
Recently, however, yoga has become something else entirely. Around the time of my divorce when it seemed that every piece of my life was in a state of utter chaos, the yoga studio was my safe haven. Second only to church, yoga was where I went to find a little peace in my day. For the eighty minutes I was in class, there were no fears, no doubts, no judgment. During those early days of my practice, my thoughts were centered solely around staying upright and somehow not passing out and face-planting in front of everyone.
Slowly I began to adapt - to the movement, to the heat - and as I did, I was able to focus less on the physical adjustment of my body and tune in to what was happening within me.
I realized that thoughts had begun to return to me while I was practicing. But unlike before, they simply flowed in and immediately flowed right back out - like the waves of the ocean as they hit and recede from the shore. I breathed them in and before they could take root and do damage, I breathed them right back out again.
I have heard yoga described as a moving meditation and I believe that is probably the most beautiful and accurate definition possible. Because while I have tried repeatedly to meditate outside of yoga, it is only in class within the confines of the four corners of my mat, where I have finally found success.
Through yoga, I am learning to let go of what does not serve me. Through yoga, I am learning about grace and acceptance and joy and love and forgiveness and selflessness, which seem very much like the lessons I have learned through Christianity. Through yoga, I am learning to practice self care and do no harm. And ultimately through yoga, I am learning to be still and to listen for God's voice in that silence.
So while I am thankful that the court upheld the decision to continue allowing the practice of yoga in the Encinitas schools because the benefits our children will reap, even if solely physical, will be immeasurable, I would disagree that yoga is completely devoid of spiritual trappings as the court suggests. At least for me.
xxo.
Monday, April 13, 2015
april 13. home is where the heart is.
I've decided to get rid of the three hundred words a day portion of this experience for two reasons. One, it seemed sort of arbitrary and two, I was having a difficult time sticking to three hundred words most days, which I am sure is no surprise.
I am what they call cradle Orthodox. My mother and father are both Orthodox as is almost every family member on both sides, I was baptized as a baby, and as I grew, it was all I knew.
When I was in my twenties and had moved away from home, there were weeks when the only time I would see my mother would be when I met her at church on Sundays. We didn't go every Sunday, her job periodically required that she work weekends, but when she was free we always made time to go together. For me, it was something special that the two of us shared and somehow in my mind church became somewhat indistinguishable from my mother.
I adamantly refused to go to our church after my mother died. The iconography, the incense, the choir, every little bit of it reminded me so much of her and flooded me with such feelings of sadness and confusion that there was just no way I could step one foot inside that place, no way.
It didn't feel as if I was having a crisis of faith exactly, although in retrospect I imagine it was one of sorts because during that first hard period after her death, I was quite regularly displeased with God for taking my mother away from me. I still loved Him, I still believed in Him, I continued to try to talk to Him and periodically listen for Him, but I just wasn't sure I trusted his promises or his wisdom or his love for me all that much.
To be honest, with no church to call home, no mother to call my own, and at a disconnect with God, I felt... homeless.
I tried a number of churches during that time. The littles had been baptized Catholic, so I tried that. For me, it was a little too much like my own for comfort. Too many similarities. Too many memories. I joined a local bible church, attended for a bit and got involved in the new member ministry. I chaired a small group, I taught vacation bible school. I loved the insight and the learning and I loved that I always seemed to be yearning for more when I attended services at that church. A reader by nature, I could not get enough of the in depth study of the bible, something I seemed to have missed out on when I was a child. To this day, I will see notes I took then in the margins of various passages in my bible, along with thoughts of my own that I penned, and all that learning comes flooding back.
In mere Christianity, C.S. Lewis writes...
I hope no reader will suppose that “mere” Christianity is here put forward as an alternative to the creeds of the existing communions…. It is more like a hall out of which doors open into several rooms. If I can bring anyone into that hall I shall have done what I attempted. But it is in the rooms, not the hall, that there are fires and chairs and meals. The hall is a place to wait in, a place from which to try the various doors, not a place to live in. For that purpose the worst of the rooms (whichever that may be), is, I think, preferable. It is true that some people may find they have to wait in the hall for a considerable time, while others feel certain almost at once which door they must knock at. I do not know why there is this difference, but I am sure God keeps no one waiting unless He sees that it is good for him to wait. When you do get into your room you will find that the long wait has done you some kind of good which you would not have had otherwise. But you must regard it as waiting, not as camping. You must keep on praying for light: and, of course, even in the hall, you must begin trying to obey the rules which are common to the whole house. And above all you must be asking which door is the true one; not which pleases you best by its paint and paneling. In plain language, the question should never be: “Do I like that kind of service?” but “Are these doctrines true: Is holiness here? Does my conscience move me towards this? Is my reluctance to knock at this door due to my pride, or my mere taste, or my personal dislike of this particular door-keeper?”
I believe those years were exactly that, my hall years. I would tentatively knock, I'd slowly enter and maybe stay for a spell, but eventually I would get antsy and perhaps sensing deep down that I wasn't where I was supposed to be, I would find myself once again on the outside. In the hall.
A few years after my mother passed, my cousin Mark and his fiancée, Sarah, were married in Louisville. Mark and his brother, David, grew up in the church. They began chanting with their father before either could probably walk and Mark is one of those truly holy people. The ones that just get it somehow and I always love being around him because sometimes I like to believe it will rub off on me. He waited a long time and trusted that God would bring the perfect woman into his life and Sarah was exactly that.
I almost did not go their wedding. I had only been inside an orthodox church once since my mother's death, because as strong as the pull was and as familiar as the space was to me, there was also a little part of me that felt somehow unworthy. As if I had deserted God in that place and in doing so, I had no right to enter. How little I understood then about God's grace.
