weed and seed

Yesterday, as I weeded one of the flowerbeds, I realized the similarity to my life lately. In all aspects of my life, I have been doing lots of weeding: at work, in my closets and drawers, in my circles, everywhere. And it's an amazing feeling!

At work, we've been tasked with weeding the collection, and I've wandered the stacks frequently looking for falling-apart and outdated materials, as well as securing the help of others who are more learned in categories than I am, or ever will be. Additionally, we've been weeding out cards, magazines, and soon, decorations. I have some apprehension about this weeding in some ways, as I don't quite know what the ultimate goal is, but there is still that certain satisfaction that comes with getting rid of something that's old, broken and unused.

My closets and drawers are getting a much-needed -- and long overdue!-- combing, too. There are still things I can't bear to part with, but many stained and outdated clothing has made its way out, along with games and puzzles missing pieces, toys that no longer have any appeal, expired medicines, and the other plain, old junk that makes its way into storage areas instead of the trash for various reasons, and then is forgotten about.

Similarly, I've been weeding the gardens and flowerbeds. Again, a long overdue project. At times, I marvel that I had time and energy to create the beds in the first place; painstakingly digging out, turning over, and bordering each of them with bricks. I remember that I worked each morning at 5:30am, until our oldest son would come out and let me know he was awake. Planting was the easy part, but I also remember that the weeding and deadheading happened in the evening, when my husband came home from work and could occupy the boys for a while, giving me a break -- literally and figuratively. Each year, as the boys got older, they got busier, and Guy coached more, leaving me less time to get at those pesky weeds. For the past three years, I've worked full-time in the summer, into the evening, giving me even less time to get out into the yard. So spring and fall have become my weeding the beds times. In between, I just hope not too many people notice how sloppy they start to look.

My personal life has needed major weeding, too. Some of it takes care of itself, like seeing a dandelion and pulling it out by the roots. But most of it requires careful extrication, much like untangling and unwinding the wild morning glory choking the lilies and the clematis. I will persevere, though, because the results in my heart and soul will be, ultimately, very similar to the results in my yard, my closets, and the shelves: clean, neat, open and tidy.

Occasionally, pulling a weed results in losing one of the pretty plants intended to be in the garden. I see the same thing happen in my life: my boys will lose some playmates, some babysitting jobs. I have no problem being open and honest with them. It's important for them to know that some people need to drop out of our lives in order to move forward. Never will I say mean, nasty or slanderous things about any of these formerly "important" people in my life, but I will certainly not pretend that "maybe one of these days" the relationship will be what it once was. Or, more truthfully, what I mistakenly thought it would be forever.

I'd prefer for my life to be less sloppy, and more what I choose it to be. For too long, I went along adding some color here and there, just to fill in the blanks. Not everything I ended up seeing was what I liked, or wanted to see; but I let them go, not realizing how much they would be able to take over, given just a little space. I'm learning to mulch and fertilize. And examining the shoots and seedlings more carefully.

And I feel much freer for it.

me, myself and that's it

So many of my posts are born of a need to release some sort of pent up emotional energy. There are times when I wonder if, in snippets, I appear to be a coiled up spring, ready to explode. At one time, I was. Too much of my energy was focused on looking like I was playing a part: the part of mother, coach's wife, homeowner, friend--a grown-up. Oddly, the people I most admired had no concerns about what a grown-up looked like, acted like. With them, I could be myself (and at home, with my family), and I would come away from my time with them rejuvinated, refreshed and renewed. And with a promise to myself that I would continue the feeling of being "real" by being myself instead of who I was "supposed to" be.

It wasn't until a crisis that I was able to make the break. Repeatedly, I've been told that my ability to be true to myself was the inspiration needed to move forward.

Perhaps you see me as a bit socially awkward. Good! I am! I have no desire to make small talk, as I've said before. Sooner or later, if I see that you are someone I can let in, I will join the conversation. It may take minutes, hours, days, years. The point is, if you feel uncomfortable with my quiet nature at first, you probably will be later. And in the long run, I've found that the people that are most uncomfortable with those who don't jump in immediately, people like me, are frequently pretty uncomfortable with themselves. I have a number of very outgoing friends -- people who will talk to anyone, anywhere; people who could probably make friends with a stone statue, and no one would think anything of it. But they are quite comfortable with the differences in people, and can not only tolerate those who reserve their spirit for times when they are more comfortable.

Where I've gone wrong is in believing I "should" make friends with the people who strike up conversations with me repeatedly. In going against my nature, and trying to follow someone else's lead.

an almost open letter

For the past couple of days, an apology has been rolling around in my head, but I haven't been able to let it out because something just hasn't seemed right. I couldn't put my finger on it, but then I realized what it was: what I thought I needed to apologize for is not what feel sorry about. And "sorry" isn't even the right word. "Guilty" is probably closer. Yes, closer. Not exact yet, but closer.

But what I'm guilty of is not what you are thinking, I'd wager. For the first time since I met him, I believed the words of a bully. One of many Insignificant Distractions of late. [see a previous blog post, if you'd like] Anyway, I am embarrassed that I believed what he said about you and your questions. Although, as I recall, you did not deny the questions, just the actions that would/could have followed. And yet, I still could not bring myself to apologize to you for that embarrassing lapse of reason. Why? I kept asking myself.....

