One thing I am afraid of: walking into a dark room. From time to time, I wonder why it's so scary to walk into a dark room: if there is something hidden in my past that I've suppressed that's caused it, or if it's a common, normal "survival instinct" kind of thing. Most of the time, I just make sure I know where the lights are, and that enough of the space will be lit up enough for me to get through.
Hallways don't normally bother me, unless I'm unsure of whether there is a room along the way. Yeah, that's right, a long, narrow dark space doesn't bother me nearly as much as a big dark square that occupies the same mathematical area. (Fears don't always make sense, you know!) And the other oddity about this particular fear is that if I wake up in the middle of the night, walking into or through a dark room usually does not bother me. I know I am not afraid of the dark, just dark rooms.
From the time my parents first left us home alone without a babysitter, I've known this fear. Going to bed after dark meant walking through one dark room, and past three others--four, if the hall closet was open. I would leave the light on in the family room where I would have been watching TV, and turn on the kitchen light. Then I would go back and turn off the light in the family room. Next, I would go to the end of the hall, past the Living Room, and turn the light on there; then backtrack and turn off the kitchen light. I would leapfrog all the way to my room this way--a process that involved 8 light switches (ons and offs) just to get to my room.
In our current house, it's only occasionally a problem, because there are two streetlights that seem to take care of the problem for me most of the time. Once, at the dance studio where I worked, I was asked to go into the front of the building to get a bag of costumes. I made it as far as the door. When I opened it and saw how dark the room was, I had to turn back. I didn't know where the light switch was, or how big the room really was. I just couldn't do it.
I have a similar fear of open closet doors while I'm sleeping. Literally, I cannot get to sleep if a closet door is open. All my life. When we were first married, I told Guy about it, and, the wonderful man that he is, he has always remembered to close them if he sees one open. He's the only one I had ever told, which actually did lead to at least a couple of restless nights away from home with friends or relatives. Then, one night, in a hotel or something, my brother made a point of closing a closet door near bedtime. Our eyes met, and he said, "I know I'd never be able to sleep with that open." I remember laughing and saying that I have that trouble, too! Although it felt good to know I was not alone in my fear, it did make me wonder what could have made us both, with 12 years between us, have the same fear.
Being embarrassed about this fear of dark rooms never occurred to me, but being afraid of doors open to dark closets did. I wonder why that is almost as much as I wonder why I have the fears in the first place. Yet I see no reason to "fix" it. I just turn on lights when I need to, and turn back if I have to. Much the way I deal with the other stuff in life that comes at me. And sometimes, I get a flashlight.
Friday, August 31, 2012
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
fears: part 1 : a corollary
A dear friend reminded me that there is a distinction between being "alone" and being "lonely," and that "it's not uncommon for people to feel lonely when surrounded by others." My response: "I have been lonely, and I did not like it one bit--that's when I decided I needed to be me enough to like being around me. It's made a world of difference. And I no longer feel like I need to make excuses about being alone."
The fact of the matter is, I have been so lonely at times that I have been concerned about my own behavior. I remember the times growing up when I felt so lonely, I didn't know what could possibly make me feel like I belong anywhere. The friend I just mentioned was actually one of the reasons I could decide to like myself. Thanks to her, and a few other key people in my life when I've hit those lonely times, I have the strength to be happy today.
Loneliness is inevitable. We all get lonely for various reasons, some of which seem real and important to others, and some which seem trivial. Even if the fear of being alone is really a fear of loneliness, I do not fear it. I can face it. Head on. I do not use loneliness, or the fear of it, as an excuse for my behavior--or misbehavior--in any given situation. Feeling lonely in a group, whether a crowd or a couple, happens, and hurts. A lot or a little is irrelevant; hurt is hurt, and sometimes is accidental and can't be helped. (I seem to remember discussing this in one of my classes.....) I tend to use that loneliness to learn about myself, and to determine what's important to me.
However, feeling loneliness, and having no idea how to cope with it, is a sign that you need to find some help. Seek out a friend, a confidante, a bartender, a stranger at a bus stop, and talk to them. Get a referral for therapy. Something and someone to help you be better able to handle those times. But for heaven's sake, choose someone appropriate--someone who does not become something to hide behind, someone you use to just plain prevent loneliness or being alone. Please, get some real help with overcoming, or at the very least, dealing with, that debilitating fear.
The fact of the matter is, I have been so lonely at times that I have been concerned about my own behavior. I remember the times growing up when I felt so lonely, I didn't know what could possibly make me feel like I belong anywhere. The friend I just mentioned was actually one of the reasons I could decide to like myself. Thanks to her, and a few other key people in my life when I've hit those lonely times, I have the strength to be happy today.
Loneliness is inevitable. We all get lonely for various reasons, some of which seem real and important to others, and some which seem trivial. Even if the fear of being alone is really a fear of loneliness, I do not fear it. I can face it. Head on. I do not use loneliness, or the fear of it, as an excuse for my behavior--or misbehavior--in any given situation. Feeling lonely in a group, whether a crowd or a couple, happens, and hurts. A lot or a little is irrelevant; hurt is hurt, and sometimes is accidental and can't be helped. (I seem to remember discussing this in one of my classes.....) I tend to use that loneliness to learn about myself, and to determine what's important to me.
However, feeling loneliness, and having no idea how to cope with it, is a sign that you need to find some help. Seek out a friend, a confidante, a bartender, a stranger at a bus stop, and talk to them. Get a referral for therapy. Something and someone to help you be better able to handle those times. But for heaven's sake, choose someone appropriate--someone who does not become something to hide behind, someone you use to just plain prevent loneliness or being alone. Please, get some real help with overcoming, or at the very least, dealing with, that debilitating fear.
Monday, August 27, 2012
fears: pt 1
I've had a couple of people tell me somewhat recently that what they are most afraid of is being alone. While I try to be sympathetic, I simply do not share this fear at all. I don't remember ever having this particular fear--I've always been perfectly happy to be on my own; a trait that seems to make other people crazy from time to time. Interestingly, most of these same people are those who do not enjoy my company. I've often wondered why it matters to them that I would rather sit by myself and read a book than make small talk about nothing in particular.
There have been some who have tried to call me "anti-social," but it's not that at all. I just prefer to get to know people on my own terms. Observation and intuition are my tools, and have not lead me astray often. Many times, I have told my husband or my kids, "Watch out for that one....." Not once have I been wrong when I've made that warning. Occasionally, I have been fooled by "the sociopath next door," but in that, few of us are alone. Really, if I want to get to know you, I will, but most likely it'll be because you don't bug me.
Some situations make it especially difficult for me to want to be chatty and social. My husband is a rather public figure, and as such, people tend to think they know him when they only know one side of him. When they see me, they frequently have made assumptions about what I must be like, and the fact that I generally defy those expectations doesn't really sit well. For the most part, when I consider my good friends, I see that they are the type that don't postulate in advance; rather, they take in what they see, and piece others together based upon that substance. My friends are people I admire for that practice.
Back to being alone.....
Rather than fear the silence around me or within my being, I relish it! When I am alone in my home or car, I blast the music, sing along, and dance when I can. I realize that what people fear is the greater Alone. The one that we can capitalize because it means "with no one," and uses the greater "with." For that, I take my cue from my Gramma Katie. She was a widow for as long as my siblings and I knew her. She never missed anything! She went places, listened to Paul Harvey (and debated with him in her kitchen!), made me promise when I left for college never to get old. She invited herself to the weddings and funerals held at the church a few blocks from her home--she didn't know anyone, but she had a wonderful time witnessing the joy, and managed to soothe herself sharing in the sorrow. Once I asked her why she never had a boyfriend or got married after Grampa Henry died. She told me there were two reasons: "I never needed to; never felt like I was alone. And besides, when I told him that if anything ever happened to me, I thought he should remarry, he said, 'Thanks,' and never told me the same!" She believed in ghosts, you see...
Not only have I tried to live up to my promise, I have also made sure that I am a person I like to be around. If there comes a time when I find myself alone, I am confident that I will not feel Alone. I have fantastic friends (and plenty of them!) to help me through whatever sorrow may come my way, but I would be fine on my own. And, as I learned from Gramma Katie, I have also 'given permission' to my husband, should he need to thwart the feared Alone, to move forward and find someone else. [He assures me of statistics, which appeal to my logical mind! haha]
There have been some who have tried to call me "anti-social," but it's not that at all. I just prefer to get to know people on my own terms. Observation and intuition are my tools, and have not lead me astray often. Many times, I have told my husband or my kids, "Watch out for that one....." Not once have I been wrong when I've made that warning. Occasionally, I have been fooled by "the sociopath next door," but in that, few of us are alone. Really, if I want to get to know you, I will, but most likely it'll be because you don't bug me.
Some situations make it especially difficult for me to want to be chatty and social. My husband is a rather public figure, and as such, people tend to think they know him when they only know one side of him. When they see me, they frequently have made assumptions about what I must be like, and the fact that I generally defy those expectations doesn't really sit well. For the most part, when I consider my good friends, I see that they are the type that don't postulate in advance; rather, they take in what they see, and piece others together based upon that substance. My friends are people I admire for that practice.