Mark and Sarah's wedding was beautiful. There are so many pieces to an orthodox wedding service, from the betrothal to the crowning to the common cup, that are incredibly symbolic of a couple's love for one another, but even more so, of God's love for us - his children. And as I, alongside all our family and friends, watched Mark wed his bride, Sarah, all the anxiety and trepidation I had felt about being in that place, just kind of melted away. And I realized that the door I had been bypassing for so many years as I searched this way and that, had been standing wide open right in front of me the entire time, just beckoning me to enter.
God was here and He had been doing what God does, He was waiting. For me. To be quite ready to come... home.
xxo.
I am what they call cradle Orthodox. My mother and father are both Orthodox as is almost every family member on both sides, I was baptized as a baby, and as I grew, it was all I knew.
When I was in my twenties and had moved away from home, there were weeks when the only time I would see my mother would be when I met her at church on Sundays. We didn't go every Sunday, her job periodically required that she work weekends, but when she was free we always made time to go together. For me, it was something special that the two of us shared and somehow in my mind church became somewhat indistinguishable from my mother.
I adamantly refused to go to our church after my mother died. The iconography, the incense, the choir, every little bit of it reminded me so much of her and flooded me with such feelings of sadness and confusion that there was just no way I could step one foot inside that place, no way.
It didn't feel as if I was having a crisis of faith exactly, although in retrospect I imagine it was one of sorts because during that first hard period after her death, I was quite regularly displeased with God for taking my mother away from me. I still loved Him, I still believed in Him, I continued to try to talk to Him and periodically listen for Him, but I just wasn't sure I trusted his promises or his wisdom or his love for me all that much.
To be honest, with no church to call home, no mother to call my own, and at a disconnect with God, I felt... homeless.
I tried a number of churches during that time. The littles had been baptized Catholic, so I tried that. For me, it was a little too much like my own for comfort. Too many similarities. Too many memories. I joined a local bible church, attended for a bit and got involved in the new member ministry. I chaired a small group, I taught vacation bible school. I loved the insight and the learning and I loved that I always seemed to be yearning for more when I attended services at that church. A reader by nature, I could not get enough of the in depth study of the bible, something I seemed to have missed out on when I was a child. To this day, I will see notes I took then in the margins of various passages in my bible, along with thoughts of my own that I penned, and all that learning comes flooding back.
In mere Christianity, C.S. Lewis writes...
I hope no reader will suppose that “mere” Christianity is here put forward as an alternative to the creeds of the existing communions…. It is more like a hall out of which doors open into several rooms. If I can bring anyone into that hall I shall have done what I attempted. But it is in the rooms, not the hall, that there are fires and chairs and meals. The hall is a place to wait in, a place from which to try the various doors, not a place to live in. For that purpose the worst of the rooms (whichever that may be), is, I think, preferable. It is true that some people may find they have to wait in the hall for a considerable time, while others feel certain almost at once which door they must knock at. I do not know why there is this difference, but I am sure God keeps no one waiting unless He sees that it is good for him to wait. When you do get into your room you will find that the long wait has done you some kind of good which you would not have had otherwise. But you must regard it as waiting, not as camping. You must keep on praying for light: and, of course, even in the hall, you must begin trying to obey the rules which are common to the whole house. And above all you must be asking which door is the true one; not which pleases you best by its paint and paneling. In plain language, the question should never be: “Do I like that kind of service?” but “Are these doctrines true: Is holiness here? Does my conscience move me towards this? Is my reluctance to knock at this door due to my pride, or my mere taste, or my personal dislike of this particular door-keeper?”
I believe those years were exactly that, my hall years. I would tentatively knock, I'd slowly enter and maybe stay for a spell, but eventually I would get antsy and perhaps sensing deep down that I wasn't where I was supposed to be, I would find myself once again on the outside. In the hall.
A few years after my mother passed, my cousin Mark and his fiancée, Sarah, were married in Louisville. Mark and his brother, David, grew up in the church. They began chanting with their father before either could probably walk and Mark is one of those truly holy people. The ones that just get it somehow and I always love being around him because sometimes I like to believe it will rub off on me. He waited a long time and trusted that God would bring the perfect woman into his life and Sarah was exactly that.
I almost did not go their wedding. I had only been inside an orthodox church once since my mother's death, because as strong as the pull was and as familiar as the space was to me, there was also a little part of me that felt somehow unworthy. As if I had deserted God in that place and in doing so, I had no right to enter. How little I understood then about God's grace.
Mark and Sarah's wedding was beautiful. There are so many pieces to an orthodox wedding service, from the betrothal to the crowning to the common cup, that are incredibly symbolic of a couple's love for one another, but even more so, of God's love for us - his children. And as I, alongside all our family and friends, watched Mark wed his bride, Sarah, all the anxiety and trepidation I had felt about being in that place, just kind of melted away. And I realized that the door I had been bypassing for so many years as I searched this way and that, had been standing wide open right in front of me the entire time, just beckoning me to enter.
God was here and He had been doing what God does, He was waiting. For me. To be quite ready to come... home.
xxo.
Thursday, April 09, 2015
three hundred words a day. april 9. #blackANDwhite.
I tend to live in a little bubble where although I realize that awful things happen in this world, I do not like to dwell on them. I do not regularly watch the news, I find it depressing. And when issues present themselves around me for debate I am usually the last to engage, if I ever engage at all. Maybe its naivete, maybe its ignorance on my part, regardless - my opinions are usually my own unless they hit too close to home.
A while back, I attended a seminar hosted by local law enforcement which dealt with identifying stress and developing coping mechanisms for police officers and fire fighters. It was eye opening to say the least.