And then I realized. I believed it because it sounded just like something you would say, and something you would do. My brain was in overdrive, piecing together many emotions and memories; like an old VCR tape when you could rewind while watching, and see the whole story in reverse.* That's when I saw it: the scenes when all of this happened before.

Do you remember? That first trip I didn't get invited on because you decided to pass judgment on me based on something someone else said. We stood in the creek, and you apologized profusely; saying that you couldn't believe that you had let someone else's words change your mind about inviting me--and my whole family. By then, it was too late for us to go, with my schedule, and everyone else's, except for one of my sons, who went to help you. With my blessing, remember? I looked forward to going the following year.

I didn't go, because my schedule again conflicted; but this year, I scheduled it off--well in advance. There's the rub. The thing I really wanted to talk to you about that day; the thing that really was bothering me. I thought I needed to apologize because I'd lied about why I couldn't go. It was a good lie, too--the really believable kind! Unless you look at the rest of my summer, that is, and what was in my head. I said I couldn't go because I'd be out of reach on my cell phone, and that work needed to be able to get in touch with me. While that's true enough, it's not why I didn't go. Also true is the fact that neither my sunglasses nor my glasses fit well with my bike helmet. Not being able to see well is a pretty good justification for not going. But that was not why I didn't go.

I didn't go because, in all honesty, two of the men on the trip give me the creeps, three of the men on the trip treat some of the kids in a way that I don't like--verbally (and there I go, not being completely honest--my kid and one other kid, who also was not sure about going on the trip, but did.), one of the men on the trip was far more insistent that I go than I felt comfortable with, one of the men was too much of a stranger to be any issue at all, and one of the men was my husband--the only one I really wanted to be on vacation with! (Yes, if you are doing the math, there are more men listed than were there--at least two of the men overlap categories.) Worst of all, I knew that, once again, I would not speak up and tell them to knock it off. Why? For fear of hurting your feelings. Yes, your feelings. I did not go on the trip because I was ashamed that your feelings meant more to me than those of children that I love.

Yet I realized that when I answered the phone, you had already decided that you were angry. You tried to tell me that I made you angry by "accusing" you. I passed on what had been told to me. You told me you were angry that I sounded happy when I answered the phone. Why shouldn't I?

I am happier than I have ever been in my life.

I'm sorry for thinking what we had was a 'friendship.' There's the apology. Over the past few days, I have thought about all the time we spent together, and realized it wasn't what it seemed. I won't go into that. Your anger at me is displaced. I did nothing. I was as surprised as anyone, and as confused. But I have moved on. Forward. I am living again, and rebuilding myself.

The fact that you've passed judgment on me based on something you heard -- twice -- does not make it okay for me to pass judgment based on something I heard. I'm not trying to justify my actions. For a day or two, I mourned the death of a friendship; until I realized it was all in my imagination, anyway.

Two recent pins have made me think of you: "Go ahead. Judge me. Just remember to be perfect the rest of your life." (qsprn.com) and "You become like the 5 people you spend the most time with. Choose carefully." (www.takethelidoff.blogspot.com) Think about that. I wish I'd seen the latter far sooner. I would have spent far less time and energy telling myself that our friendship was separate from your friendship with people who had nothing but unkind things to say about me, despite not having spent any time getting to know me. I won't make the same mistake again. I hope you don't, either.

Goodbye.


*If you are scratching your head about that, it's probably because you've only ever been able to "skip" backwards on a DVD. Your loss. Watching one's favorite shows in reverse once in a while, though bad for the tape, was great fun!

a great teacher

This morning, I woke to find news that a teacher of mine from High School had been murdered, outside his home. While I was shocked, I continued on with my morning as usual. At work, I told a co-worker, and after finding a news article online, emailed it to her, along with my thoughts at the moment.

I remember, I had space in my schedule, and decided to take some business classes, so I took accounting to fulfill a math requirement, and I took Intro to Marketing as an elective. How hard could it be? I thought, and I figured I would be circulating in a slightly different crowd than usual. Both thoughts were not entirely correct! The marketing information was fascinating to me--none of it was particularly difficult for me, but I ate it up: shrink wrap vs. clam shell packaging; the ratio of soda straw diameter to soda cup as figured by fast food chains; the relative hardness of seating in regard to turnover in a dining room.....all information that ultimately helped me in some of my college classes, though I remember sitting in that back corner of the room whining along with everyone else that it was fairly useless information. (I had a mad desire to fit in when I started that class.) As for the "new crowd," well, some of my friends must have had the same idea, as I don't remember meeting too many I didn't already know there. The teacher was Mr. Poet, and I loved class with him. He was not murdered.

He did, however, encourage any of us that were enjoying his class to join the school's Distributive Education Clubs of America (DECA), which he co-advised with a fairly new teacher, Mr. Keith Reed. Mr. Reed was, I discovered today, reading the news articles, only 6 years older than me. Yet he had the confident professionalism that made him both much older than that and ageless at the same time. And, yes, we all thought he was "cute." I remember even Mr. Poet mentioning it from time to time. I believe he was newly married at the time, and impressively aloof to our admiration. We didn't know anything about DECA, or what we were supposed to do as part of the club, but we would get to spend time with a fun, youthful teacher--and get out of school once in a while! What more could high school seniors ask for? Turns out, there was so much to learn--about business, about competition, and about life.