Back to being alone.....
Rather than fear the silence around me or within my being, I relish it! When I am alone in my home or car, I blast the music, sing along, and dance when I can. I realize that what people fear is the greater Alone. The one that we can capitalize because it means "with no one," and uses the greater "with." For that, I take my cue from my Gramma Katie. She was a widow for as long as my siblings and I knew her. She never missed anything! She went places, listened to Paul Harvey (and debated with him in her kitchen!), made me promise when I left for college never to get old. She invited herself to the weddings and funerals held at the church a few blocks from her home--she didn't know anyone, but she had a wonderful time witnessing the joy, and managed to soothe herself sharing in the sorrow. Once I asked her why she never had a boyfriend or got married after Grampa Henry died. She told me there were two reasons: "I never needed to; never felt like I was alone. And besides, when I told him that if anything ever happened to me, I thought he should remarry, he said, 'Thanks,' and never told me the same!" She believed in ghosts, you see...
Not only have I tried to live up to my promise, I have also made sure that I am a person I like to be around. If there comes a time when I find myself alone, I am confident that I will not feel Alone. I have fantastic friends (and plenty of them!) to help me through whatever sorrow may come my way, but I would be fine on my own. And, as I learned from Gramma Katie, I have also 'given permission' to my husband, should he need to thwart the feared Alone, to move forward and find someone else. [He assures me of statistics, which appeal to my logical mind! haha]
Friday, August 24, 2012
two more days
For a year now, my friends and I have been talking about this day. The day we pack the car to take our oldest off to college. (When I say "we," I mean "our son") Many of my friends have already taken that drive, and are now looking at us knowingly; some offering words of wisdom, some telling us what to expect, some gracefully showing their own range of emotions without expecting ours to be the same. It reminds me of another, somehow similar, time in our lives with Jonathan.
As our firstborn, everything about him was so much more unknown. Each stage of pregnancy, every piece of furniture bought, even the types of diapers we looked at all came with so much well-intentioned advice. Some we listened to, and some we later laughed about, and in the end, when it was someone else's first time, we couldn't help sharing our own thoughts. It's part of life, of being the social animals we are, to share what we experience, and sometimes to feel a bit like an expert when we've been through some right of passage.
It's events like this that make me think most of Dad. It used to hurt some (some?? Did I just say, "some?" Because it used to hurt like hell to have Dad come to mind when an Event came up!) when these kinds of milestones occurred. In all honesty, yesterday I just happened to think that Dad was pretty excited about me going off to college all those years ago, and maybe that's why I can be more excited than worried, nervous or upset. Probably it's just because I'm me, and it hasn't hit me yet. My style of anticipation is a little more dramatic--I tend to foresee the stuff that couldn't possibly happen, and put off the more "real" stuff until I actually go through it. At any rate, last night on my way home, when I hit a red light, it suddenly hit me that within a few days, we'd be driving away from him at college.
We laugh at the thought of parents who don't know how to leave their kids rooms after unpacking, and I have to admit, I was a little saddened that there were no activities or festivities planned for the parents on move-in day. But today, while listening to a good friend talk about dropping his son off, and how it affected him, I realized a common theme that Guy and I share: we've never experienced this before--from either direction. Guy was a commuter student, and lived at home. My parents did not drop me off at school: I insisted that my boyfriend take me, and no one argued the point. I, we, don't know what it's like to say good-bye to a parent in a dorm room, so how could we possibly know what we are doing? Frankly, I'm now a little freaked.
I still firmly believe this is the next chapter; simply a page turning on the beginning of a fantastic adventure. But what if I do turn out to be "The Most Attached Parent" and his roommate and his parents think I'm nuts?? (Well, more nuts than I really am; which is actually quite endearing, I'm told.) What if I don't have enough emotion, and Jonathan thinks we're glad to be rid of him? Where is my example?? Years ago, Dad and I had a talk about this very same subject. He had reached an age older than any of his male relatives, and he didn't know how to "be." I remember telling him that he'd been doing a mighty fine job thus far, and I knew he could just keep being himself. He promised to give that a go.
There are times now when I wonder if he prayed for the strength to be himself, as I do now. The following years, he considered to be life's gravy. This weekend, I will be myself; I will give it a go and hope for the best.
Good luck, Jonathan. Fly high, with the wings we've given you.
As our firstborn, everything about him was so much more unknown. Each stage of pregnancy, every piece of furniture bought, even the types of diapers we looked at all came with so much well-intentioned advice. Some we listened to, and some we later laughed about, and in the end, when it was someone else's first time, we couldn't help sharing our own thoughts. It's part of life, of being the social animals we are, to share what we experience, and sometimes to feel a bit like an expert when we've been through some right of passage.
It's events like this that make me think most of Dad. It used to hurt some (some?? Did I just say, "some?" Because it used to hurt like hell to have Dad come to mind when an Event came up!) when these kinds of milestones occurred. In all honesty, yesterday I just happened to think that Dad was pretty excited about me going off to college all those years ago, and maybe that's why I can be more excited than worried, nervous or upset. Probably it's just because I'm me, and it hasn't hit me yet. My style of anticipation is a little more dramatic--I tend to foresee the stuff that couldn't possibly happen, and put off the more "real" stuff until I actually go through it. At any rate, last night on my way home, when I hit a red light, it suddenly hit me that within a few days, we'd be driving away from him at college.
We laugh at the thought of parents who don't know how to leave their kids rooms after unpacking, and I have to admit, I was a little saddened that there were no activities or festivities planned for the parents on move-in day. But today, while listening to a good friend talk about dropping his son off, and how it affected him, I realized a common theme that Guy and I share: we've never experienced this before--from either direction. Guy was a commuter student, and lived at home. My parents did not drop me off at school: I insisted that my boyfriend take me, and no one argued the point. I, we, don't know what it's like to say good-bye to a parent in a dorm room, so how could we possibly know what we are doing? Frankly, I'm now a little freaked.
I still firmly believe this is the next chapter; simply a page turning on the beginning of a fantastic adventure. But what if I do turn out to be "The Most Attached Parent" and his roommate and his parents think I'm nuts?? (Well, more nuts than I really am; which is actually quite endearing, I'm told.) What if I don't have enough emotion, and Jonathan thinks we're glad to be rid of him? Where is my example?? Years ago, Dad and I had a talk about this very same subject. He had reached an age older than any of his male relatives, and he didn't know how to "be." I remember telling him that he'd been doing a mighty fine job thus far, and I knew he could just keep being himself. He promised to give that a go.
There are times now when I wonder if he prayed for the strength to be himself, as I do now. The following years, he considered to be life's gravy. This weekend, I will be myself; I will give it a go and hope for the best.
Good luck, Jonathan. Fly high, with the wings we've given you.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
dare: the truth
Affirmation of honesty and truth. The real kind, that makes you realize just how lucky you are to have someone in your life--yet again! That's what I've had every day lately. The kind that makes you want to chest bump, high five--no high TEN! The kind that makes you feel like the women's beach volleyball teams when they scored (or the Australians whenever they finished a volley!) and makes you want to sing from a rooftop.
Yes, yesterday was the best day yet, finishing off even better than it started, and today has been that much sweeter. Feeling sappy, am I? Why, yes, I am, and I won't ever apologize for it! I've been literally handed proof that my husband is my rock, my love, my joy. My life is rich for the sweet honesty we share, and the example we can set for our children.
Would I trade any of my experiences? Not a chance--anymore! Each one has made me, molded me, formed me, into the strong, healthy and happy woman I am. And each one has been mortar for the stepping stones of my future.
Is honesty easy? No way. Is it worth the difficulty? Absolutely! Am I more in love today than I was yesterday, last week, last year? Oh, I am, and I wouldn't have it any other way. I've added a new prayer to my growing list: a prayer of deep thanksgiving for the life we have together, and for how it can withstand life's storms.
Yes, yesterday was the best day yet, finishing off even better than it started, and today has been that much sweeter. Feeling sappy, am I? Why, yes, I am, and I won't ever apologize for it! I've been literally handed proof that my husband is my rock, my love, my joy. My life is rich for the sweet honesty we share, and the example we can set for our children.
Would I trade any of my experiences? Not a chance--anymore! Each one has made me, molded me, formed me, into the strong, healthy and happy woman I am. And each one has been mortar for the stepping stones of my future.
Is honesty easy? No way. Is it worth the difficulty? Absolutely! Am I more in love today than I was yesterday, last week, last year? Oh, I am, and I wouldn't have it any other way. I've added a new prayer to my growing list: a prayer of deep thanksgiving for the life we have together, and for how it can withstand life's storms.