The speaker began his talk with statistics - the escalating rate of officer suicide in the nation, the stress induced physical and emotional tolls, issues such as alcoholism and drug abuse, obesity and depression. He explained that public servants in these professions learn to operate at a very high stress level - the job requires it, their lives depend on it - and when they return home post-shift, without a healthy or proper outlet - the effects can be devastating to not only them, but their loved ones as well.
Think about it this way, he asked... Each and every time a police officer puts on his uniform to go to work, he puts his life at risk. From a routine traffic stop, to searches, to entering an establishment, to driving a patrol car, in every single interaction with another individual while on duty, that officer's nervous and other bodily systems must operate at a heightened level for, at the very least, self-preservation.
Can you imagine that? Putting on your work clothes every single day and knowing it could be your last?
I cannot, no way. I get up each morning, grab a cup of coffee and sit down at my computer and begin my day. There is not a situation possible where that could be deadly to me in any shape or form. A bit boring now and again, but deadly? Never. And in reality, in order to do their jobs properly and without fear or hesitation, neither can our public servants.
Although that doesn't change the fact that it is still true.
The speaker suggested that when these men and women come home, without a proper outlet, they often have a difficult time coming down from that "high". He went on to recommend various ways, we, as their main support system, can assist and head off issues before they become full blown problems. Encouraging a healthy lifestyle - working out, hobbies, spending time with family.
Every day I am thankful that my guy makes time to make his emotional and physical well being a priority. He reads, he eats healthy, we practice yoga, we work at it each and every day and I have faith that he will never become one of those statistics.
Recently there have been a number of highly publicized officer involved shootings and the intensity and acidity of the debate in the media and on facebook has left me speechless. I'm saddened at the level of hate and venom we seem to be able to spew at each other in public as we defend our positions, all the while making assumptions based on our interpretations of events. And while I am making no attempt to excuse inhumane behavior in any shape or form, it seems to me that blanketly condemning an entire group of human beings sounds suspiciously like racism to me.
I was not in Missouri, nor Florida, nor South Carolina or NYC. I will never know for certain where to place blame in those situations and so I will abstain from doing so. I want to believe that as a people, our actions are no longer racially or prejudicially motivated regardless of our profession, but deep down I see every day that that is not true. However, I do believe that as a country we have put our trust in our legal system and that while periodically it will fail us, it is all we have right now.
And in the meantime, I am going to be thankful that there are still men and women, black and white and of every creed and religion, who, despite the uncertainty and danger and possibility of death, despite the backlash and distrust and judgement, consciously choose to put on that uniform each and every day and protect my freedoms. All humans matter.
#blackANDwhite
xxo.
A while back, I attended a seminar hosted by local law enforcement which dealt with identifying stress and developing coping mechanisms for police officers and fire fighters. It was eye opening to say the least.
The speaker began his talk with statistics - the escalating rate of officer suicide in the nation, the stress induced physical and emotional tolls, issues such as alcoholism and drug abuse, obesity and depression. He explained that public servants in these professions learn to operate at a very high stress level - the job requires it, their lives depend on it - and when they return home post-shift, without a healthy or proper outlet - the effects can be devastating to not only them, but their loved ones as well.
Think about it this way, he asked... Each and every time a police officer puts on his uniform to go to work, he puts his life at risk. From a routine traffic stop, to searches, to entering an establishment, to driving a patrol car, in every single interaction with another individual while on duty, that officer's nervous and other bodily systems must operate at a heightened level for, at the very least, self-preservation.
Can you imagine that? Putting on your work clothes every single day and knowing it could be your last?
I cannot, no way. I get up each morning, grab a cup of coffee and sit down at my computer and begin my day. There is not a situation possible where that could be deadly to me in any shape or form. A bit boring now and again, but deadly? Never. And in reality, in order to do their jobs properly and without fear or hesitation, neither can our public servants.
Although that doesn't change the fact that it is still true.
The speaker suggested that when these men and women come home, without a proper outlet, they often have a difficult time coming down from that "high". He went on to recommend various ways, we, as their main support system, can assist and head off issues before they become full blown problems. Encouraging a healthy lifestyle - working out, hobbies, spending time with family.
Every day I am thankful that my guy makes time to make his emotional and physical well being a priority. He reads, he eats healthy, we practice yoga, we work at it each and every day and I have faith that he will never become one of those statistics.
Recently there have been a number of highly publicized officer involved shootings and the intensity and acidity of the debate in the media and on facebook has left me speechless. I'm saddened at the level of hate and venom we seem to be able to spew at each other in public as we defend our positions, all the while making assumptions based on our interpretations of events. And while I am making no attempt to excuse inhumane behavior in any shape or form, it seems to me that blanketly condemning an entire group of human beings sounds suspiciously like racism to me.
I was not in Missouri, nor Florida, nor South Carolina or NYC. I will never know for certain where to place blame in those situations and so I will abstain from doing so. I want to believe that as a people, our actions are no longer racially or prejudicially motivated regardless of our profession, but deep down I see every day that that is not true. However, I do believe that as a country we have put our trust in our legal system and that while periodically it will fail us, it is all we have right now.
And in the meantime, I am going to be thankful that there are still men and women, black and white and of every creed and religion, who, despite the uncertainty and danger and possibility of death, despite the backlash and distrust and judgement, consciously choose to put on that uniform each and every day and protect my freedoms. All humans matter.
#blackANDwhite
xxo.
Wednesday, April 08, 2015
three hundred words a day. april 8. why so serious.
I am super hard on myself. I use the word should a lot without even realizing it. I should do this... I should do that... I should be more this, more that, less this or less that.