In DECA competition, Mr. Reed put me in the Supervisory Level competitions, even though I was terrified at the idea of playacting as a Manager. He said he knew that I had more brains than most of the judges, and that all I had to do was be myself and I'd do well. Nothing ever made me feel more confident in high school than his assurance, along with darn good scores at my first attempt at competition! I don't remember how many competitions we went to, although I do remember a hotel stay that was one of the best experiences of my Senior year. Sharing a room with three friends, all nervous about performing well and looking good in our business suits, was good prep for college dorm living! At competition, we would wait in chilly hallways for each other, and at awards, we'd eagerly await each other's scores, and graciously thank "Keith" (or "Keithage," as Jackie referred to him!) for his guidance, to which he would shake his head and say, "You can't call me that, you know." Eventually, it evolved into KEEEEEith! Since graduation, I have always thought of him as "KeithReed;" all one word.

When I'd have boyfriend troubles, he'd tell me to behave "professionally" and "with dignity" so that it wouldn't evolve into drama in my life. I learned so many life lessons from him. From him, I learned the value and importance of discretion, transparency, discernment. At the same time, I learned about teamwork in a work setting, and how it differs from, and is similar to, the teamwork necessary in sports. When Tanya and Jackie made it to National Competition, he encouraged us to be supportive of them, rather than jealous, promising to cheer for them on our behalf, which I have no doubt he did. At that same competition, I was being awarded a DEX scholarship from Johnson & Wales, where I would be going to college. Keith, my parents, and I (reluctantly! I wanted to go to NOLA!!) agreed that it made no sense for me to go on the trip just to accept the scholarship. Instead, Keith walked the stage to accept it for me while Jackie and Tanya cheered him on. Before I even knew what one was, he was my mentor.

I lost touch with him after graduation. (I left that September with the intent of never looking back. Another story for another time.) And with Mr. Poet. Though I have thought about the lessons, and the random information about marketing and merchandising floating in my head, and I frequently thank God that they were part of my development. Keith Reed will be missed by the students he was serving as Superintendent, those for whom he had been Principal, and by us, his early students, as well as by his family and friends. My prayers, and my tears, are for you today. I never could say it in the public school setting in which we knew each other: God bless you. Thank you for all you were, and for continuing to utilize the extraordinary gifts you had!

under a rock

"Plants and birds and rocks and things" (Dewey Bunnell)....these are the things that give life to my days. Waking in the early morning, before the sun rises, and hearing the birds wake and start to chirp. Sitting on the porch with my morning coffee, hearing the leaves scuttle across the road. Smelling the heady aroma of a Japanese iris while strolling through a beautifully landscaped garden. And rocks.

So many rocks are beautiful to look at--quartz and marble, diamonds and emeralds--but those are not the rocks we often find in our day to day. Oftentimes, the rocks we come across are in our way, or are deeply embedded in our path. Others tumble away when we stumble upon them. Worst of all, though, are the rocks with rot and decay hidden under them.

When I think of what is under a rock--worms, bugs, ants, wet, death and decay--I turn away. Although sometimes the view is fascinating, I usually resist the urge to lift a rock. Instead, I consider the beauty of the rock. The strength and support of the size and shape. And, more often than not, I stand on the rock.

That's where you'll find me--standing high on a rock, arms outstretched, the sun on my face and the wind in my hair, smiling and praising the universe, God, and nature. Feeling unabashed joy.

Me? Under a rock? Never.

princess

Once upon a time, there was a girl who was afraid of her own shadow. She kept to herself, escaping her own seclusion through books and playacting. Sometimes the characters were only shadows of herself, but more often, they were outlandish visions of what she hoped to one day be.

All along, she was picked on and bullied for being different, independent, alone. What she really was, was lonely, foreign, even in her own home. For a time, when she got older, she would pretend to have a boyfriend to snuggle with while watching television. She would never make up actual names for them, but would simply refer to them as "my guy." She even occasionally had arguments with her imaginary friends, in order to have some quality time alone. All in all, though, she dreamed of being swept off her feet and living happily ever after.

By and by, a man came along and tried to sweep her off her feet. He said all the right things....most of the time. He did all the right things, presented the right gifts, paid her the right compliments.....when he was in the mood to. In short, he broke her heart. And yet, deep down, she knew that he was not "her guy" at all; just a cheap imitation.

With a broken heart, but a new outlook--including a renewed interest in being outside of herself--she set off on a journey to discover what lie both inside her, and outside her world. What she discovered opened her eyes in more ways than she could count. First, broken hearts, when pieced back together, can be much stronger than they started. Friends could have substance--both physical and cerebral--that intrigued and interested her. The world is a frightening and exciting place, and should be embraced fully. Faith really can move mountains, and keep together the smallest of particles. Faith matters.

She discovered that people could let her down; but also that she was certainly capable of letting as many others down in her lifetime. No one is perfect. No one. No one. Everyone has secrets, pains, scars--even joys!--that they resist sharing for fear of judgement, recrimination, hatred, most of all, for fear of misunderstanding.

