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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

three hundred words a day. august 28. on anger.

The anger sets in, infiltrating every fiber of my being – every cell, every molecule, every space in between – it catches me off guard. What is this? This… emotion? It is as black as night and as thick as smoke. It envelopes me, so deeply that I cannot get clear, I cannot breathe, no matter how hard I try.

But, how?

I am a peaceful woman. It has been a process, a growth, a learning these days gone by, and each day I get closer. Each day I remind myself… patience. Each day I practice… love. Each day I remember… the greatest gift is to forgive.

Have I been here before? Back when? Back before my days were filled with breath and yoga and affirmation and prayer?

I don’t think so.

I recall anger with my sisters, the meaningless, monotonous sibling tug and pull that ends in tears and yelling and inevitably an I love you.

I remember anger in young adulthood, irritation over a perceived wrong, frustration over my lack of control. He said, she said, ever the same.

And I have felt anger as a woman, hormone-fueled indignant rage whose catalysts, unsurprisingly, today I find hard to recall.

But, this anger?

No. This anger is new. This anger for what has been taken and not given, this anger - it roils and boils like a tornado inside as my heart, my soul, my very being threaten to implode with its might. This anger, it is beyond comprehension, beyond description. How can this be?

My own words, they fail me.

You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise...
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise. - Maya Angelou

purpose

Today on facebook, I posted a thought...
 

this weekend on super soul sunday on own, oprah interviewed steven pressfield - they were discussing finding your purpose in life and a couple of questions you can ask yourself to uncover what yours might be. like... what are you afraid of more than anything in the whole world? and... what would you do if you knew you were going to die in three months? what would you do if fear was not a factor, if money were not a factor?

I've been thinking about these questions for a long time.  I've discussed them over and over again, with friends, with family, here.  I've posed grand and lofty aspirations - to donate my time, to write a book - as well as the more down to earth desires - to be the best mom I can be, to make a difference.

And while I sometimes feel I am making progress, with the exception of maybe the book idea, some days I know I'm falling way short.  Are my expectations of what I should be doing in line with where I am in my life?  And even more so... are we all even called to a higher purpose?  Is simply being the best me I can be right now enough?  Because believe me when I tell you - oftentimes the best me takes a tremendous amount of work. 

I decided that since I asked the questions, fully expecting a response or two, it would be unfair of me not to post an answer myself.  And, since I have never been a woman of few words - you'll get my answers, and my thoughts... here. 

What am I afraid of more than anything in the world?

After much soul searching, I've realized there are two things I am most fearful of and they actually go hand in hand.  My greatest fear is being alone.  Being left...  alone.  I don't believe I realized the full magnitude of this fear until my momma passed away, and it was only recently that it has begun to make any sense to me.

My mother was my closest friend, my sole confidant.  The only person I trusted with me - my fears, my true thoughts, my feelings - both the good and the not so good.  She my rock, and when she died, well, the only thing I can say is that it felt as if something in me died that day too.  I look back and I realize that slowly, from that day forward, I put a padlock on my heart.  If you don't let yourself really love, you won't get hurt.  If you push away the ones that want to love you, it won't hurt as much when they leave anyway.  Borne out of fear and a desire to protect myself, I am certain, and yet - inevitably leaving me exactly where I feared the most.  Alone.

My second greatest fear is disappointing those people in my life that I care for.  As a child, I hated to disappoint my parents, I didn't want them to be mad at me, so much so that I was that child.  You know, the agreeable one?  The perfect one?  Never in trouble, always over achieving?  Yes, that was me. 

As I got older, that fear of disappointing got me into a few more messes than I would like to admit.  With friends, with family, with Big J.  I've gone along with what others wanted.  I've been in friendships I had no business being in.  I responded with words that I didn't really believe, just so you wouldn't be angry.  Wouldn't be disappointed.  Would like me.  Wouldn't leave me.  Alone.

See the connection? 

What would you do if you knew you were going to die in three months?