Yesterday, as I was on my way to yoga, I was thinking back on the last few posts I've made here and feeling as if they have all leaned too far toward the serious - the divorce, Bali, coda. Serious topics each in and of themselves, topics that I seem to be always muddling over in my head these days. And yet, when you string them all together - that's a whole mess of seriousness right there for just one week back at blogging.
That little voice inside me admonished, you should really lighten it up a bit. It is too serious. You sound too serious. You are too serious.
Dammit! I want so badly to be not so serious! I want to be the fun one just once!
For a long while I thought that perhaps I was just depressed and that is what was making me so serious, so thoughtful and analytical, all the time. But these days, I am not depressed and I am fairly certain of it. In fact, I feel as if I might be about as far away from depressed as I have ever been.
So, not depressed, not sad, in fact - quite happy actually - and yet, still so serious. What gives?
I've found that when in doubt, it always helps to gts, and this time was no exception. A few clicks later, and lo and behold, I have my answer.
It seems I am suffering from what is commonly referred to as... Serious Personality type.
Here are just a few of the characteristics of SPT:
Straight face. Individuals with the Serious personality style maintain a sober demeanor. They are solemn and not given to emotional expression.
No pretentions. They are realistically aware of their own capabilities, but they are also aware of their own limitations; they are not tempted by vanity or self-importance.
Accountability. Serious people hold themselves responsible for their actions. They will not soft-pedal their own faults and do not let themselves off the hook.
Cogitation. They're thinkers, analyzers, evaluators, ruminators: They'll always play things over in their minds before they act.
Contrition. Serious people suffer greatly when they realize they've been thoughtless or impolite to others.
Holy cow if that does not describe me in a nutshell. Although, in my own defense, I have been known to crack a joke or two now and then, and good ones, too! But definitely not on the magnitude I feel I should be and sometimes I can be really hard on myself about that.
In any event, it just seems as if this seriousness thing is as much a part of me as say, having brown eyes or brown hair. And while I realize that hair color can be changed, as mine has periodically been over the years, when it grows back in - it is eventually the same ole brown.
And you know, I might just be ok with that. It could be worse, after all. I could be suffering from boanthropy, or maybe even autophagia. Now that would really bite. ;)
xxo.
Yesterday, as I was on my way to yoga, I was thinking back on the last few posts I've made here and feeling as if they have all leaned too far toward the serious - the divorce, Bali, coda. Serious topics each in and of themselves, topics that I seem to be always muddling over in my head these days. And yet, when you string them all together - that's a whole mess of seriousness right there for just one week back at blogging.
That little voice inside me admonished, you should really lighten it up a bit. It is too serious. You sound too serious. You are too serious.
Dammit! I want so badly to be not so serious! I want to be the fun one just once!
For a long while I thought that perhaps I was just depressed and that is what was making me so serious, so thoughtful and analytical, all the time. But these days, I am not depressed and I am fairly certain of it. In fact, I feel as if I might be about as far away from depressed as I have ever been.
So, not depressed, not sad, in fact - quite happy actually - and yet, still so serious. What gives?
I've found that when in doubt, it always helps to gts, and this time was no exception. A few clicks later, and lo and behold, I have my answer.
It seems I am suffering from what is commonly referred to as... Serious Personality type.
Here are just a few of the characteristics of SPT:
Straight face. Individuals with the Serious personality style maintain a sober demeanor. They are solemn and not given to emotional expression.
No pretentions. They are realistically aware of their own capabilities, but they are also aware of their own limitations; they are not tempted by vanity or self-importance.
Accountability. Serious people hold themselves responsible for their actions. They will not soft-pedal their own faults and do not let themselves off the hook.
Cogitation. They're thinkers, analyzers, evaluators, ruminators: They'll always play things over in their minds before they act.
Contrition. Serious people suffer greatly when they realize they've been thoughtless or impolite to others.
Holy cow if that does not describe me in a nutshell. Although, in my own defense, I have been known to crack a joke or two now and then, and good ones, too! But definitely not on the magnitude I feel I should be and sometimes I can be really hard on myself about that.
In any event, it just seems as if this seriousness thing is as much a part of me as say, having brown eyes or brown hair. And while I realize that hair color can be changed, as mine has periodically been over the years, when it grows back in - it is eventually the same ole brown.
And you know, I might just be ok with that. It could be worse, after all. I could be suffering from boanthropy, or maybe even autophagia. Now that would really bite. ;)
xxo.
Tuesday, April 07, 2015
three hundred words a day. april 7. fear.
If there is an outcome you are afraid of and you do not take action because you are afraid, you produce the outcome you are afraid of. - Mastin Kipp
In December, I visited Bali on a retreat that was hosted by Mastin Kipp at the dailylove.com. It was a an experience that was so out of my comfort zone that just the simple fact that I signed up at all still makes me shake my head in disbelief. From the little things - like having to travel half way across the planet - alone - to get there, or to not knowing another soul who would be there - this trip pushed every one of my anxiety inducing buttons, of which I assure you, I have many.
I almost cancelled going, I had every excuse in the book. It wasn't the right time, I couldn't take that much time away from work, I was moving, my children needed me and how would I be able to keep control of my world from so far away and with no technology?
And while legitimate, if not lame, justifications for not wanting to go, the truth is I was afraid. I knew enough about Mastin and the retreats he hosted to realize I wasn't going on a little ole beach vacation and there was a huge part of me that was afraid of what I would learn about myself. Afraid that I was too far gone, too this, too that. Insignificant, unlovable. Afraid that maybe with no excuses to hide behind, maybe I wouldn't like who I was becoming, had become.