While still a girl on a quest of learning, she did meet "her guy" and was caught quite unawares by him. By his very existence. He was kind, sweet, loving. He had flaws, fears, scars. But he was more than just worthy, he was real. Real in the sense that he did more than simply exist; he lived his life, he laughed, he cried, he yelled. He loved, with all his heart, everything and everyone dear to him. In him, she saw what she hoped to see in 10...20...in 99 years. Every day.

They wed.

Happily ever after is something that takes time. And work. Lots of work--physical, mental and emotional work. There is no training for it. There is no barometer to compare one relationship to another, because the comparisons are superficial. Not one couple she met as she became a woman was willing to share their flaws in a personal way. She grew to believe it normal to blame another for problems, issues, stresses, for pain. She grew to believe that others did this because it was the right thing to do, whether it felt right or not. And it did not.

She began once again to withdraw. At first, it was a defense: she realized, somehow, that pushing the blame away, instead of embracing it, getting to know it, and changing it, was unhealthy--and very contagious. Her initial withdrawal was from the negative energy, but she found she had so little positive energy left within herself, that she wanted, needed, to retreat to her childhood world of books and imaginary characters; of aloneness (though not loneliness, she was never going back there if she could help it!). She didn't fit there. She was a woman now, and the world of "girl" was too limiting; too unknowing and unknowable.

Instead, she found a strength she did not realize she had developed. She watched her guy do battle, do his work, find his way. She watched him get lost from time to time, and offered direction when she could. And she remembered one of the most important lessons she had learned on her journey. Occasionally, paths diverge, and continue. Occasionally, one must walk alone, or run ahead, or lag behind. Occasionally, one must sit and ponder.

She walked ahead for the wrong reasons: she was frustrated. She told herself she was simply determined, but really, she wanted to forge on, no matter what. When she relented, and turned around, she found that all those around her had the same thought, but chose another path. She had a choice once again: to become lost herself, or to continue on the path she believed in. Others may judge her decision, but she knew, from all that she had learned, that most of those who judge have something of their own to hide, scars they are afraid of reopening, pain (or joy) too great to share willingly. For them, it is far easier to lash out, to try and open wounds that are long healed and forgotten.

Her heart held fast. Somehow, the edges of the old pain had created strong and supple bonds with the joy and happiness of the new found love and livelihood. She felt younger than her girlish self, and yet knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she was not in that alone place. She now had her guy, and most importantly, her faith--in goodness, in forgiveness, in Truth, and in herself.

She had become.

water under the bridge

Today was one of those "I really just feel like I need to cry, but I don't even know why" kind of days. Maybe it was the little bit of frustration from work; or maybe it was hormones; or maybe it was related to the torrents of rain falling....Possibly a combination of all, along with the underlying tiredness of this weekend's trip, and the subsequent "I still miss you, and now I miss them." To be honest, it doesn't much matter, does it? When those days happen, there's the choice that has to be made: do I keep busy enough to hold it off, or do I just give in and get it out of my system? Today I chose the former, although plenty of times I've gone with the latter, only to have the same result in the end: it's gone.

Whatever it was that was getting under my skin today is gone, and I've moved forward once again. And I didn't even fritter away the time on the computer, or doing nonsense things. (That's my other "usual" thing.) I filed some papers and wrote a check that have been waiting, bagged up some old shirts we won't be wearing any more (two big garbage bags! Good riddance!), did laundry, cleared off my dresser, fixed up my resume -- some things I've been putting off, and some that I'd normally rather put off!

When I think about it, though, I realize there is an edge to today's mood that had never been there before. There once was a time when I was that girl that could walk down the street without a care in the world. Lately, I've found myself looking over my shoulder when I'm alone, and the stress of it is grating on me. Last week, I actually ran from someone in the dark. Yesterday, I spent the morning in a strange city, and in the daylight, found myself checking my surroundings -- even when, for blocks, I saw no one at all, let alone following me. Both times, a friendly word soothed and comforted me (at night, a friend; yesterday, a stranger), but it bothers me that I have the feeling at all. It's getting to me, and the worst part is, I know exactly why.

A friend of mine Pinned this the other day: "Sometimes you have to burn a few bridges to keep the crazies from following you." Precisely. And laughter and love will save the day. Always.

me, and only me!

The question: What will you do with your evening alone in a hotel room?

The answer: Be me!!

The first thing I did after checking in, to be perfectly honest, was cry. Not the sobbing, core shaking kind; just the full eyes leaking down the cheeks kind. As I looked around the room, I realized that even if it were the Taj Mahal, it would still feel drab without the love of my life. I miss him, and it's only been three days.

In fact, I've never missed him this much--as a married woman. I sit here, with two other tabs open on my screen (Pinterest and Facebook, of course!! haha), and recall the first time I went away for the weekend without him. How long we'd been dating is irrelevant, and lost in the archives of my mind, but I clearly see the photo I took with me and I acutely feel the tight knot of feeling--a strong combination of love, sorrow, anticipation and joy--that my last thought each night, and my first each morning.

Tonight, I don't have a photo propped up by my pillow, but I do have plenty on my computer and on my phone. And each one makes me smile, remembering each event, each moment, each vacation and silly time a picture was taken, and the love projected, and protected, by our relationship. Tonight, I do feel the same knot. One difference: tonight I am wearing one of his undershirts as my nightshirt, and instead of having his high school ring sitting next to my keys, I have two rings from him on my left hand.