Monday, August 20, 2012
up that hill
We ran this morning, for the second time (yesterday being the first) in months. Pain in my foot and ankle, pain in his foot, weather excuses, summertime laziness, and a host of other obstacles have had us benched. I'm amazed, impressed and pleased with how good it felt to get out early and push ourselves a bit further than yesterday. Boy, did it feel good! At one point, though, when we had to walk out two stitches in my side, I found myself wondering how bad tomorrow would feel--mostly regarding sore muscles. Once again, I reminded myself that I only need enough for today. "Get me through this run, feeling good, and I'll be thankful; to my body, to God, and to my fantastic running mates." And so I am. As a bonus, I am already looking forward to getting even further tomorrow. I've missed our 3-mile mornings, and really want to build back to them.
There will certainly be days when we don't get out there, or when we just can't go as far, or it just plain hurts. That's okay. We're prepared: we're talking about the possibility, making plans for alternatives, for progressing naturally, for getting back on track. And taking it all day by day. Give us enough for today. That's been my mantra lately; replacing "Just breathe," since that was only getting me through, not helping me build. When I needed to breathe, I was in a different place. Staying afloat was a decent option. All these years later, I'm going for more--because I can! Not only is my support system different (read: stronger!), but my mindset is more open, yet more focused at the same time. (I know that's possible--I took a photography class--and the results are fantastic when the subject matter is right.)
Sweating out life's toxins is the best result of our runs. Running, talking, crying, laughing, yoga and writing are my ways of watching the darkness rush out of my mind, my heart, and my soul. Take close to equal parts, shake, and serve. My life is good. My life is better than good: it's better than it's been since I can remember. I feel more like an individual within my role as a member of a team than I ever have before, and I wouldn't trade it for anything. And I'm getting back on track, which is more rewarding than anything else I've ever experienced.
I'm happy, so I run. Finally I run to all the time; I don't run away from. I am arriving.
There will certainly be days when we don't get out there, or when we just can't go as far, or it just plain hurts. That's okay. We're prepared: we're talking about the possibility, making plans for alternatives, for progressing naturally, for getting back on track. And taking it all day by day. Give us enough for today. That's been my mantra lately; replacing "Just breathe," since that was only getting me through, not helping me build. When I needed to breathe, I was in a different place. Staying afloat was a decent option. All these years later, I'm going for more--because I can! Not only is my support system different (read: stronger!), but my mindset is more open, yet more focused at the same time. (I know that's possible--I took a photography class--and the results are fantastic when the subject matter is right.)
Sweating out life's toxins is the best result of our runs. Running, talking, crying, laughing, yoga and writing are my ways of watching the darkness rush out of my mind, my heart, and my soul. Take close to equal parts, shake, and serve. My life is good. My life is better than good: it's better than it's been since I can remember. I feel more like an individual within my role as a member of a team than I ever have before, and I wouldn't trade it for anything. And I'm getting back on track, which is more rewarding than anything else I've ever experienced.
I'm happy, so I run. Finally I run to all the time; I don't run away from. I am arriving.
Friday, August 17, 2012
fears and foibles
As the sky darkens ahead of the storm in the forecast, I happen to see an ad for umbrellas. This always makes me snicker, the way the computer people "know" when something is going to happen, and advertise accordingly. This particular ad, however, will not work on me. Why? Because I have some kind of irrational fear of umbrellas.
I don't know how long I've had this fear, or what brought it on, exactly, but I do distinctly remember looking out a window in Xavier Hall one rainy day in college, and thinking, "I can't go out there--look at all those umbrellas!" I don't remember if I had to go out to the street for my next class or not, but I do remember the fear, the panic, very well. The most interesting part is that I have a very, very specific reason for wanting to -- NEEDING to -- stay away from the umbrellas on the street.
Perhaps my perceptions of the people who worked in that fair city would present some background....
My grandmother, during one of my holiday breaks, asked how I liked it there--not just school, but the place, too. After all, when my siblings left for college, they stayed in the college towns afterward, so it was natural to wonder if I would do the same. (Actually, in the end, I did, but that's another story for another time.) I told her it was pretty, for a city, and a nice size, but the people were not terribly friendly, and everyone seemed in a great hurry all the time, driving, walking, biking. I told her that as far as cities go, I'd prefer New York. (Yes, even with its umbrellas!)
Fast forward to my umbrella panic. The very specific reason I took issue with the umbrellas people walking on the street were using is that I saw each and every one of those umbrellas poking me in the eye. And sooner or later, I figured, one of them would walk off with my eye attached to it, never to be found again. It's been over twenty years, and I've only recently started using an umbrella, and only when I know I will be the only one in the parking lot after work.
I know the fear is irrational for a few reasons: no one else I know is afraid of getting their eyes poked out by umbrellas; I've never known or even heard of anyone getting their eye poked out by an umbrella (but I'm certain at some point it will happen in a CSI episode!); and I've only been able to share my fear with a select number of people. I don't even think I told my college roommate, and I told her just about everything!! It's odd, too, because of how much I absolutely love rainy days! I loved playing in puddles all the way through college. Walking in the rain was something to look forward to until I stopped wearing contacts. And rain always reminds me of the really cool umbrellas my sister and I had when we were kids: they were shaped like bells and every other panel was clear, so it was like being in a rain tent when we waited for the bus. There's also the more reasonable understanding that if I were under an umbrella myself, the little pointy parts from someone else's umbrella would have to stay further away from my eyes.....
Maybe it was the fact that I was on my own for the first time, and if something happened to me, I'd have to depend on strangers to take care of me. Maybe it was the realization that I was 6 hours away from home. Maybe it was something someone said. I know it was not because of a love of horror movies -- I'd never liked them, and the scariest ones I ever watched were old King Kong movies on TV. (The way I devour CSI and Criminal Minds now, though, you'd never realize I thought movies like Cujo too gory!)
So, I politely decline when anyone offers me an umbrella, or even the opportunity to share one with them. I'd rather get wet, thank you very much, and keep both my eyeballs intact.
I don't know how long I've had this fear, or what brought it on, exactly, but I do distinctly remember looking out a window in Xavier Hall one rainy day in college, and thinking, "I can't go out there--look at all those umbrellas!" I don't remember if I had to go out to the street for my next class or not, but I do remember the fear, the panic, very well. The most interesting part is that I have a very, very specific reason for wanting to -- NEEDING to -- stay away from the umbrellas on the street.
Perhaps my perceptions of the people who worked in that fair city would present some background....
My grandmother, during one of my holiday breaks, asked how I liked it there--not just school, but the place, too. After all, when my siblings left for college, they stayed in the college towns afterward, so it was natural to wonder if I would do the same. (Actually, in the end, I did, but that's another story for another time.) I told her it was pretty, for a city, and a nice size, but the people were not terribly friendly, and everyone seemed in a great hurry all the time, driving, walking, biking. I told her that as far as cities go, I'd prefer New York. (Yes, even with its umbrellas!)
Fast forward to my umbrella panic. The very specific reason I took issue with the umbrellas people walking on the street were using is that I saw each and every one of those umbrellas poking me in the eye. And sooner or later, I figured, one of them would walk off with my eye attached to it, never to be found again. It's been over twenty years, and I've only recently started using an umbrella, and only when I know I will be the only one in the parking lot after work.
I know the fear is irrational for a few reasons: no one else I know is afraid of getting their eyes poked out by umbrellas; I've never known or even heard of anyone getting their eye poked out by an umbrella (but I'm certain at some point it will happen in a CSI episode!); and I've only been able to share my fear with a select number of people. I don't even think I told my college roommate, and I told her just about everything!! It's odd, too, because of how much I absolutely love rainy days! I loved playing in puddles all the way through college. Walking in the rain was something to look forward to until I stopped wearing contacts. And rain always reminds me of the really cool umbrellas my sister and I had when we were kids: they were shaped like bells and every other panel was clear, so it was like being in a rain tent when we waited for the bus. There's also the more reasonable understanding that if I were under an umbrella myself, the little pointy parts from someone else's umbrella would have to stay further away from my eyes.....
Maybe it was the fact that I was on my own for the first time, and if something happened to me, I'd have to depend on strangers to take care of me. Maybe it was the realization that I was 6 hours away from home. Maybe it was something someone said. I know it was not because of a love of horror movies -- I'd never liked them, and the scariest ones I ever watched were old King Kong movies on TV. (The way I devour CSI and Criminal Minds now, though, you'd never realize I thought movies like Cujo too gory!)
So, I politely decline when anyone offers me an umbrella, or even the opportunity to share one with them. I'd rather get wet, thank you very much, and keep both my eyeballs intact.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
venting: my hat
I have a hat that I love.
Or, rather, I HAD a hat; now it's a misshapen disk of rattan, which made me cry. "Someone," in doing the chores laid out yesterday, put quite a pile of books on top of my hat. It was not in the best shape to begin with--as I said, it was my favorite (and I don't have favorites easily!) and as such had been bumped around a bit. Still. The worst part? The "Someone" is apparently No One who lives in this house.
Isn't that always the way?
Of course I know the hat is just a hat. To you. To me, it is not only protection, but it was quite a find. I have a rather large, round parietal bone, and therefore have so much trouble finding hats that fit without giving me a headache or a rash on my forehead. This one was marked down AND I bought it while shopping with my brother, to boot! It was a special hat, to say the least.