This question is always a difficult one to answer - there are so many things I'd love to do in my lifetime.  I would love to travel more, visit Europe and take my littles to Greece.  I would love to run the Grand Canyon.  I would love to go to the Super Bowl, preferably when the Colts are playing.  I would love to lay on a white sand beach for an entire week with a good book or ten.

But the truth is that, given just three more months - I would simply do what I fear most... love.

I would love my family and my friends.  I would call my sisters every day, and spend time with my littles.  I would laugh with them and hold them close enough to feel their hearts beat.  I would sing more, stress less, speak my truth and say no a tad bit more often.  I would be present in each and every moment, and never ever speak of when or what-if. 

And just maybe start on that book I keep threatening to write.

Simple, really.  

What would you do if fear or money were not a factor?

With nothing to fear and all the money in the world?  I have been thinking about this for more than a few hours now since first posting the question, and still the first and only thing that comes to mind is that I would do exactly what I would do if I had only three months to live.

Just... love.

Maybe we are not all called to some higher purpose in life.  I know I will never be the next Mother Teresa, I will certainly never be President, or raise a gazillion dollars to build schools in Africa.  What I do know is that stripped of the extraneous, stripped of the busy noise that surrounds each of us every day, stripped of my fear of being alone and disappointing - my first thoughts on waking and my last thoughts at night and countless in between are about those I love and care for.  My people.

And if I really think about it, maybe that's all there needs to be to my purpose right now.  Maybe it doesn't have to pressure filled or grand at all.  Maybe for me, its just all about opening myself up to love, about not holding back or being afraid and doing as my friend Kristine suggests... simply enjoying the ride. 

xoxo,
momo

thirty days with a grateful heart. day nineteen.

day nineteen.  o holy night.

I love Glee.

I even love this season when things are all discombobulated and there are a gazillion new characters and I'm having a really hard time figuring out where they're going storyline-wise, anyone else??

I either laugh or cry with each episode, I mean, seriously - there's so much going on - but with.out.fail - I sing.  Oftentimes at the top of my lungs to the great annoyance of anyone who happens to be watching along with me.

Lately, though, I've taken to recording it and watching it by myself while the house is quiet during the day, simply to avoid the inevitable begging and pleading from the littles... will you please stop singing???

Just recently, I watched one of the shows I had taped and although it is past Christmas, and the title of the episode, Swan Song, doesn't really sound Christmasy at all - imagine my i-lovelovelove-christmas-nusic delight when Rachel sang O Holy Night.

Sooooo good.

It made me wish I could sing like that just once in my life.  And grateful, since me becoming a singing diva is about as likely as hell freezing over, that I can at least listen to her do it.  On Glee.   Over and over again.  As many times as I like thanks to the magic of Direct TV.

Have you seen the Grease episode?

xoxo,
momo



thirty days with a grateful heart. day eighteen.

day eighteen.  morning, momo!

This girl and me, we have history. 

 



History that spans decades.  And friendships.  And believe it or not, men.

In the beginning, I was a little afraid of her.  Some of our history made it that way. 

And then one day, we sat on the beach, just the two of us, talking, and I realized just how very much I wanted her in my life.  Needed her in my life.

Partly because she made me laugh, like pee my pants kind of laughing. 

Partly because she is no drama, ever.  And in a town where drama reigns supreme, she is an anomaly.

Partly because she's so damn cute, I mean look at her.  I just want to squeeze her.

Partly because I can tell her anything and she will never judge me.  Ever.

Partly because she lets me wear her clothes.  And omg, are they cool! 

Partly because, every single morning for years, she has greeted me via text with morning, momo!  Every single morning. For years.

Partly because she believed in me when I needed someone to believe in me.

But mostly I love her just because she just gets me.  Really gets me.

And for that, I will be ever grateful.

I love you, Murph.  Marry me?  ;)

xoxo,
momo

thirty days with a grateful heart. day seventeen.

day seventeen.  out of the mouth of babes.

There are days when I, like most parents, think my littles have to have been abducted by aliens, their actions so contrary to what I know I have spent their lifetimes trying to teach them. 

Sometimes I just want to pull my hair out, I get so incredibly frustrated, wondering why, oh why do they not understand?  Why do they not see?