So how did I spend my evening alone in a hotel room? After I cried, just a little, I did a little yoga, booted up my computer, and called him. And I told him everything in my heart, along with the stories of our weekend. We laughed, we shared, and I felt better; more like myself. Then I watched The Blind Side, painted all twenty of my nails, and browsed Facebook and Pinterest. And threaded together some words, of course.

I'm bein' me. And it's all good now.

goin' to the chapel

When one spends 11 hours in the car on the highway, one sees many things, and some of those invariably serve as reminders of some past long forgotten. Yesterday, I had one such moment.....

Along the way, somewhere just past halfway to our destination, I spied a deserted church off the highway. It reminded me of a long ago dream of ours (mine?) to one day buy an old church and renovate it as our home. At the time, we lived in New England, where churches for sale would not have seemed all that unusual. Especially the size that would seem reasonable as a single family dwelling. We also did not yet have children, so the idea of renovating, refurbishing and remodelling did not feel overwhelmingly impossible! (Now, just trying to organize a time to purchase the paint for the balcony project--let alone pick out a color!-- takes a crazy amount of logistical madness!)

Seeing that church, though, with weeds growing up around it, and the driveway/parking lot breaking up with them, the excitement of the prospect flowered and bloomed again in my mind. For the next 50 miles or so, I mused about the little churches we had spied off the beaten track on the travels of our early days together. I remembered my sister-in-law saying that we always had the greatest creative ideas for everything. I wondered if I had ever shared that statement with my husband, and how he might have taken it.....

The loft bedroom in the choir loft; the two bedrooms off either side of what had once been the altar area; the open concept living room, dining room, fun area in the body of the church, where the main aisle and pews had been. It all came back.

And I wondered.....was it really such a far-fetched idea? I had completely forgotten about it, and the memory stirred something joyous in me. Do I see it as a calling? I don't know. Do I see it as a symbol of renewed faith? Again, I don't know. Honestly, I see it as a recollection of a dream. I see it as another rebirth of the joys of our life. Another symbol of the strong foundation we have built together paying off when the storms come. Most of all, I see it as a reminder to smile joyfully as I look both backward and forward on who I am, what we have together, and where we are headed--literally and figuratively.

not the usual day

Eleven years ago today, I dropped Jonathan off at school, dropped Drew off at nursery school, and went home to put Joseph down for a nap and hang out with Henry until pick-up and lunch, then Kindergarten for Henry and another nap for Joseph. Another hectic, yet typical day. It was a beautiful fall day--a day much like today; another Tuesday.

As I usually did when I got back after our walk around down dropping off siblings, I called Guy at work to say hello. He told me a plane had flown into a building in New York, and I remember saying that hadn't happened in a long time, thinking it was a small, personal plane. He kept saying it's such a mess, and I remember visualizing what a mess it would be to have an office window broken in and wind blowing papers and things all around while a bi-plane like Snoopy's sat in the middle of the office.

Finally, Guy convinced me to turn on the TV and see for myself. That was just as they showed the second plane hit. I sat down. I said, "Oh, my God." I said something like, "What the hell is going on?" I was too stunned to cry, to yell, to react at all. And I was some 175 miles away. At some point I started to think of all the people in the city on any given day, and when I began to get overwhelmed, I told Guy to get back to work while I tried to occupy Henry for a few minutes.

Before long, I was on the phone with my sister in Atlanta. We talked and watched together, wondering what would happen next. I remember two things distinctly from that phone call. The first: when I expressed relief that my brother-in-law was stationed in Montana, and not at someplace that seemed a "high target" area, she mentioned that he was probably guarding missile silos. "What other reason is there to have a base in the middle of nowhere?" My heart stopped. The second: at some point, she said that if she were to decide to create widespread panic, Atlanta would be a likely target--both of us were watching CNN, based in Atlanta. "What would cause more panic than not being able to see what's happening anywhere in the world?" I got off the phone with her, wondering when I would get to speak to her again, only because it was time to pick Drew up.

By then it seemed that planes would be going down all day. The nursery school teachers had no idea what was going on--only that something unimaginably bad was happening. The lead teacher in Drew's class came out to find out how all of us were doing, and if anyone needed help with the kids, an extra prayer, if anyone needed to share anything in the dim sanctuary of the hallway. We all expressed our disbelief, our shock, our collective fear.

Later that day, I remember thinking that I felt very similar to the day of the Oklahoma City bombing. That day, I had only Jonathan, a baby, and I scooped him out of his crib and held him for the rest of his nap, the rest of the day until Guy got home. That day, all I could think of were those children in the daycare center downstairs in Oklahoma. On September 11, 2001, all I could think of were those parents in the towers, and the children left at home.

Filling out the calendar for school this year, I noticed that September 11 would fall on a Tuesday again. I wondered if it would be harder, being the same day. Occasionally, I would think that it was coming up, and, knowing myself, I figured it would affect me more than usual, being a Tuesday. And this morning when I woke up, I did remember. But it wasn't until I heard Denny and Sue on the radio, and Denny mentioned that the forecast looked to be the same day as 2001 that it hit me--all the memories came flooding back. Memories from that day, and the days, weeks and months that followed.