It's what the hat represents that bugs me. In our house, so much of the "stuff," though replaceable and material, does have meaning to me. That's not to say I can't live without it, or would call it more valuable than my family, but I am very sentimental, and tend to identify with the emotions and feelings related to my stuff. All I have ever asked is that my housemates show some respect for my stuff.
Because it represents me.
There are many people in my life that care about me, and I appreciate each and every one of them. For some reason, though, many of the people that I care the most about--my children, my mother, my blood--seem to think I'm just a hat. That I can be scrunched and mashed, stuffed, tossed, and simply re-blocked. For most of my life, I've lived with it; rolled with it. I can't. What I have to say, and what I find to be important are no less valid than what others say and feel. It's beginning to hurt me physically that my spoken words, my actions, my being do not carry weight; that when someone else says the same things, they are suddenly more authoritative and compelling.
Respect me. For me.
Don't get me wrong: I do not need someone to come save me. My husband is wonderful at talking me through the times when I need it most; I genuinely matter to him. What I need is to stand up myself. To tell those who dismiss me that they simply cannot. They are not people I can ingenuously walk away from--I love them for what we have shared, for who they are to me. I'm not angry with them. Just hurt by their offhand manner. I have value, I mean something. I can only be re-blocked so many times.
My hat represents me. It is not me, but it stands for my spirit. Don't try to break it.
Or, rather, I HAD a hat; now it's a misshapen disk of rattan, which made me cry. "Someone," in doing the chores laid out yesterday, put quite a pile of books on top of my hat. It was not in the best shape to begin with--as I said, it was my favorite (and I don't have favorites easily!) and as such had been bumped around a bit. Still. The worst part? The "Someone" is apparently No One who lives in this house.
Isn't that always the way?
Of course I know the hat is just a hat. To you. To me, it is not only protection, but it was quite a find. I have a rather large, round parietal bone, and therefore have so much trouble finding hats that fit without giving me a headache or a rash on my forehead. This one was marked down AND I bought it while shopping with my brother, to boot! It was a special hat, to say the least.
It's what the hat represents that bugs me. In our house, so much of the "stuff," though replaceable and material, does have meaning to me. That's not to say I can't live without it, or would call it more valuable than my family, but I am very sentimental, and tend to identify with the emotions and feelings related to my stuff. All I have ever asked is that my housemates show some respect for my stuff.
Because it represents me.
There are many people in my life that care about me, and I appreciate each and every one of them. For some reason, though, many of the people that I care the most about--my children, my mother, my blood--seem to think I'm just a hat. That I can be scrunched and mashed, stuffed, tossed, and simply re-blocked. For most of my life, I've lived with it; rolled with it. I can't. What I have to say, and what I find to be important are no less valid than what others say and feel. It's beginning to hurt me physically that my spoken words, my actions, my being do not carry weight; that when someone else says the same things, they are suddenly more authoritative and compelling.
Respect me. For me.
Don't get me wrong: I do not need someone to come save me. My husband is wonderful at talking me through the times when I need it most; I genuinely matter to him. What I need is to stand up myself. To tell those who dismiss me that they simply cannot. They are not people I can ingenuously walk away from--I love them for what we have shared, for who they are to me. I'm not angry with them. Just hurt by their offhand manner. I have value, I mean something. I can only be re-blocked so many times.
My hat represents me. It is not me, but it stands for my spirit. Don't try to break it.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
lightening and lightness
Today I read a post about Love, and it got me thinking a bit. Then I saw a quote that made me think some more. And then I realized that it all tied together in a conversation we had this morning. In the post:
It was part of a greater post about the person of love. It was quite thought provoking, since I have been struggling with loving some of my neighbors lately. Reading that post gave me a reason to consider the whys and wherefores of changing relationships and the various emotions involved, especially when a philosophical stance is unexpected--whether positive or negative (from my own perspective, of course).
Then, while trolling through Pinterest, I came across another quote:
That hit home. Recently, when I had a huge choice to make, I knew that I needed some guidance. I wondered just what to ask for help with--I've learned not to ask directly, because God seems to want me to make my own decisions; He doesn't seem to hand anything over for free. Because this was so big, I had to choose my words carefully. As a result, I did not ask for help in deciding; I did not ask for answers. Instead, I asked for the least I could think of: I asked for the strength to be myself. Nothing more.
The last time I remember getting a solid, easily identifiable answer from God was a few weeks after 9/11. I had prayed every day and night, fervently and desperately, for peace and strength, and safety for our children, and anything else I could think of. One morning, as I was about to begin my frantic prayer, I clearly and distinctly heard a voice in my heart say, "Be not afraid. I go before you always. Come, follow me." It had been one of my favorite songs growing up, and when I heard it, I was calmed. Completely. I agreed, but then became the only-occasional-prayer that I had always been.
Until I needed to be myself, before I could be anything else. And I have not stopped this time (so far). Having the strength to be myself has given me the grace to forgive where I thought there could not be forgiveness; to love where I feared love had died; to be loved and nurtured; to be open to possibilities and so many new beginnings.
Saturday, we went to Mass, and (not unusual) my mind wandered, due in part to the fact that I misheard and wondered who this St. Bob is who had written to the Thessalonians, and partly, I think, because God had other things to say to me. I left with a feeling of peace within myself: affirmation that forgiveness and love were possible for me because I am me, and not because someone else thought I should or shouldn't. (this was also related to my favoritest Pin of all: "Don't judge others because they sin differently than you." Wow!! A very old message put in a different way can make such an impact!)
This morning we were talking about praying. I don't really feel like I ever learned how or when, only where, which makes it inconvenient sometimes. The result is that I pray sporadically--not just when I need something; I also pray when I am thankful, or when I hear about a friend who is sick or hurting. This is the longest I have prayed regularly, and by regularly, I mean more than just once a week at Church. And do you know what? I am myself. And I am so very grateful for the strength to be myself.
"In any given day, we have only a finite number of opportunities to love and be loved: use them well." ~Fr. King.
It was part of a greater post about the person of love. It was quite thought provoking, since I have been struggling with loving some of my neighbors lately. Reading that post gave me a reason to consider the whys and wherefores of changing relationships and the various emotions involved, especially when a philosophical stance is unexpected--whether positive or negative (from my own perspective, of course).
Then, while trolling through Pinterest, I came across another quote:
"Sometimes God calms the storm...sometimes He lets the storm rage and calms His child."
That hit home. Recently, when I had a huge choice to make, I knew that I needed some guidance. I wondered just what to ask for help with--I've learned not to ask directly, because God seems to want me to make my own decisions; He doesn't seem to hand anything over for free. Because this was so big, I had to choose my words carefully. As a result, I did not ask for help in deciding; I did not ask for answers. Instead, I asked for the least I could think of: I asked for the strength to be myself. Nothing more.
The last time I remember getting a solid, easily identifiable answer from God was a few weeks after 9/11. I had prayed every day and night, fervently and desperately, for peace and strength, and safety for our children, and anything else I could think of. One morning, as I was about to begin my frantic prayer, I clearly and distinctly heard a voice in my heart say, "Be not afraid. I go before you always. Come, follow me." It had been one of my favorite songs growing up, and when I heard it, I was calmed. Completely. I agreed, but then became the only-occasional-prayer that I had always been.
Until I needed to be myself, before I could be anything else. And I have not stopped this time (so far). Having the strength to be myself has given me the grace to forgive where I thought there could not be forgiveness; to love where I feared love had died; to be loved and nurtured; to be open to possibilities and so many new beginnings.
Saturday, we went to Mass, and (not unusual) my mind wandered, due in part to the fact that I misheard and wondered who this St. Bob is who had written to the Thessalonians, and partly, I think, because God had other things to say to me. I left with a feeling of peace within myself: affirmation that forgiveness and love were possible for me because I am me, and not because someone else thought I should or shouldn't. (this was also related to my favoritest Pin of all: "Don't judge others because they sin differently than you." Wow!! A very old message put in a different way can make such an impact!)
This morning we were talking about praying. I don't really feel like I ever learned how or when, only where, which makes it inconvenient sometimes. The result is that I pray sporadically--not just when I need something; I also pray when I am thankful, or when I hear about a friend who is sick or hurting. This is the longest I have prayed regularly, and by regularly, I mean more than just once a week at Church. And do you know what? I am myself. And I am so very grateful for the strength to be myself.
Monday, August 13, 2012
paint chips and possibilities
I sat down to write this morning, and the words that came I deleted. Three times. Then I wrote about nothing. The first three times, I felt reactionary and defensive, confused and, I'll admit, curious. But everything I started to write sounded like bait to me, and that is not healthy. It's been a rougher couple of days than I would have liked, but at the same time, wonderfully enlightening and laden with growth and progress. Discovering that a confidante was not as supportive as originally thought was difficult enough; but then to discover that someone who never had any interest in me suddenly wants to know what I have to say on a daily basis is much more disconcerting. (Just ask, I say.)