There were moments of confusion and moments of sadness, moments of clarity, moments where my heart threatened to burst with such incredible joy and happiness that I could not contain it and moments, often immediately after, where I was filled with the most profound grief that it still takes my breath away.
Each day we made deeper cuts through all those lies we'd told ourselves over the years about what was true, what we were destined to be. There were breakthroughs of a magnitude that cannot even begin to be measured, both for myself and for my sisters that joined me, during the retreat and they have continued now three months post. The change, the growth in all of us, has been immeasurable.
And while there are days that I am still afraid, days where all I can do is pick up the phone and ask for help to get through, these days I am trying my best to keep the lessons of Bali close as I work toward producing the outcome I long for versus the one that I fear.
xxo.
In December, I visited Bali on a retreat that was hosted by Mastin Kipp at the dailylove.com. It was a an experience that was so out of my comfort zone that just the simple fact that I signed up at all still makes me shake my head in disbelief. From the little things - like having to travel half way across the planet - alone - to get there, or to not knowing another soul who would be there - this trip pushed every one of my anxiety inducing buttons, of which I assure you, I have many.
I almost cancelled going, I had every excuse in the book. It wasn't the right time, I couldn't take that much time away from work, I was moving, my children needed me and how would I be able to keep control of my world from so far away and with no technology?
And while legitimate, if not lame, justifications for not wanting to go, the truth is I was afraid. I knew enough about Mastin and the retreats he hosted to realize I wasn't going on a little ole beach vacation and there was a huge part of me that was afraid of what I would learn about myself. Afraid that I was too far gone, too this, too that. Insignificant, unlovable. Afraid that maybe with no excuses to hide behind, maybe I wouldn't like who I was becoming, had become.
There were moments of confusion and moments of sadness, moments of clarity, moments where my heart threatened to burst with such incredible joy and happiness that I could not contain it and moments, often immediately after, where I was filled with the most profound grief that it still takes my breath away.
Each day we made deeper cuts through all those lies we'd told ourselves over the years about what was true, what we were destined to be. There were breakthroughs of a magnitude that cannot even begin to be measured, both for myself and for my sisters that joined me, during the retreat and they have continued now three months post. The change, the growth in all of us, has been immeasurable.
And while there are days that I am still afraid, days where all I can do is pick up the phone and ask for help to get through, these days I am trying my best to keep the lessons of Bali close as I work toward producing the outcome I long for versus the one that I fear.
xxo.
Monday, April 06, 2015
three hundred words a day. april 6. those three little words.
I had a post all queued up and ready to go but then I realized it wasn't relevant to me anymore. At least not today. And so in an effort to stay true to me and speak what is on my mind, I'll save that one for a later date.
I started attending coda meetings on Monday nights toward the end of 2013. My meeting is a step-study where we discuss the twelve steps by sharing our personal struggles and we work through them each week step 1 to step 12, then repeat. Different steps are probably difficult for different people, like admitting we are powerless, or turning our will over to God or a higher power. Universally, however, I would imagine the eighth and ninth steps are pretty much knockouts for everyone.
The eighth step asks us to make a list of all persons we've harmed and to become willing to make amends to them.
The ninth step asks us to make direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.
I don't know about you, but I find it super hard to think about those things individually - let alone together - and while I have no problem saying I am sorry for the silly little things like slamming a door or bumping into someone, the big things? Well, there are a few things I would much rather forget. And unlikely as it is, there is a big part of me that naively hopes whoever was on the receiving end of those big things has forgotten them too.
How sad is that? How much easier is it these days to deflect or blame or make excuses for bad behavior? How much less stressful to simply stick my head in the sand and pretend things never happened, that somehow maybe my behavior was justified? That my hurt gave me the right to strike back? That behaving badly, regardless of intent, was in any universe ever okay?
Some of the people that most deserve my amends are no longer in my life, I have moved on just as they have moved on. And with what I have learned in coda, I am beginning to both recognize my triggers and avoid situations that could be harmful to me - or others - before they escalate to out of control stage.
But that doesn't change the fact that in order for me to heal, eight and nine still need to be worked, without expectation of forgiveness and without excuse or justification. There are a few I'm sorry I hurt yous that are long overdue. And while I am not quite there yet, after a year and a half of meetings, I know I am getting closer to putting pen to paper or picking up that phone and asking for a meetup, than I was even six months ago. Which just seems to prove that its true what they say - it works if you work it.
And I am worth it.
xxo.
I started attending coda meetings on Monday nights toward the end of 2013. My meeting is a step-study where we discuss the twelve steps by sharing our personal struggles and we work through them each week step 1 to step 12, then repeat. Different steps are probably difficult for different people, like admitting we are powerless, or turning our will over to God or a higher power. Universally, however, I would imagine the eighth and ninth steps are pretty much knockouts for everyone.
The eighth step asks us to make a list of all persons we've harmed and to become willing to make amends to them.
The ninth step asks us to make direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.
I don't know about you, but I find it super hard to think about those things individually - let alone together - and while I have no problem saying I am sorry for the silly little things like slamming a door or bumping into someone, the big things? Well, there are a few things I would much rather forget. And unlikely as it is, there is a big part of me that naively hopes whoever was on the receiving end of those big things has forgotten them too.
How sad is that? How much easier is it these days to deflect or blame or make excuses for bad behavior? How much less stressful to simply stick my head in the sand and pretend things never happened, that somehow maybe my behavior was justified? That my hurt gave me the right to strike back? That behaving badly, regardless of intent, was in any universe ever okay?
Some of the people that most deserve my amends are no longer in my life, I have moved on just as they have moved on. And with what I have learned in coda, I am beginning to both recognize my triggers and avoid situations that could be harmful to me - or others - before they escalate to out of control stage.