No planes flying overhead. The silence. The Middle Eastern mother at Jonathan's school who stopped wearing her robes and headscarf to drop off an pick up her child. The panic I felt every morning. How I wished Guy did not have to leave the house every day. How I wished I had somewhere to go, like he did. My amazement that anyone could act normally. The voice telling me, "Be not afraid." The calm that followed. "Thy will be done." Suddenly remembering a friend who could have been there, and the related need to find out. (None of them had been.) My brother telling me about visiting New York for work because no one else would take the territory, and his visits to stores and a fire department. Starting to feel normal again.

Needing, wanting to hear others' stories, memories, reflections.....my friend's twin daughters seeing themselves as related to the twin towers as they grew up; a stranger on a ferry telling me about the changes she had seen; dear friends who knew someone; 102 Minutes.

Today's flag at half staff.

Never Forget.

Ever.

jars and vessels

The recipe called for 2/3 cup of smooth peanut butter. When I checked the shelf, I found not one, not two, but three nearly empty jars. From the three jars, that apparently no one could use to make a sandwich, I managed to get just about all I needed for the cookies. Of course, this means that plenty of sandwiches could have come from those jars! It seems every time I use the peanut butter, there are nearly empty jars on the shelf.

And every time, I wonder where I have gone wrong.

When I muse aloud where I've gone wrong, the response is usually along the lines of "what are you talking about??" In reality, I really want to know! What I mean is, I never would have considered opening another jar if there was anything at all in an open jar already on the shelf--or in the case of my growing up, in the lazy susan. I would have gotten peanut butter all over my fingers trying to get the last bit out to put on my bread (like I did today for the cookies), rather than risk Mom seeing two open jars. I don't even remember her ever saying anything to me about it; it was just one of those things I knew, no matter what--whether it was peanut butter, ketchup (two bottles in the fridge yesterday), cereal (two open boxes of mini-wheats last week), or anything else (like the two bottles of water on my counter right now), we, or at least, I, would not risk the perceived waste or extravagance of multiples like that.

Three jars.

I guess to be fair, I must say that two of the jars were creamy, and one was super chunk, but the fact of the matter is, there were also relatively full jars open on the shelf, too. That's a grand total of five jars open, three of which were just about spent--but would never have gone anywhere if Henry hadn't asked for peanut butter cookies. Sheesh.

Where did I go wrong?

As I've mentioned before, in the past I have been prone to meltdowns. Occasionally, they appeared to be triggered by such minor infractions or annoyances. (In reality, they were stress related, but since the stress was due to my own internalization, we all managed to blame them on dumb stuff like spilled milk.) Did I not ever make my displeasure obvious when it comes to multiple open containers? Did I freak out too many times, so no one paid any attention? Am I really the only one who cares that there is an entire shelf of open peanut butter? Really? Have I cleaned up and taken care of the extra stuff too readily (like today, and like the ketchup yesterday), thereby not making the job seem unlikeable? Or the opposite--did I have one of them clean it up too often, so they really, truly convince themselves that they cannot see the already open containers?

From time to time, I've asked, "Why is there an almost empty jar of peanut butter on the shelf?" (I could not ask today--I was the only one at home.) Invariably the response is, "I thought it was empty." Which of course leads to the question, "Why didn't you rinse it and put it in the recycle then?" In response to which I'll hear, "Oh! I thought you meant the other jar...." Our household version of "not me," it seems.

Then again, every time I come across these jars, I'm reminded of one of the funniest things I ever saw out our kitchen window. As I cleaned up the kitchen after breakfast on a beautiful, sunny and crisp fall day, I looked out the window and saw a peanut butter jar bouncing across the yard. Thinking I would head out pick it up and put it in our recycle, despite knowing it was not from our can--it wasn't our brand--it started to bounce up the cherry tree. That's when I realized the jar was attached to a squirrel. More correctly, the squirrel had stolen someone's relatively empty jar, and was attempting to snack on it! I watched him carry the jar up; no mean feat, as the jar was clearly larger than him! Before long, the jar fell from the tree, making a rather loud "THUNK" as it hit the ground. As I laughed until I cried, I found myself quite thankful that I had not been under that tree! Ever since, I have been pretty scrupulous about cleaning out the jars before putting them in the recycle.

But I still wonder when or how my kids will "get" the whole "finish one before you start another one" thing. Or if I've really missed out on teaching them a really important life lesson.

molehills and mountains

This morning, as on so many other "easy mornings" -- the occasions few and far between when we have no specific reason or time to wake -- for so many years, I woke before my husband, and got to watch him sleep. Of the many things that marriage "is," I think observing him in his sleep is one of my favorites. The peacefulness, the hint of a smile, the hint of a young boy in his face all intrigue me. Usually, I can only resist a light kiss on his nose, his forehead or his hand for fifteen minutes or so. Many times, I get up then and sew, write, make coffee and breakfast. Today, though, I grabbed my book and read.