And just when I think I must be at the very end of my rope with them, they do something that surprises me.  That encourages me.  That gives me... hope that they will be the compassionate and loving adults I have taught them to be.

It is on days like that, on days like Christmas, when for the first time ever, my littles gave me a gift that they not only sought out, but purchased and wrapped all on their own.  And when that gift is opened, it reveals the truth.  That what I have been hoping and praying for, for them, for so many years, has become reality.

They see. 

But not only do they see, they also get... me.  Which, in my humble opinion, is more than any parent could ever hope for, don't you agree?

I am...
capable
acceptable
forgivable
valuable
lovable

I am... enough.

So grateful for their lesson today, my friends.  Merry Christmas.

xoxo,
momo

thirty days with a grateful heart. day sixteen.

day sixteen.  talking 'bout my guy.

Last year, during my thirty days, I wrote about my dad. 

I wrote about what an incredible father he has been to me, what an incredible husband and grandfather and patriot and friend.

I wrote about how much I love him and how proud I am, every day, to be his daughter.

I wrote about the lessons he has taught me, about love and commitment.  And about the values he instilled in me, like honesty and integrity and kindness and loyalty.

I wrote about the way he loved my mother, with his entire heart and soul.  And about how he cared for her when she was dying, with gentleness and patience and gratitude for her presence in his life.

All those things are no less true today than they were last year.  If anything, the feelings and emotions I have for my father have been magnified by his gentle presence by my side these last few months.

Because even at this age, I am still learning new lessons from him.  Lessons about love.  About family.  About parenting.  And patience. 

I cannot even begin to express how grateful I am for him and for his belief in me - especially lately when there have been more than a few moments when I haven't really had much faith in myself.

Thank you, daddy.  You are my heart.

xoxo,
momo

thirty days with a grateful heart. day fifteen.

day fifteen.  angels we have heard on high.

 

 

Every year, my mother would purchase three Christmas ornaments.  They were always angels and there were always three of them.  I don't believe my sisters and I put two and two together, at least I know I did not, until my father decorated his Christmas tree for the first time after she passed away.

 

He pulled the angels out, divided them up, and gave each of my sisters and me a box. 

 

She'd been buying them for us. 

 

One for each of us. 

 

Every single year.

 

We do that, you know.  Mommas.  We do... things for our children that they never even realize we are doing.  Some big, some small.  Some obvious.  Some not so.  My momma's angels were one of those things.

 

Without really discussing it, my sisters and I have continued the tradition.  One year, Teresa bought them. A few years, Crista.  Last year I bought ceramic angels for the three of us - with hair painted the color of each of our own.  We never discuss whose turn it is.  We never even really talk about it, but every single year, there are always three new angels.

This year, I didn't forget, exactly.  I thought about them.  I thought as the oldest, I should buy them this year, it might make me feel better.  I even went as far as to put three angels into my cart from a store online.  I just... never completed the purchase. 

I don't know why exactly.  Maybe I figured it wasn't so bad if we skipped a year.  Maybe I figured we all had so much going on that they might forget this year too, and that would be ok, I mean - its not like this year is all that... normal, you know?

But, my sisters?  They didn't forget.  No, they wouldn't forget. 

So thankful.  So grateful, for this beautiful angel that came in the mail when I needed her most, but even more so today for those other angels my momma left me, my sisters. 

xoxo,
momo

thirty days with a grateful heart. day fourteen.

day fourteen.  the white house.

I love running in the Phoenix Mountain Preserve, the pmp, as we affectionately call it, because there is so much wonderful running to be had.  Flats and climbs and rocks and sand, you can literally (and I have) run for hours back in there and incredibly enough, you're also smack dab in the heart of the city. 

And although each of the trails has an actual name I believe, as I've run with friends back there, I've learned the local nicknames as well.  We have jj out and back and the rachel loop and honey ridge  and reunion point, the devil's backbone and four peaks.  I love them all, but for some reason, the white house holds a special place in my heart.