But that doesn't change the fact that in order for me to heal, eight and nine still need to be worked, without expectation of forgiveness and without excuse or justification. There are a few I'm sorry I hurt yous that are long overdue. And while I am not quite there yet, after a year and a half of meetings, I know I am getting closer to putting pen to paper or picking up that phone and asking for a meetup, than I was even six months ago. Which just seems to prove that its true what they say - it works if you work it.
And I am worth it.
xxo.
Saturday, April 04, 2015
three hundred words a day. april 4.
Just recently, I've begun reading Mere Christianity, a book adapted from a series of talks on BBC radio by C.S. Lewis in the 1940s. I have to confess, I have owned my copy of MC easily ten years and it has been sitting on my bookshelf catching dust since then. I am not sure why I didn't read it then and I cannot say for sure what prompted me to pull it down this week, but in any event, I have begun reading.
I would imagine C.S. Lewis is best known for the Chronicles of Narnia, and I am sure that many people are unaware that most of his works, including the Narnia books, deal with Christian themes. Even more incredible after reading a little about Lewis is that for awhile, he considered himself to be an atheist, and yet now he is regarded as one of the most influential Christian apologists of his time.
Atheist: a person who denies the existence of a supreme being.
Apologist: a person who makes a defense in speech or writing of a belief, idea.
I love this.
I love it for so many more reasons than three hundred words will allow me to express but at the very least, I think about where Lewis must have been emotionally and intellectually in order to publicly deny the very existence of God. And then I realize I can relate, how many times have I been so low, so hurt, so proud, that I too, wondered if God existed?
There have been times. Times when the future was so bleak or I was so filled with sadness that even though deep down I knew He existed, seeing past the grief to the love on the other side seemed like an impossible task. And yet, I don't know that I ever voiced that fear to anyone, and never ever wrote about it, or for that matter, was published.
And so I marvel at the sort of divine intervention that must have occurred in Lewis' life to change his beliefs so profoundly. I am awed at the metamorphosis, the total and complete one hundred eighty degree change. For some reason, it fills me with hope. Hope for the future, for my future, and if nothing else, it makes me beyond anxious to read more.
Although, I am realizing that my key to truly absorbing Mere Christianity is going to require some focus and it is probably not going to be one of those books I read in an afternoon. But what is it they always say about the best things taking time? This feels like one of them.
I'll let you all know how it goes.
xxo.
I would imagine C.S. Lewis is best known for the Chronicles of Narnia, and I am sure that many people are unaware that most of his works, including the Narnia books, deal with Christian themes. Even more incredible after reading a little about Lewis is that for awhile, he considered himself to be an atheist, and yet now he is regarded as one of the most influential Christian apologists of his time.
Atheist: a person who denies the existence of a supreme being.
Apologist: a person who makes a defense in speech or writing of a belief, idea.
I love this.
I love it for so many more reasons than three hundred words will allow me to express but at the very least, I think about where Lewis must have been emotionally and intellectually in order to publicly deny the very existence of God. And then I realize I can relate, how many times have I been so low, so hurt, so proud, that I too, wondered if God existed?
There have been times. Times when the future was so bleak or I was so filled with sadness that even though deep down I knew He existed, seeing past the grief to the love on the other side seemed like an impossible task. And yet, I don't know that I ever voiced that fear to anyone, and never ever wrote about it, or for that matter, was published.
And so I marvel at the sort of divine intervention that must have occurred in Lewis' life to change his beliefs so profoundly. I am awed at the metamorphosis, the total and complete one hundred eighty degree change. For some reason, it fills me with hope. Hope for the future, for my future, and if nothing else, it makes me beyond anxious to read more.
Although, I am realizing that my key to truly absorbing Mere Christianity is going to require some focus and it is probably not going to be one of those books I read in an afternoon. But what is it they always say about the best things taking time? This feels like one of them.
I'll let you all know how it goes.
xxo.
Friday, April 03, 2015
three hundred words a day. april 3. you can't take it back.
In Arizona, when you file for divorce and there are children involved, the state requires that you attend a six hour parenting class. Prior to going, it seemed like a ridiculous formality to me since my children were in their late teens at that point and I felt certain that regardless of whatever else I had failed at, parenting was probably not up there in the top five.
I signed up for the class, and even picked a location as far from my house as I could - hoping that I wouldn't run into anyone I knew. Which backfired, of course since I ended up taking class with someone I knew who was doing the very same thing - trying to get as far away from the reality of their situation as possible.
The first few hours went by and we kept hearing terms that I never dreamed would ever pertain to me - co-parenting, child support, custody - and as I looked around, I kept asking myself how the hell I even got here. I was mad. Maybe mad is not descriptive enough here, but in the interest of not going on a tangent about all the feelings you feel during divorce right now, I'm going to keep it at mad.
There was also a little part of me that wanted Big J to hurt because I was hurting. I wanted the littles with me, only with me. I was in blame mode and punish mode and in my early-divorce mind, Big J should have to shoulder that hurt. In hindsight and after much work, I realize that our divorce was equally our faults and that we were equally to blame, but remember, this was early on.
Images and scenarios flitted through my head as the videos droned on and on and I tried to keep focused. And then I heard what I believe to be one of the most profound statements ever made about divorce and children.
Never demean the character of your ex-spouse to or in front of your children. Remember, they are half you, but they are also - half your spouse.
You couldn't have hit me any harder over the head if you'd tried. And while I had not made it a practice to belittle their father, I am fairly certain that the littles knew I was in pain and knew that their father was as well.
Words spoken in anger are generally the ones we wish we could take back, and while I have had my share of nasty moments, I made a promise to myself that day that I would never put either of my littles in a position of having to chose which parent to love.
It has been a long road, in fact there were some super rocky times during the whole process where I was burning up the airwaves between my heart and heaven on a more than frequent basis. But never to my littles, and as the healing for all of us continues, I am thankful that at least they won't have to deal with having to un-hear words spoken in anger that I wished could be taken back.
xxo.
I signed up for the class, and even picked a location as far from my house as I could - hoping that I wouldn't run into anyone I knew. Which backfired, of course since I ended up taking class with someone I knew who was doing the very same thing - trying to get as far away from the reality of their situation as possible.
The first few hours went by and we kept hearing terms that I never dreamed would ever pertain to me - co-parenting, child support, custody - and as I looked around, I kept asking myself how the hell I even got here. I was mad. Maybe mad is not descriptive enough here, but in the interest of not going on a tangent about all the feelings you feel during divorce right now, I'm going to keep it at mad.
There was also a little part of me that wanted Big J to hurt because I was hurting. I wanted the littles with me, only with me. I was in blame mode and punish mode and in my early-divorce mind, Big J should have to shoulder that hurt. In hindsight and after much work, I realize that our divorce was equally our faults and that we were equally to blame, but remember, this was early on.
Images and scenarios flitted through my head as the videos droned on and on and I tried to keep focused. And then I heard what I believe to be one of the most profound statements ever made about divorce and children.
Never demean the character of your ex-spouse to or in front of your children. Remember, they are half you, but they are also - half your spouse.
You couldn't have hit me any harder over the head if you'd tried. And while I had not made it a practice to belittle their father, I am fairly certain that the littles knew I was in pain and knew that their father was as well.
Words spoken in anger are generally the ones we wish we could take back, and while I have had my share of nasty moments, I made a promise to myself that day that I would never put either of my littles in a position of having to chose which parent to love.
It has been a long road, in fact there were some super rocky times during the whole process where I was burning up the airwaves between my heart and heaven on a more than frequent basis. But never to my littles, and as the healing for all of us continues, I am thankful that at least they won't have to deal with having to un-hear words spoken in anger that I wished could be taken back.
xxo.
Thursday, April 02, 2015
three hundred words a day (plus a bonus 550). april 2. on practice.
I have a serious confession to make.
Are you ready?
I suck at praying out loud.
I'm sure that's not what you were expecting, but bear with me, we'll get somewhere eventually...
I can pray all day every day just fine silently - long, meaningful, coherent conversations with God where I speak my heart so simply and so eloquently sometimes I surprise myself - but put me in a situation where I have to do that out loud and you would think I had some sort of stammer. Each stilted sentence punctuated with um and uh, I get anxiety right now just thinking about it.
A few years back, I decided that this was a problem and so, in typical momo face your fears head on fashion, I joined a prayer group. A prayer group, mind you, where all that we did the entire hour was... pray… out loud. For each other, and our families, for our struggles and our blessings. Talk about anxiety.
Every week before I went, I would pray that God would help me to be calm and give me the courage to be unafraid to speak to Him (in words and sentences that made any sense at all) out loud. And each week, I would sit in my chair praying even more fervently that I would not be the one that was picked to pray that day. That had to be the longest six months of my life.
In retrospect, I believe I have finally figured out my problem. You see, when I pray out loud, there is always another factor at play and that is that when I pray out loud, I am generally praying for someone else. And while I almost always pray for others when I pray silently - when it’s aloud - I somehow feel as if I open myself and my words and my delivery and my heart up for... judgment. How do I sound? Did I say enough? Did I say the right things?
Crazy, right? I mean think about it - would you ever think to judge anyone who freely offered to pray for you? I know I wouldn't. In fact, I would more likely be all - hey, could you do that a bit more, please, I could really use it right about now?!
I had an epiphany of sorts yesterday.
I have been talking about returning to blogging for ages. I’ve missed it terribly as I always seem to do not only my best thinking, but my best healing right here. I have opened my computer and tried more times in the last year than I can even count. I just cannot for the life of me seem to get past the first few words before frustration sets in and I hang it all up.
Yesterday’s post started that way.
An hour at my keyboard and I had little more than a paragraph to show for it. I typed, I read, I retyped, reread and suddenly, it hit me.
Blogging for me had become exactly like praying out loud.
In the early days of my blog, my audience was me. I wrote about things I cared about, things that were on my mind, my heart. The tone and cadence of my words effortlessly following the rhythm of the thoughts in my head, writing what was true for me.
But as time went on, and in particular as my life began to unravel a bit and then a lot, I found myself writing much less for me and much more for you. I felt pressure and expectation to be someone, to post something. What did you want to hear? Was I using grandiose enough words? How could I convince you that all was well? Were you going to judge me, criticize me, heaven forbid - feel pity for me?
But try as I might, and trust me, I did try for a while, none of it ever really sounded anything like – me.
When I am being true to myself, my writing is much less impressive… and much more like a conversation over coffee or on the trails, between me and a friend that there is no need to impress. My words are all mine, all me. Filled with emotion and inflection, laughter and truth, a few a-ha moments, a swear word now and then, and as my sweet little girl likes to say, a shit-ton of filler words.
I have been practicing yoga almost every day recently, and I love that idea – that we are always practicing. I can’t imagine what perfect yoga would look like but it seems about as unlikely for me as winning the powerball, so for now, I'll just continue to practice, two steps forward and a periodic step back.
Yesterday it hit me that maybe it's high time I implemented that same sort of grace into my writing as well.