I suppose it's just the turning of the pages that draws him out of his slumber; I don't know exactly. Before long this morning -- just four or six pages -- I heard him say, "I just don't know how you do it. I am still so very tired. I'm exhausted." Not wanting to make noise, in case he wanted to sleep some more (his eyes were not even opened yet), I smiled in response. Our son needed to get to band camp, and had asked that I get him up in time, which is why I had not snuggled back in again when I awoke. We had walked to the high school football game last night, stopped at our friends' house on the way home to visit, and, after walking home, discovered our youngest son was still up, and, since our second son was in transit from the game and post-game activities, we had a couple of texts to wait for. By the time we got to sleep, it was sometime around 1am. Today was a good day for an easy morning!

Tomorrow we can have one more -- the last for a while. Saturday morning practices, meets and competitions begin next week, along with a trip for me. The next easy morning we can foresee will be around Thanksgiving. For many years, I've dreaded the loss of this special time together for the long season our family's preferred sport covers. For the first time since we've had children, I'm not looking at the change as being "bad," per se. Rather, I find myself looking forward to the holiday breaks, of course, but more to the renewed day to day interactions and making the most of each bit of time we do get to share. Easy mornings are no longer the only times I see as "our time" together. We have time -- we make time -- far more easily than ever before. Next week, it will take more creative thinking, that's for sure! But, for the first time in a very, very long time (read: a decade, maybe??) the challenge seems smaller; a molehill rather than a mountain.

Our easy mornings now melt into our easy days. For that, I am eternally grateful, and say so as much as possible. Love is beautiful (and patient and kind, and doesn't judge and all that good stuff, too!)

changes in attitudes

Every year, at the end of the summer, I'm grateful for the return to routine that school brings. The carefree laziness of summertime--even though I've worked more in the summer for the past three years than I do during the school year--is fantasticly relaxing, and I do wish that summer break would last long past the school years. After a while, though, it gets old for me. I find myself beginning to long for the regularity of a Monday through Friday routine, homework, and, especially, the cooler weather and fall colors.

My kids have been in school for two weeks now, but my summer job only just ended yesterday, so I haven't had time yet to revel in the routine. Instead, I've been in the midst of a crazy schedule; half the time not much caring if I'm coming or going. Down to one job now, you'd think I'm ready for some rhythm and reason.

Yet I find myself on the edge of my seat for the new routines this year will bring. And bracing myself for the brakedown so many of my friends have already experienced. When the new team schedules start next week, along with a new work schedule to fit in, and band, and everything else, I'm pretty sure I'm going to realize just how much I depended on my college freshman for a slice of sanity.

In the past, I've been prone to meltdowns. Actual, embarrassing minutes of literally puddling the floor with tears, snot and a curled up ball of me. Turns out, there was quite a bit of pent up emotion completely unrelated to transporting my kids behind those outburst (yeah, really, I did not realize that! ha!), and recent lifestyle changes have eliminated the band of tightness that always seemed to constrict my heart.

I do wonder, though, if that first time I have to drop everything and go, because I pushed ever-so-slightly past where I should have, if I will revert to my old self. The self I unloaded in Florida, intending never to look back. Give me two weeks, and I should be fine. Once I get past the settling in.

Until now, I've kept so busy I've been able to avoid thinking about missing him, but I do. I miss him shaking his head at his brothers, and the way he understands just what one of them is doing to make me widen my eyes--the silent exchanges we would often have while making dinner. He would make me nuts sometimes, too, but then he'd make me laugh. I'm glad he's doing his thing--and that he's quite willing to 'chat' with us through texts. He's enjoying himself, making friends, making memories, making his life. I'm proud of him!

For now, I'll keep my trepidation on the table. I've learned that keeping it inside only makes for personal pain. Over the next few weeks, the "getting used to the routine" weeks, I'll share each of my frustrations with each of my family members, and, hopefully, the outcomes will continue to be more positive than before.

No, not hopefully--they will be, because I have determined the direction of this story. Bring it on.

insignificant distractions

We all have them. Those things that take our attention away from where it should be focused, and sometimes keep us confounded despite our best intentions. Some distractions are quite profound: blowing bubbles or jumping in a puddle with a toddler; stopping to pick dandelions on a spring day; getting stuck under an awning with a stranger in a sudden downpour. These distractions often serve to make us think of what we have been missing in our often hectic day-to-day. Frequently, we promise ourselves we will make more time for that toddler, on spring days, to allow our day to be brightened by a friendly word. These distractions are significant--much more significant than we give them credit to be. They remind us, at a very deep level, who we are, who we mean one day to be, who we admire.

Other distractions may get more attention because they seem more flashy, more showy, more exciting to talk about--or hide. While they may last longer -- less than half a year, or even almost 15 years or more -- they are not significant. Why? If a distraction can last that long, wouldn't it be quite significant? No; not if they are only serving to remind you of who you are not. Once the distraction is shaken, each day without it becomes more beautiful, clearer, and more crisp. Each day without the distraction becomes hopeful, promising, REAL. Life in general is better. Insignificant distractions may make a temporary impact on the being, but ultimately, every insignificant distraction proves the honesty and intensity of a soul bound for better things.

In The five people you meet in Heaven, Mitch Albom wrote, "In order to move on, you must understand why you felt what you did and why you no longer need to feel it." This applies to  insignificant distractions, which are sometimes hard to explain, but, in the end, can be seen objectively as teaching moments; moments that may have lasted longer than a simple kiss, but mean far, far less, because they had no depth. Insignificant distractions, even when long-lasting, are superficial, at best; meeting only our most ignoble needs.