What I really want to write about is paint chips. I'm considering them today, and getting excited about the new possibilities they represent for me. Having a project is a great way to make it to tomorrow. Especially since tomorrow is always uncertain. A friend (not the aforementioned) just fixed the railing on our balcony, and suddenly there is so much I want to do! The balcony was once my favorite "room" in the house. I remember spending hours there each evening in the summer while my husband took our oldest son to the pool: a welcome break for a stay-at-home mom, pregnant with #2. Once the baby was born, I would spend many mornings out there, nursing him and reading in the morning sunshine.
I'm not sure what brought me in from out there....probably a busy toddler the following summer.....but sometime after that, the railing was damaged in a storm, and going out there with children was just too risky. And like so many things in life, "priorities" got in the way of repairing it.
Which leads me to today. Steve fixed the railing over the weekend, and ever since he came over to measure, I've been picturing the new space. Knowing that the railing needs to be painted, I have been considering colors for the walls, the floor, the ceiling, the doors, and looking through my old scrapbooks of ideas for making it special. Pinterest will be my next stop, along with a visit to a dear friend who has sold her house and is selling much of their stuff in preparation for a move. I'm picturing the floor, and wondering what furniture to put on it; a rug for the spring and fall? Who can I call for electricity? And what will I hang on the walls? And I'm running through my favorite inspirational quotes, and wondering how they would look on the railings, or along the ceiling.
New beginnings like this one are joyful, abounding in anticipation; much like my life right now. I have been through the wringer, but, like the laundry referenced in the expression, I have come out cleansed and refreshed; ready for another challenge. For a short time, I considered the benefits of starting over in another place and time. In reality, however, that just amounts to running and hiding; to not facing what brought me here to this place and time. Making the decision to stand my ground has turned out to be far more fulfilling, productive and mature. Instead, I will make this space better, along with myself and my (important) relationships.
Not every project turns out as expected or anticipated; and not every relationship turns out to be the friendship we hoped for. Both are frustrating. The good news is, we can always start again--another new beginning, filled with joy and anticipation. And a little bit of anxiety. Okay, more than just a little bit sometimes, but I refuse to be paralyzed by it. I'm learning to take more risks when they benefit the ones I love, including that bit of me that needs my nurturing. Before snow falls, I hope to have a new spot to write, to contemplate, to meditate, to pray. Not just on my balcony, either, but also in myself.
I am my favorite current project.
What I really want to write about is paint chips. I'm considering them today, and getting excited about the new possibilities they represent for me. Having a project is a great way to make it to tomorrow. Especially since tomorrow is always uncertain. A friend (not the aforementioned) just fixed the railing on our balcony, and suddenly there is so much I want to do! The balcony was once my favorite "room" in the house. I remember spending hours there each evening in the summer while my husband took our oldest son to the pool: a welcome break for a stay-at-home mom, pregnant with #2. Once the baby was born, I would spend many mornings out there, nursing him and reading in the morning sunshine.
I'm not sure what brought me in from out there....probably a busy toddler the following summer.....but sometime after that, the railing was damaged in a storm, and going out there with children was just too risky. And like so many things in life, "priorities" got in the way of repairing it.
Which leads me to today. Steve fixed the railing over the weekend, and ever since he came over to measure, I've been picturing the new space. Knowing that the railing needs to be painted, I have been considering colors for the walls, the floor, the ceiling, the doors, and looking through my old scrapbooks of ideas for making it special. Pinterest will be my next stop, along with a visit to a dear friend who has sold her house and is selling much of their stuff in preparation for a move. I'm picturing the floor, and wondering what furniture to put on it; a rug for the spring and fall? Who can I call for electricity? And what will I hang on the walls? And I'm running through my favorite inspirational quotes, and wondering how they would look on the railings, or along the ceiling.
New beginnings like this one are joyful, abounding in anticipation; much like my life right now. I have been through the wringer, but, like the laundry referenced in the expression, I have come out cleansed and refreshed; ready for another challenge. For a short time, I considered the benefits of starting over in another place and time. In reality, however, that just amounts to running and hiding; to not facing what brought me here to this place and time. Making the decision to stand my ground has turned out to be far more fulfilling, productive and mature. Instead, I will make this space better, along with myself and my (important) relationships.
Not every project turns out as expected or anticipated; and not every relationship turns out to be the friendship we hoped for. Both are frustrating. The good news is, we can always start again--another new beginning, filled with joy and anticipation. And a little bit of anxiety. Okay, more than just a little bit sometimes, but I refuse to be paralyzed by it. I'm learning to take more risks when they benefit the ones I love, including that bit of me that needs my nurturing. Before snow falls, I hope to have a new spot to write, to contemplate, to meditate, to pray. Not just on my balcony, either, but also in myself.
I am my favorite current project.
my secret meditation
Monday morning.
Mondays are my laundry days. There is something about sorting, washing, drying, folding and resorting that makes for a good start to the week. With four boys at home in the summer, I get lots of help--which does not necessarily mean it gets done faster! The important thing is that they know how to do these things. That they learn, at least eventually, about the satisfaction of finishing a job, even if it will simply be undone within a week.
Although I frequently have the boys do most of the folding these days, I do find it meditative and quite fulfilling. Making each shirt the same size, folding the towels to fit on the shelf, feeling the warmth and softness of freshly laundered fabric--all these things remind me of what is right, good and important in life: our children, our home, our life. Trying to figure out what belongs to whom afterwards can be especially frustrating, but again, sorting into piles is reflective and contemplative. Just the way to start the week.
Of course, the job can be frustrating at times. It baffles me when there is a week that inexplicably produces twice the dirty clothes as the week before. Then there are the mornings when I could use a gas mask to sort everything into the proper baskets. And those times when something that is supposed to hang dry is found, mis-shappen and disheveled, in the dryer. It would be nice to have the washer and dryer inside our house--better yet, upstairs! But all in all, my self-chosen Monday morning chore is still the most preferable one to start the week.
Monday morning: my Momma morning. My meditation/thinking/reflection time.
More than anything, when it comes to chores, inside or outside, I strive to find the thinking time. The times when I let the weeds go or skip the dusting are usually when I don't want to think about something; when I am avoiding my inner voice. The boys would say that's why I turn the music up loud when I clean, but even when the music is loud, I can hear myself think. Sometimes I just don't want to. From time to time, I attack some room or other and clean it top to bottom without allowing anyone else to help--and those are the times when I am attacking myself--trying to silence my inner voice. I never get far. Working together with my inner self is so much more successful and satisfying.
Time to find myself in some fabric, water, agitation and hot air. What a beautiful way to spend a Monday.
Mondays are my laundry days. There is something about sorting, washing, drying, folding and resorting that makes for a good start to the week. With four boys at home in the summer, I get lots of help--which does not necessarily mean it gets done faster! The important thing is that they know how to do these things. That they learn, at least eventually, about the satisfaction of finishing a job, even if it will simply be undone within a week.
Although I frequently have the boys do most of the folding these days, I do find it meditative and quite fulfilling. Making each shirt the same size, folding the towels to fit on the shelf, feeling the warmth and softness of freshly laundered fabric--all these things remind me of what is right, good and important in life: our children, our home, our life. Trying to figure out what belongs to whom afterwards can be especially frustrating, but again, sorting into piles is reflective and contemplative. Just the way to start the week.
Of course, the job can be frustrating at times. It baffles me when there is a week that inexplicably produces twice the dirty clothes as the week before. Then there are the mornings when I could use a gas mask to sort everything into the proper baskets. And those times when something that is supposed to hang dry is found, mis-shappen and disheveled, in the dryer. It would be nice to have the washer and dryer inside our house--better yet, upstairs! But all in all, my self-chosen Monday morning chore is still the most preferable one to start the week.
Monday morning: my Momma morning. My meditation/thinking/reflection time.
More than anything, when it comes to chores, inside or outside, I strive to find the thinking time. The times when I let the weeds go or skip the dusting are usually when I don't want to think about something; when I am avoiding my inner voice. The boys would say that's why I turn the music up loud when I clean, but even when the music is loud, I can hear myself think. Sometimes I just don't want to. From time to time, I attack some room or other and clean it top to bottom without allowing anyone else to help--and those are the times when I am attacking myself--trying to silence my inner voice. I never get far. Working together with my inner self is so much more successful and satisfying.
Time to find myself in some fabric, water, agitation and hot air. What a beautiful way to spend a Monday.
Friday, August 10, 2012
seeds to flowers
Walking in the rain is my favorite. Not the gushing downpours usually associated with my working outside in the summer, but the gentle, soft and cool rain that comes as a surprise because you couldn't hear it from inside the house. The kind that makes you say, "Oh! It's raining!" and you go out anyway.
At times, like today, the rain is especially welcome. Rain, clearly, has a cleansing quality--washing last night's humidity out of the air, and leaving instead that wonderful rain smell that sustains (many of) us until the next rain. Rain also has a cleansing quality for the soul, and as we walked today, we spoke of some of the more difficult aspects of our youngest days. Somehow, sharing the things that can hurt the most are easier in the rain, less drastic, and ever-so-less painful.
Why is that? Why does rain make me feel more open to hear, more open to tell? Perhaps it's the feeling that the heavens or the cosmos is involved somehow. Or that God has opened up a little, so we feel less alone. Maybe it's the tenebrosity, the lack of light, that makes us feel a little safer, a little more open. A little more loved. It may even be the wetness of the rain itself, enhancing a fluidity in our feelings and emotions. Water seeks its own level, and fluidity in one's soul would clearly move to a more level spot....
And yet, the things we talked about bubbled up from the depths. The overflowed through what felt like the smallest of cracks in a carefully constructed barrier. Things that should have sounded awful, but, with the help of the rain, were diluted enough to be tolerable; not likable, but bearable. Raindrops mixed with tears, and slid away; softly, easily, nearly without notice.
When my father died, it snowed. Like crazy. Like over three feet crazy. By the time we got home, everything had iced over, and we had a heck of a mess to clean up, just to get in our driveway. It was late, it was dark, and we were so very tired. Bone tired from sorrow, driving, and plain old exhaustion. I remember that moving that snow and ice was so symbolic for me. It wasn't rain; it wasn't soft, or gentle, cleansing or pure. It was hard and cold, with sharp edges and so much weight--just like my very core, my heart, my being. I screamed at the snow; threw great big boulders of icy whiteness into the yard with all my might. It helped, but not nearly as much as running water.
Today's rain is gentle and light--not a shower, but slightly more than a sprinkle. And, in the early morning hours of our walk, was just what we needed. Just what I needed. My pains and hurts are no greater than anyone else's, but they are my burden, and mine alone until I share them. The fact that others -- someone, somewhere -- is worse off than I am sometimes discourages me from sharing and lightening my load. Walking in the rain, with someone who wants to hear, equalizes the pressure, and only then can I grow.
Only then can I grow.
At times, like today, the rain is especially welcome. Rain, clearly, has a cleansing quality--washing last night's humidity out of the air, and leaving instead that wonderful rain smell that sustains (many of) us until the next rain. Rain also has a cleansing quality for the soul, and as we walked today, we spoke of some of the more difficult aspects of our youngest days. Somehow, sharing the things that can hurt the most are easier in the rain, less drastic, and ever-so-less painful.
Why is that? Why does rain make me feel more open to hear, more open to tell? Perhaps it's the feeling that the heavens or the cosmos is involved somehow. Or that God has opened up a little, so we feel less alone. Maybe it's the tenebrosity, the lack of light, that makes us feel a little safer, a little more open. A little more loved. It may even be the wetness of the rain itself, enhancing a fluidity in our feelings and emotions. Water seeks its own level, and fluidity in one's soul would clearly move to a more level spot....
And yet, the things we talked about bubbled up from the depths. The overflowed through what felt like the smallest of cracks in a carefully constructed barrier. Things that should have sounded awful, but, with the help of the rain, were diluted enough to be tolerable; not likable, but bearable. Raindrops mixed with tears, and slid away; softly, easily, nearly without notice.
When my father died, it snowed. Like crazy. Like over three feet crazy. By the time we got home, everything had iced over, and we had a heck of a mess to clean up, just to get in our driveway. It was late, it was dark, and we were so very tired. Bone tired from sorrow, driving, and plain old exhaustion. I remember that moving that snow and ice was so symbolic for me. It wasn't rain; it wasn't soft, or gentle, cleansing or pure. It was hard and cold, with sharp edges and so much weight--just like my very core, my heart, my being. I screamed at the snow; threw great big boulders of icy whiteness into the yard with all my might. It helped, but not nearly as much as running water.
Today's rain is gentle and light--not a shower, but slightly more than a sprinkle. And, in the early morning hours of our walk, was just what we needed. Just what I needed. My pains and hurts are no greater than anyone else's, but they are my burden, and mine alone until I share them. The fact that others -- someone, somewhere -- is worse off than I am sometimes discourages me from sharing and lightening my load. Walking in the rain, with someone who wants to hear, equalizes the pressure, and only then can I grow.
Only then can I grow.
Thursday, August 9, 2012
yes means yes
Dear Anonymous~
What you have to say, behind the mask of anonymity, means very little to me now. I do not know what I have done to you to make you want to hurt me with words. I realize your anger, pain and frustration must come from a place in you that needs release--I have been there, not once, but many times. And, no, they are not all related to your unnecessary comments--in fact, that particular dark place was not the darkest, only the most recent; and the one that brought about the most healing, growth, and, yes, lightness and joy. Your words, intended to slow or reverse our healing, will instead continue to motivate us to be better, closer, more united. Your words increase my strength and resolve. As I read them, they lacked the power to hurt me, or even to touch me. They were yours, and yours alone; that is how they will stay.
The greatest gift I have found is forgiveness. What you don't know, or seem to grasp, is that I have forgiven. The three best words ever: I forgive you. Love is easy, shoot, lust is even easier, but forgiveness requires looking deep into oneself and identifying the source of the pain, acknowledging it, being present in it, and l-e-t-t-i-n-g i-t g-o. I have done that, and more, both on my own and with assistance. I am free.
What I need to tell you is that I forgive you, too. Your pain, your anger, your darkness inside, is not actually related to me, as far as I know. Let it go. Find someone who can honestly help you find it and release it. Whoever you are, you can be at peace.
That is my response to you. I wish you peace. I hope you move forward. I have, and there's no longer any reason to dwell on looking back.
~Stephanie
What you have to say, behind the mask of anonymity, means very little to me now. I do not know what I have done to you to make you want to hurt me with words. I realize your anger, pain and frustration must come from a place in you that needs release--I have been there, not once, but many times. And, no, they are not all related to your unnecessary comments--in fact, that particular dark place was not the darkest, only the most recent; and the one that brought about the most healing, growth, and, yes, lightness and joy. Your words, intended to slow or reverse our healing, will instead continue to motivate us to be better, closer, more united. Your words increase my strength and resolve. As I read them, they lacked the power to hurt me, or even to touch me. They were yours, and yours alone; that is how they will stay.
The greatest gift I have found is forgiveness. What you don't know, or seem to grasp, is that I have forgiven. The three best words ever: I forgive you. Love is easy, shoot, lust is even easier, but forgiveness requires looking deep into oneself and identifying the source of the pain, acknowledging it, being present in it, and l-e-t-t-i-n-g i-t g-o. I have done that, and more, both on my own and with assistance. I am free.
What I need to tell you is that I forgive you, too. Your pain, your anger, your darkness inside, is not actually related to me, as far as I know. Let it go. Find someone who can honestly help you find it and release it. Whoever you are, you can be at peace.
That is my response to you. I wish you peace. I hope you move forward. I have, and there's no longer any reason to dwell on looking back.
~Stephanie
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
a pretty day
This morning, my husband asked me to marry him. Down on one knee, looking into my eyes, and holding my hands in his.
To some, this may seem strange. In fact, to many, this may seem like an odd question for him to ask me. We've been through quite an upheaval lately, with so many roots and causes, but, bottom line we'd let our selves go a bit. Our true selves. Somewhere along the line, with four kids, two dogs, five jobs, the death of two parents, and countless volunteer obligations, we managed to lose sight of the simplest of tenets of a healthy relationship: we stopped talking with our hearts. Sure, we spoke to each other, shared some news, some hopes and dreams, some fears, but the time to open up and share the tough subjects kept slipping away.
We'd argue about that from time to time. And there were certainly times when we caught ourselves sharing the thoughts we most feared sharing. Over the past few weeks, we have rediscovered the intimacy that comes from heart talking. More than anything, what we have learned is that the more we talk, the more we want to talk. And the more we want to talk, the more in love we fall. In all honesty, it feels, for both of us, like the first time we've ever been in love. And it's such a wonderful, refreshing feeling.
About a year ago, I read something about staying married being a daily choice. It resonated with me. I remember, too, that at the time, when I shared that thought with my husband, he balked. He said that being married just is, and we were already married, so there was no choice to be made. He thought it was silly. Still, to me, the idea that each morning I should make a choice in how I lived, that I could decide each morning, when I looked in the mirror, whether I would be a married woman, or someone else. Since that day, I have overwhelmingly chosen married woman. And the result has been overwhelming, too.
Not long ago, my husband asked how I got through those days when I have doubts--about being a mother, being myself, being in love. There are so many times when I have those doubts; those nagging feelings that I'm not doing my best, that what I'm doing is either not right or not appreciated, even the times when I wonder if I really love being a mom, being me, or even if I really love him. The simple answer is, "I do." I do love my role, my vocation, and my husband. I really do--I stood in front of a whole bunch of people 21 years ago and said so, after all! In response to his confused look, I responded,
"When I wonder, when I doubt, especially our love, and I have a hard time coming up with a reason that I fell in love, I ask myself, 'Do I love him?' And the answer is always, 'Yes, I do. I do.' And when I tell myself I do, I then begin to remember the little things--the special look, the conversations, the laughter, the tears--and I remember why I love him. The doubts fade away, as they should."
Since that day, I've managed to avoid most of the doubts entirely, but I know that is likely because of all the talking we've been doing. When school starts, and the secondary jobs pick up again, and the craziness of parenting pulls us in many directions at once, they may return once in a while. I'm fairly certain, as long as we make time for conversation--deep hearted, true sharing--the frequency will decrease. We've found what we've been missing, and, honestly, we can't bear to let it go. Ever again.
I said yes.
To some, this may seem strange. In fact, to many, this may seem like an odd question for him to ask me. We've been through quite an upheaval lately, with so many roots and causes, but, bottom line we'd let our selves go a bit. Our true selves. Somewhere along the line, with four kids, two dogs, five jobs, the death of two parents, and countless volunteer obligations, we managed to lose sight of the simplest of tenets of a healthy relationship: we stopped talking with our hearts. Sure, we spoke to each other, shared some news, some hopes and dreams, some fears, but the time to open up and share the tough subjects kept slipping away.
We'd argue about that from time to time. And there were certainly times when we caught ourselves sharing the thoughts we most feared sharing. Over the past few weeks, we have rediscovered the intimacy that comes from heart talking. More than anything, what we have learned is that the more we talk, the more we want to talk. And the more we want to talk, the more in love we fall. In all honesty, it feels, for both of us, like the first time we've ever been in love. And it's such a wonderful, refreshing feeling.
About a year ago, I read something about staying married being a daily choice. It resonated with me. I remember, too, that at the time, when I shared that thought with my husband, he balked. He said that being married just is, and we were already married, so there was no choice to be made. He thought it was silly. Still, to me, the idea that each morning I should make a choice in how I lived, that I could decide each morning, when I looked in the mirror, whether I would be a married woman, or someone else. Since that day, I have overwhelmingly chosen married woman. And the result has been overwhelming, too.
Not long ago, my husband asked how I got through those days when I have doubts--about being a mother, being myself, being in love. There are so many times when I have those doubts; those nagging feelings that I'm not doing my best, that what I'm doing is either not right or not appreciated, even the times when I wonder if I really love being a mom, being me, or even if I really love him. The simple answer is, "I do." I do love my role, my vocation, and my husband. I really do--I stood in front of a whole bunch of people 21 years ago and said so, after all! In response to his confused look, I responded,
"When I wonder, when I doubt, especially our love, and I have a hard time coming up with a reason that I fell in love, I ask myself, 'Do I love him?' And the answer is always, 'Yes, I do. I do.' And when I tell myself I do, I then begin to remember the little things--the special look, the conversations, the laughter, the tears--and I remember why I love him. The doubts fade away, as they should."
Since that day, I've managed to avoid most of the doubts entirely, but I know that is likely because of all the talking we've been doing. When school starts, and the secondary jobs pick up again, and the craziness of parenting pulls us in many directions at once, they may return once in a while. I'm fairly certain, as long as we make time for conversation--deep hearted, true sharing--the frequency will decrease. We've found what we've been missing, and, honestly, we can't bear to let it go. Ever again.
I said yes.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
peace and a pool vac
Today I'll be going to work early to vacuum the pool. Although I'm irritated at the reason I can't just toss the robot in, I'm not minding that I will have the solitude and peaceful time. This means I won't have time to do yoga today, but I can practice yoga philosophies while working. There is a zen-like quality to vacuuming a pool; everything must be done purposefully and slowly, rhythmically and with a light touch. The only problem I ever have is that I tend to sunburn while vacuuming.
I love the water. I prefer nature to the pool, but still the water is peaceful. As I gaze into the water, I can think, open my mind, wander through my thoughts, meandering without having to connect one to another. When vacuuming the pool, I don't usually come to conclusions, as I do when watching currents or waves, or even when vacuuming the floors at home. Rather, the thoughts come and go of their own accord.
While thinking through is more often my goal, and necessary, I find the thoughtless thinking to be refreshing sometimes. Occasionally, I stumble across a thought that I would like to consider more thoroughly at a later time. Often, though, I can just let them go and be freed of their clutter. The only other time I am able to do so is in savasana, the resting posture: corpse pose. It's easier than it once was, but there are still thoughts I wish were not even there to begin with; memories I don't wish to have, heartaches, words said that cannot be erased, feelings that still strike a chord.....
Funny how the difficult thoughts float to the surface. The other day, I told my husband that the painful feelings we give voice to, those related to fear, anger and pain, seem to have less power when shared, while those related to love, joy and lightness become exponentially more powerful when spoken aloud.
Perhaps today, while I am alone with the pool, I will speak aloud the thoughts as they come to mind. Probably not, because I will feel silly......but I imagine if I can get past my own self, speaking them aloud will help them to grow or diminish as necessary.
I love the water. I prefer nature to the pool, but still the water is peaceful. As I gaze into the water, I can think, open my mind, wander through my thoughts, meandering without having to connect one to another. When vacuuming the pool, I don't usually come to conclusions, as I do when watching currents or waves, or even when vacuuming the floors at home. Rather, the thoughts come and go of their own accord.
While thinking through is more often my goal, and necessary, I find the thoughtless thinking to be refreshing sometimes. Occasionally, I stumble across a thought that I would like to consider more thoroughly at a later time. Often, though, I can just let them go and be freed of their clutter. The only other time I am able to do so is in savasana, the resting posture: corpse pose. It's easier than it once was, but there are still thoughts I wish were not even there to begin with; memories I don't wish to have, heartaches, words said that cannot be erased, feelings that still strike a chord.....
Funny how the difficult thoughts float to the surface. The other day, I told my husband that the painful feelings we give voice to, those related to fear, anger and pain, seem to have less power when shared, while those related to love, joy and lightness become exponentially more powerful when spoken aloud.
Perhaps today, while I am alone with the pool, I will speak aloud the thoughts as they come to mind. Probably not, because I will feel silly......but I imagine if I can get past my own self, speaking them aloud will help them to grow or diminish as necessary.
Monday, August 6, 2012
wildflowers
Yesterday, I promised myself I would write today (which is not usually a hard promise to keep, except for the time factor), and this morning, I wondered just what I would write about. I poured coffee, took the dogs out, and sat on the porch step, where I found myself thinking about fences. Like the dogs, my thoughts began to wander around the green and somewhat weedy yard of my mind.
At first, my fence thoughts were absolutely related to the dogs. I've often pictured a fence around the yard, and I even know what style I'd like, complete with the gates (I have a few pictures of inspiration that I cut out and put in a binder, long before there was Pinterest!). Of course, because it was early morning, and I was alone, and I had coffee in my hand--and, quite honestly, because I am me, and I can't help it!--I began to wonder whether the fence would more likely keep things (people? animals? demons?) in or out. Which lead, inevitably, to the idea of the fences in my life, in my mind, in my heart.
Forever, it seems, I've had fences inside to keep myself safe. What I've found is that keeping myself safe doesn't always allow for growing. I've let people through the gates, and some have sowed weeds, which angered, irritated and frustrated me enough to close and lock the gate again. More have helped to tend my garden; helping to pull out and dispose of the weeds, helping me to select the right flowers, fruits, vegetables.....Still....
It's the fences that have kept me in.
I've opened the gates for a number of reasons, and I'm determined to keep them opened, cautiously, for a while, anyway. I've discovered that there is buried treasure, as well as weed roots with tendrils that have been missed, broken off, forgotten.
It's funny--the fence I picture around our yard is only tall enough and the spaces are only narrow enough to keep the dogs in, yet when I am looking at myself honestly, there's been a stockade fence in some of the areas of my psyche, and I, myself, have been kept out. It's time to rebuild.
Each day, I am learning anew to appreciate those who make me happy, who allow me to be happy, who know happiness. I'm finding the roses and the wildflowers, and smelling each one.
"Let us be grateful to people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom." ~Marcel Proust.
At first, my fence thoughts were absolutely related to the dogs. I've often pictured a fence around the yard, and I even know what style I'd like, complete with the gates (I have a few pictures of inspiration that I cut out and put in a binder, long before there was Pinterest!). Of course, because it was early morning, and I was alone, and I had coffee in my hand--and, quite honestly, because I am me, and I can't help it!--I began to wonder whether the fence would more likely keep things (people? animals? demons?) in or out. Which lead, inevitably, to the idea of the fences in my life, in my mind, in my heart.
Forever, it seems, I've had fences inside to keep myself safe. What I've found is that keeping myself safe doesn't always allow for growing. I've let people through the gates, and some have sowed weeds, which angered, irritated and frustrated me enough to close and lock the gate again. More have helped to tend my garden; helping to pull out and dispose of the weeds, helping me to select the right flowers, fruits, vegetables.....Still....
It's the fences that have kept me in.
I've opened the gates for a number of reasons, and I'm determined to keep them opened, cautiously, for a while, anyway. I've discovered that there is buried treasure, as well as weed roots with tendrils that have been missed, broken off, forgotten.
It's funny--the fence I picture around our yard is only tall enough and the spaces are only narrow enough to keep the dogs in, yet when I am looking at myself honestly, there's been a stockade fence in some of the areas of my psyche, and I, myself, have been kept out. It's time to rebuild.
Each day, I am learning anew to appreciate those who make me happy, who allow me to be happy, who know happiness. I'm finding the roses and the wildflowers, and smelling each one.
"Let us be grateful to people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom." ~Marcel Proust.
Friday, August 3, 2012
a blank page
This morning, I decided that even though I had no idea what I would write, I would log in and write. When I sign in, a rather dull page comes up that should probably interest me more--a page with stats and data. The only thing I ever look at is "pageviews today" and each time the number surprises me. I have no idea why. Today, this morning, at 8:14am, the number was 10, which blew me away. Silly, I know. I wonder who they could be; are they all people I know, or are they strangers who have stumbled upon my words? If they just stumbled by, will they look for me again? Do they feel like eavesdroppers, or do they want to get to know me? And really, does it matter? If nothing else, the number of pageviews gives me something to daydream about.
Today, though, when I glanced across that page, wondering what else I'm supposed to be getting out of this data, I saw that I had a draft saved. I wondered what on earth I could have written and not posted. When I opened and read it, I remembered writing it. I don't remember the circumstances, but the thoughts, the synthesis is so pertinent. Yesterday, I heard something that made me think about zebras and stripes, immediately decided that saying doesn't always apply, and put it in the back of my mind. Then I found this old post.
So today I'm thinking that zebras are just zebras, but character can be strengthened. The difference between yesterday's quick thought about stripes, and today's realization is one of superficiality. This old post is so related to my friendship post--true, honest-to-goodness friendship is not at all superficial; it's based on far more than just chatter, and is, above all else, a gift to be cherished, nurtured, admired. Yesterday, I thanked a friend for being herself. I told her I had never fully appreciated her, or her friendship. And she told me she just lives the way she believes she should. I want to be more like her. She, and so many other wonderful people I know, have so much true character.
Recently, due to some emotional events--both highs and lows--I've been finding myself thinking about character; what it means, where it comes from, who I've known who has it. I've discovered a common theme...the people I've learned the most from, with regard to character, have felt like a lifelong part of my life from the moment we met.
Not in the same way as those people who seem to be able to read my mind when I met them, and have a million things in common with me, and draw me in like a super-magnet--most of those friendships turn out to be fairly superficial, lose luster, and fizzle out in a cloud of "what the heck happened here?" This is a different kind of "I like him/her; I want to get to know him/her better." I had noticed this difference before, but had never really thought about it much, but with the recent events in our lives, I rather suddenly realized one evening what the difference is......
This kind of comfortable, easy meeting is based on being true to oneself. The reason these people are so easy to be around is that they are honest-to-goodness real deal people. But not in the way that they don't care about others, or are preoccupied in any way with themselves. In fact, it's the opposite: the people I'm talking about have a clear vision of their place in the world, realize that that space really is a tiny part of the whole, but believe wholeheartedly that every single piece of the whole is important, necessary, and amazing in it's own way.
I admire those who are true to themselves. Particularly, those who are true to themselves now, but are perfectly willing to tell about when they weren't, and how it cost them--and yet don't sound as though their goal is to impress or preach. Rather, what I've observed is that they are willing to tell their stories in order to express their wonder and gratitude for the opportunity to grow.
Today, though, when I glanced across that page, wondering what else I'm supposed to be getting out of this data, I saw that I had a draft saved. I wondered what on earth I could have written and not posted. When I opened and read it, I remembered writing it. I don't remember the circumstances, but the thoughts, the synthesis is so pertinent. Yesterday, I heard something that made me think about zebras and stripes, immediately decided that saying doesn't always apply, and put it in the back of my mind. Then I found this old post.
So today I'm thinking that zebras are just zebras, but character can be strengthened. The difference between yesterday's quick thought about stripes, and today's realization is one of superficiality. This old post is so related to my friendship post--true, honest-to-goodness friendship is not at all superficial; it's based on far more than just chatter, and is, above all else, a gift to be cherished, nurtured, admired. Yesterday, I thanked a friend for being herself. I told her I had never fully appreciated her, or her friendship. And she told me she just lives the way she believes she should. I want to be more like her. She, and so many other wonderful people I know, have so much true character.
Recently, due to some emotional events--both highs and lows--I've been finding myself thinking about character; what it means, where it comes from, who I've known who has it. I've discovered a common theme...the people I've learned the most from, with regard to character, have felt like a lifelong part of my life from the moment we met.
Not in the same way as those people who seem to be able to read my mind when I met them, and have a million things in common with me, and draw me in like a super-magnet--most of those friendships turn out to be fairly superficial, lose luster, and fizzle out in a cloud of "what the heck happened here?" This is a different kind of "I like him/her; I want to get to know him/her better." I had noticed this difference before, but had never really thought about it much, but with the recent events in our lives, I rather suddenly realized one evening what the difference is......
This kind of comfortable, easy meeting is based on being true to oneself. The reason these people are so easy to be around is that they are honest-to-goodness real deal people. But not in the way that they don't care about others, or are preoccupied in any way with themselves. In fact, it's the opposite: the people I'm talking about have a clear vision of their place in the world, realize that that space really is a tiny part of the whole, but believe wholeheartedly that every single piece of the whole is important, necessary, and amazing in it's own way.
I admire those who are true to themselves. Particularly, those who are true to themselves now, but are perfectly willing to tell about when they weren't, and how it cost them--and yet don't sound as though their goal is to impress or preach. Rather, what I've observed is that they are willing to tell their stories in order to express their wonder and gratitude for the opportunity to grow.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
with a little help
Sometimes, what we need most in life is to know who our friends are. And sometimes, the realization is surprising, to say the least. In the past few weeks, I have learned that real, true friends never judge the decisions we make, even if we are feeling judgemental of ourselves. I've learned that sometimes friendship and the love that comes with it can come from the least expected place. And I've learned that sometimes, someone we thought had surprised us with friendship, really is the chameleon we originally thought.
I've also learned that the truest friends will not necessarily ask or even need to know what's going on, but might just be there, heart and soul, as a distraction, if that's all you need. Distance, as I've always known, matters little in true friendship, but it sure makes shoulder-leaning tough.
Perhaps I shouldn't be too surprised. I have a litmus test right here inside me. A few years ago, I graduated from college as our son was Confirmed. In planning the party, I found myself so excited for my friends to meet my friends. I kept saying to myself, "Oh, she will really like her! They will be so much fun together!" Then I realized, my best friends, the ones I can share my ups and downs with, are pieces of me. Yes, they have wildly varied interests, occupations, lifestyles--but deep inside each of my friends lies a small piece of who I am, just as I lie inside them.
Recently, I've been going through a rough patch. Some people have noticed in my demeanor or my Facebook posts. Some have heard, one way or another. Some have reached out, and some have simply called to chat about nothing. I am truly blessed by the love and understanding with which I have been showered. For a time, I couldn't even breathe, and didn't know where to turn, but with each word I spoke to a friend, I was reassured, calmed, uplifted.
I'm not publishing these thoughts because I want or need to be inundated with inquiries. If I want or need to tell you, I will, in good time. Rather, I needed to share these thoughts because you need to know there is someone who will listen. Someone who will understand. Probably multiple someones--but unless the words are spoken aloud, the darkness could consume you. It almost did me, until I reached out, hard as it was, to someone I was afraid to lose.
Thank you to my friends, many of whom really do not know what I've been going through, but that I know are there, because I know I would be there for them. In a heartbeat.
I've also learned that the truest friends will not necessarily ask or even need to know what's going on, but might just be there, heart and soul, as a distraction, if that's all you need. Distance, as I've always known, matters little in true friendship, but it sure makes shoulder-leaning tough.
Perhaps I shouldn't be too surprised. I have a litmus test right here inside me. A few years ago, I graduated from college as our son was Confirmed. In planning the party, I found myself so excited for my friends to meet my friends. I kept saying to myself, "Oh, she will really like her! They will be so much fun together!" Then I realized, my best friends, the ones I can share my ups and downs with, are pieces of me. Yes, they have wildly varied interests, occupations, lifestyles--but deep inside each of my friends lies a small piece of who I am, just as I lie inside them.
Recently, I've been going through a rough patch. Some people have noticed in my demeanor or my Facebook posts. Some have heard, one way or another. Some have reached out, and some have simply called to chat about nothing. I am truly blessed by the love and understanding with which I have been showered. For a time, I couldn't even breathe, and didn't know where to turn, but with each word I spoke to a friend, I was reassured, calmed, uplifted.
I'm not publishing these thoughts because I want or need to be inundated with inquiries. If I want or need to tell you, I will, in good time. Rather, I needed to share these thoughts because you need to know there is someone who will listen. Someone who will understand. Probably multiple someones--but unless the words are spoken aloud, the darkness could consume you. It almost did me, until I reached out, hard as it was, to someone I was afraid to lose.
Thank you to my friends, many of whom really do not know what I've been going through, but that I know are there, because I know I would be there for them. In a heartbeat.
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