Allowing my thoughts to take shape here makes me happy - happier than I think I even realized until recently. So, I am going to practice. Practicing praying outloud. Practice getting back to... me. Some days I might just do that arm balance I’ve been working on for what seems like forever, and some days, child’s pose might be all I can muster, but either way, I will be here. And you’re welcome to stop in for a visit whenever you like because I'd really love to see you.
xxo.
Are you ready?
I suck at praying out loud.
I'm sure that's not what you were expecting, but bear with me, we'll get somewhere eventually...
I can pray all day every day just fine silently - long, meaningful, coherent conversations with God where I speak my heart so simply and so eloquently sometimes I surprise myself - but put me in a situation where I have to do that out loud and you would think I had some sort of stammer. Each stilted sentence punctuated with um and uh, I get anxiety right now just thinking about it.
A few years back, I decided that this was a problem and so, in typical momo face your fears head on fashion, I joined a prayer group. A prayer group, mind you, where all that we did the entire hour was... pray… out loud. For each other, and our families, for our struggles and our blessings. Talk about anxiety.
Every week before I went, I would pray that God would help me to be calm and give me the courage to be unafraid to speak to Him (in words and sentences that made any sense at all) out loud. And each week, I would sit in my chair praying even more fervently that I would not be the one that was picked to pray that day. That had to be the longest six months of my life.
In retrospect, I believe I have finally figured out my problem. You see, when I pray out loud, there is always another factor at play and that is that when I pray out loud, I am generally praying for someone else. And while I almost always pray for others when I pray silently - when it’s aloud - I somehow feel as if I open myself and my words and my delivery and my heart up for... judgment. How do I sound? Did I say enough? Did I say the right things?
Crazy, right? I mean think about it - would you ever think to judge anyone who freely offered to pray for you? I know I wouldn't. In fact, I would more likely be all - hey, could you do that a bit more, please, I could really use it right about now?!
I had an epiphany of sorts yesterday.
I have been talking about returning to blogging for ages. I’ve missed it terribly as I always seem to do not only my best thinking, but my best healing right here. I have opened my computer and tried more times in the last year than I can even count. I just cannot for the life of me seem to get past the first few words before frustration sets in and I hang it all up.
Yesterday’s post started that way.
An hour at my keyboard and I had little more than a paragraph to show for it. I typed, I read, I retyped, reread and suddenly, it hit me.
Blogging for me had become exactly like praying out loud.
In the early days of my blog, my audience was me. I wrote about things I cared about, things that were on my mind, my heart. The tone and cadence of my words effortlessly following the rhythm of the thoughts in my head, writing what was true for me.
But as time went on, and in particular as my life began to unravel a bit and then a lot, I found myself writing much less for me and much more for you. I felt pressure and expectation to be someone, to post something. What did you want to hear? Was I using grandiose enough words? How could I convince you that all was well? Were you going to judge me, criticize me, heaven forbid - feel pity for me?
But try as I might, and trust me, I did try for a while, none of it ever really sounded anything like – me.
When I am being true to myself, my writing is much less impressive… and much more like a conversation over coffee or on the trails, between me and a friend that there is no need to impress. My words are all mine, all me. Filled with emotion and inflection, laughter and truth, a few a-ha moments, a swear word now and then, and as my sweet little girl likes to say, a shit-ton of filler words.
I have been practicing yoga almost every day recently, and I love that idea – that we are always practicing. I can’t imagine what perfect yoga would look like but it seems about as unlikely for me as winning the powerball, so for now, I'll just continue to practice, two steps forward and a periodic step back.
Yesterday it hit me that maybe it's high time I implemented that same sort of grace into my writing as well.
Allowing my thoughts to take shape here makes me happy - happier than I think I even realized until recently. So, I am going to practice. Practicing praying outloud. Practice getting back to... me. Some days I might just do that arm balance I’ve been working on for what seems like forever, and some days, child’s pose might be all I can muster, but either way, I will be here. And you’re welcome to stop in for a visit whenever you like because I'd really love to see you.
xxo.
Wednesday, April 01, 2015
three hundred words a day. april 1.
Eleven years ago today, my father in law died. At the time, that day, April 1, ranked right up there with the day my mother passed away for the title of worst day ever. It was unimaginable really, in the span of just a few short years, I lost both my best friend and the man that next to my own father, was the most influential man in my life.
He was larger than life, always. In a world where most people can count their true friends on the fingers of one hand – I believe he would have had to use his toes and perhaps a borrowed digit or two. I loved him more than I can express and there is no doubt in my mind that he loved me, too. And although there could be times now and then when he could be grumpy and maybe just a bit gruff, somehow he understood me, and with me – he was always gentle, always patient, always kind.
He was larger than life, always. In a world where most people can count their true friends on the fingers of one hand – I believe he would have had to use his toes and perhaps a borrowed digit or two. I loved him more than I can express and there is no doubt in my mind that he loved me, too. And although there could be times now and then when he could be grumpy and maybe just a bit gruff, somehow he understood me, and with me – he was always gentle, always patient, always kind.
I went to yoga this morning, my heart and head were filled with him, with memories both good and sad, and I sensed I needed the stillness that yoga often provides me. Midway through, Billy Joel’s Only the Good Die Young began to play, and as the tears streamed unchecked down my face, I smiled and I knew - beyond a shadow of a doubt - that he saw my grief and the best he could, in a way he knew I would understand, he was letting me know it was ok.
Anniversaries can be funny things sometimes. We want to remember the easy ones - the birth days, the weddings, the graduations and promotions. And yet, for me it is the difficult ones, the deaths, the losses, the dissolutions, that seem to carry the most weight. They help me to remember, and to an extent – they are helping my grief because it seems that it is that remembering that is allowing me to heal.
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