Moving forward from significant distractions--babies, babbling brooks, a clear and star-filled sky--the kind that show you the power of God and His love--is somehow much easier to understand and learn from; and, therefore, we are able to walk away feeling empowered, blessed, and somehow 'more.' They carry depth; they reach into our very core.

Happily ever after is real. It just requires copious amounts of hard work. Insignificant distractions cannot dismantle a strong foundation. In fact, insignificant distractions rather fortify the edifice. Oh, yes, focus can be lost, but when we realize our mistakes, we can prove to ourselves just how powerful our true selves can be.

out the door

Some days, saying good-bye is not all that difficult. Today, for instance, as I listened to rain fall on the canvas awning, all I could hear were silver dollars plinking down, and that made walking away at the end of the day particularly satisfying. And the fact that there will only be one more walk away is even more gratifying.

So much of what I have learned about myself has been related to a frustrating atmosphere. Yet I understand that is appropriate. Learning my limits, facing my limitations, forcing my boundaries, -- all lessons borne of frustration, to a certain extent.

Not everything has been so difficult. Most of the planning, teaching, training and relating has been, at least most of the time, enjoyable and even easy for me. I've enjoyed working with both kids and adults, and even made some wonderful friends. I will never turn my back, but I am happy to walk away; to close the door and look for the next open one.

No, the frustration has been singular and intense, and has left quite a bitter taste in my mouth. I feel used, and at the same time, unseen--neither of which sits well with me! I am not to be ignored, minimized, overlooked. These are things I fight tooth and nail, in my own quiet way. I've made my case, spoken my mind, and what happens next is my own; my choice, my future, my lessons learned.

Best of all, though, I have my family and true friends to love an support me. My husband and sons who have heard all my stories, laughing and grumbling right along with me. And my dear friends who have asked, in turn, how it's all going, and have been able to relate each of my experiences to one of their own. I truly am blessed to have learned so much--about myself, about life, about others.

And I'm ready to move forward with that knowledge.

fears: pt. 3

Then there's my scariest fear: trucks on the highway. There's a possibility that came about when I was behind a truck that had a blowout. It causes him to fishtail all over the highway, with large pieces of rubber and a bunch of smoke everywhere. The thing is, I don't remember that scaring me a whole lot. I was driving the station wagon I had learned to drive in, and I was alone in the car--I even remember the landmarks around me, and that it was a beautiful, sunny day.

No, I think this fear started much later, and may even be related to the 'visions' I had associated with my (at the time undiagnosed) hypothyroidism. That would put the beginning somewhere in my early 20s, when I really started doing a lot of highway driving. For sure I can place it before I worked at a department store a half hour away, during the early bird shift. That's when I shared the fear with a friend I carpooled with occasionally, who then told me that truck drivers are probably the safest drivers on the road.

The really odd thing about this fear is how it come and goes. Truthfully, it hadn't bothered me for a while, even with the long summer commute I have, and the long trips I've been on, driving by myself. Then I saw a truck swerve a little, and straddle the line for about a mile, and it all came back: the panic I have to force down so I can concentrate on driving, and the white knuckle grip on the steering wheel. Ever since, I am back to "the big lean" to the center of the car when my husband passes a truck, and my own speeding up after four deep breaths when I have to pass. (It's less of a problem for me when they pass me. Weird and inconsistent, I know--that's how I know it's not all that rational!) And all the while, I can see the same vision behind what my eyes are seeing.....

What is this vision? Put simply, me being squashed by a semi on the highway. The vision has always varied slightly, I think based on what size car I am primarily driving. When it was mostly a mini-van I was driving, I see me and my car pancaked against the jersey barrier (which also makes me have the irritated thought that it is a "jersey barrier" not a "new jersey barrier." See? Not rational!), and the truck just driving away, not even noticing. When I drive a smaller car, or when I was driving a station wagon, as the truck moves over to change lanes, it either runs right over the car, or the car becomes wedged underneath for a few miles. Either way, in my mind's eye, I hear a screeching of metal and tires, and I end up gone. Perhaps the fact that I have never seen myself dead in these visions is a positive, but I do know that I come out of the vision "knowing" that's how I'm going to die.

One summer, I had a similar fear, but of crossing bridges. Dad and Mom had decided we would vacation in Vermont, and I remember hiding on the floor of the car when we crossed one long, high bridge. My sister and our friend, Nancy, were trying to coax me out to see the view, my mother was exasperated, and my father felt terrible that he couldn't do anything about it but continue driving. Somehow, I seem to recall it starting as a joke, and ending up being a real fear that summer. Not afterwards, though--just on that trip.

None of this keeps me off the road, though. In fact, I love driving and taking trips in the car. Driving to Florida this summer was a wonderful treat, and I'm looking forward to a trip to Savannah in the next couple of weeks. Being on the road offers a different kind of freedom, and I wouldn't trade it for anything. Trucks, you won't beat me! We'll just share the road.


But the moment you turn a corner you see another straight stretch ahead and there comes some further challenge to your ambition. 
                                                                                                ~Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr.