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.
Showing posts with label three hundred. Show all posts
Showing posts with label three hundred. Show all posts
Thursday, April 09, 2015
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.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
three hundred words, give or take. october 24.
Awhile back, I began writing to my momma. I've never really been good at journaling, so I figured if I tried it in the context of private letters to someone I love and trust most, perhaps it might be easier.
if you were here, i'd talk to you about these things. i'd tell you how i was feeling. i'd love to say i would be completely, one hundred percent honest, but there are some things i don't know that i'd even share with you, momma, as much as i love and trust you. are human beings made to share their souls that way? is that why people go to confession? to purge out the bad and to share it with someone else? what if you purge it and yet you keep feeling the same things over and over? is that insanity? or is that just human nature? to want to share our bad with someone so it doesn't feel so bad? i wonder.
Truth? It really wasn't easier.
As I would write, I would force myself not to rewrite. Not to sugar coat. Not to spell check or grammar check or worry about a reaction. Just who are we when we don't have to worry about what other people think?
i have things to say. things that, if you were alive, i would only tell you. things that are good. things that are not so good. things that i need to share. i guess since you're not here, i'm going to have to do it this way. maybe one day i will share this. maybe one day i can put it out there so that the kids can know my heart. then again, maybe not. maybe only you and God need to know what will come in these pages. maybe that's enough. maybe the simple act of writing, of writing my feelings down, my thoughts, my fears, will be enough. maybe it will allow me to move past where i am right now, which when i'm honest with myself, is stuck. stuck in the past. stuck and afraid to go forward because going forward is going to take some work. i think deep down, i'm afraid how hard that will be. how much it will expose. like how i feel about myself. like what i think - truly - about things. like what i want for my life. for my kids lives. those decisions are hard. they require thought and strength and faith. sometimes i feel like i don't have any of that at all.
I like to read back periodically through what I have written, to see where I was then. What my mood was, how I was feeling. To gauge progress and see how things have changed. Or, more commonly really, how they had not.
i hope that through this process, i can learn to feel, to hope, to heal, to love.
There has been such turmoil and upheaval these past few months, such an uncertain and fearful time. So much unknown. So many decisions to be made. And yet, through all the sadness and through all of that grief, I am struck by the realization that things have indeed, and permanently now, changed.
Perhaps the journaling was a good thing. Perhaps being able to speak, uncensored, even though it went nowhere and I received no feedback except to be able to see my thoughts in the bright light of day, was important. Kind of like therapy but without the other person. Or the expense.
What I am finding though, is that it is through that change, this change in me, in my circumstances, in my entire life - that I believe I am finally learning to... let go. to loose control. to accept responsibility. to forgive. to be strong. to believe in me. to move forward. to feel. to hope. to heal.
And perhaps eventually? Well, perhaps eventually, to love.
But let's not get ahead of ourselves.
xo,
momo
if you were here, i'd talk to you about these things. i'd tell you how i was feeling. i'd love to say i would be completely, one hundred percent honest, but there are some things i don't know that i'd even share with you, momma, as much as i love and trust you. are human beings made to share their souls that way? is that why people go to confession? to purge out the bad and to share it with someone else? what if you purge it and yet you keep feeling the same things over and over? is that insanity? or is that just human nature? to want to share our bad with someone so it doesn't feel so bad? i wonder.
Truth? It really wasn't easier.
As I would write, I would force myself not to rewrite. Not to sugar coat. Not to spell check or grammar check or worry about a reaction. Just who are we when we don't have to worry about what other people think?
i have things to say. things that, if you were alive, i would only tell you. things that are good. things that are not so good. things that i need to share. i guess since you're not here, i'm going to have to do it this way. maybe one day i will share this. maybe one day i can put it out there so that the kids can know my heart. then again, maybe not. maybe only you and God need to know what will come in these pages. maybe that's enough. maybe the simple act of writing, of writing my feelings down, my thoughts, my fears, will be enough. maybe it will allow me to move past where i am right now, which when i'm honest with myself, is stuck. stuck in the past. stuck and afraid to go forward because going forward is going to take some work. i think deep down, i'm afraid how hard that will be. how much it will expose. like how i feel about myself. like what i think - truly - about things. like what i want for my life. for my kids lives. those decisions are hard. they require thought and strength and faith. sometimes i feel like i don't have any of that at all.