Just to the east of the first peak off the 32nd street trail, high up in the preserve is this white house.  I don't think anyone lives there now, and she just sits up on a mountain by herself - acting as somewhat of a landmark to runners who might not be sure which way to turn once they're inside the preserve.

We don't run that way very often unfortunately, but on days when I want a little extra mileage or days when I just need to clear my head a bit - I head up her way. 

Maybe it is the little climb up to where she is.  Maybe it is that suddenly the air seems a little bit clearer once you're there.

Whatever it is - her magic always does the trick - and today was no exception. 

Grateful.

xoxo,
momo

thirty days with a grateful heart. day thirteen.

day thirteen.  the thinker.

Little J is my thinker. 

With a worldview that tends toward the black and white. 

And as much as I would like to believe that he is just like me, that the apple doesn't fall far from the proverbial tree, in this respect, we differ a bit.

But when we disagree, when the possibility looms that the differences between us could begin to create a wedge, that is when I do what I must do, as his mother, and... step back.

Take a deep breath, and listen.  Validate, and respect.

And simply assure him that no matter what he says, no matter how it hurts, no matter how we may disagree, no matter what - that I love him, that I am ever grateful for him, that his place, in my heart, is safe. 

And maybe, in the end, that is all he really needs to know.

xoxo,
momo

thirty days with a grateful heart. day twelve.

day twelve.  thanks for the memories.

This ornament was given to me many years ago by someone who is not speaking to me any longer.

Sadly, sometimes that happens in divorce.  A couple splits and for whatever reason, friends and family feel that they need to choose a side. 

Perhaps it is to show their loyalty?  Or perhaps its just easier that way, to align yourself with a side, Team Momo or Team Johnny, and play judge, jury and executioner.

I don't understand it and I won't pretend that I do.  

Over the years, I have had friends who have divorced and although my natural tendency would obviously be to gravitate toward one or the other, I would like to believe I have never, would never, be intentionally... hurtful.  Intentionally... absent. 

But it happens.  And it has happened. 

And try as I might to make it otherwise, I guess in the end all I can do is accept it.

What I find incredible however, is that no one knows my side of the story just as no one can fully know Johnny's.  Neither of us is fully right, as neither of us is fully wrong.  Fully culpable nor fully innocent. 

So, how can you judge?  Why should you judge?

And, just so we're clear, you will never hear the whole story from me, neither here nor in any other public forum simply because, it is private.  It is my business, as it is Johnny's business.  Not yours and certainly not facebook's. 

The bottom line is not who was right or who was wrong., who said what, who didn't say, who did what or who didn't do.  No, the bottom line and the only thing that matters is our littles, and our combined attempt to salvage our ability to remain good parents.

The truth of the matter is that not only am I Team Momo, I am also Team Johnny.  I want his happiness.  I want him to find his joy.  Just as I desperately want those things for not only myself, but our littles as well.  The rest?  Well the rest is just... noise.

So, I will let you choose if you must.  I will let you judge if you think you have any right whatsoever.

And today I will simply be grateful for those who have not.  

xoxo,
momo

thirty days with a grateful heart. day eleven.

day eleven.  wednesday girls.

A few months ago, I started meeting a few sweet girls on Wednesday mornings to run the trails by my house. 

Initially it was simply because my girl, Jill, wanted to learn to trail run.

Although now it has become somewhat of a lifeline for me.  A safe place with just one non-negotiable ground rule - what is said on the trail stays on the trail. 

It is funny how I can spend years trying to build friendships with people, trying to connect in some meaningful and important way, but then I get out with them on the road or on the trail, where we have nothing to prove and all the time in the world, and suddenly they are simply... part of me.

I've had a few of them over the years.  My runner girls.  Women with whom I have shared miles and miles of joys as well as great sorrows with.  And even though we may not be running at all together now - they are as much a part of my soul as running itself. 

I am grateful for the time I had with those girls then. Just as I am grateful for my time with my Wednesday girls now.

And even more grateful that my Wednesday girls became Sunday girls and spent some time with some wine and me yesterday. 

Truly, truly grateful.

xoxo,
momo