I like to read back periodically through what I have written, to see where I was then. What my mood was, how I was feeling. To gauge progress and see how things have changed. Or, more commonly really, how they had not.
i hope that through this process, i can learn to feel, to hope, to heal, to love.
There has been such turmoil and upheaval these past few months, such an uncertain and fearful time. So much unknown. So many decisions to be made. And yet, through all the sadness and through all of that grief, I am struck by the realization that things have indeed, and permanently now, changed.
Perhaps the journaling was a good thing. Perhaps being able to speak, uncensored, even though it went nowhere and I received no feedback except to be able to see my thoughts in the bright light of day, was important. Kind of like therapy but without the other person. Or the expense.
What I am finding though, is that it is through that change, this change in me, in my circumstances, in my entire life - that I believe I am finally learning to... let go. to loose control. to accept responsibility. to forgive. to be strong. to believe in me. to move forward. to feel. to hope. to heal.
And perhaps eventually? Well, perhaps eventually, to love.
But let's not get ahead of ourselves.
xo,
momo
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
three hundred words a day. on change.
life is change. growth is optional. choose wisely.
If you glance at my facebook profile, right beneath my name, birth date, phone number and all the other about me stuff that you likely never really look at - you will see that quote.
life is change.
Change. A universal truth. Not one thing in our world today is as it was yesterday, from the sun in the sky to the teensiest cells in our body.
But if change happens, if I know there is no escaping it, no running from it, no denying the inevitable, then why, oh why, do I have such a hard time with it? Why does the hair stand up on my back with the simplest mention of change? Why do I look away, avoid, pretend its not happening at all?
Perhaps it is because that with change, there almost always comes a decision. Left or right? Yes or no? Stay or go?
What if I choose wrong? What if I should have zigged when I was supposed to zag? Ran when I was supposed to walk?
growth is optional.
Maybe it is not so much about the actual decision itself. Maybe for me, what I eventually decide is less important than having been able to make the decision at all.
For most of my adult life, I've given my choosing to others. To my mother, to co-workers, to family and friends. My family often teases me that when presented with a decision, I used to smile sweetly, shrug and say simply, ok.
Growth was optional then. For me. No choices means no responsibility. No accountability. Never taking the credit but also - never assuming the blame.
I changed. I cannot pinpoint when it happened, and it has caught me somewhat by surprise, I would have you know. But I have. I have changed.
Because no longer do I fear the change. No longer do I fear the growth. No, now, my greatest hope is that I can simply...
choose wisely.
life is change.
Change. A universal truth. Not one thing in our world today is as it was yesterday, from the sun in the sky to the teensiest cells in our body.
But if change happens, if I know there is no escaping it, no running from it, no denying the inevitable, then why, oh why, do I have such a hard time with it? Why does the hair stand up on my back with the simplest mention of change? Why do I look away, avoid, pretend its not happening at all?
Perhaps it is because that with change, there almost always comes a decision. Left or right? Yes or no? Stay or go?
What if I choose wrong? What if I should have zigged when I was supposed to zag? Ran when I was supposed to walk?
growth is optional.
Maybe it is not so much about the actual decision itself. Maybe for me, what I eventually decide is less important than having been able to make the decision at all.
For most of my adult life, I've given my choosing to others. To my mother, to co-workers, to family and friends. My family often teases me that when presented with a decision, I used to smile sweetly, shrug and say simply, ok.
Growth was optional then. For me. No choices means no responsibility. No accountability. Never taking the credit but also - never assuming the blame.
I changed. I cannot pinpoint when it happened, and it has caught me somewhat by surprise, I would have you know. But I have. I have changed.
Because no longer do I fear the change. No longer do I fear the growth. No, now, my greatest hope is that I can simply...
choose wisely.
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