and the greatest of these

Not too long ago, I went through a major emotional upheaval, and at the time, not knowing what else to do, I prayed. I've never been a big prayer. I've talked pretty frequently with God (in my own opinion), and not just the "hey, can you do this for me" kind of praying, either. Thanking Him for the blessings in my life has been first and foremost for as long as I can remember. When the boys were very small, I remember praying often for patience, too, which is how I learned the tough lessons about 'getting what you pray for.' It didn't take long for me to realize that if I asked for patience, I would get lots of trying situations to give me an opportunity to practice! Before long, I shifted to more thankfulness: Thanks for the longer naps today; thanks for sending that hug through his little arms just at the point that I needed it; thanks for the gentle breeze while we were walking home.

At certain times, though, I've found myself despairing. Truly lost in grief, frustration, fear, confusion. Often, I would pray then, but not always, and not necessarily with my whole heart. Sometimes I would turn again to the expected, "help me" prayers, and would wind up wondering when I would get help, find peace, understand. Occasionally (not nearly enough, but I'm a little bullheaded at times), I would hit a rock bottom place. At those times, usually because of some offhand remark by a friend, as a last resort, I would breathe deeply and simply say, "Thy will be done."

After 9/11, that's when I finally was able to sleep through the night. I felt peace instantly. Tears still spring to my eyes when I think of it, the feeling was so intense and so sudden. I remember the most recent time as vividly. I was driving on the highway, and I felt profoundly lost. The GPS was guiding me with the tires, but my heart was racing everywhere. The boys were sleeping or listening to music on their iPods; the radio was on. I'm pretty sure the window was wide open. It was summertime. Aloud, I said, "God, guide me. I'll do what you suggest. Thy will be done." Within 24-hours, I was gazing at the Gulf of Mexico, and I had an answer.

Life is a journey. The destination, though of some import, is only a small piece of the puzzle. My whole life, I've believed that the destination is worth less (not "worthless," just having less worth; less fun) if the trip is ignored. Dad used to take the back roads and lesser highways. When I was little, I thought it was just because there are more ice cream shops on the byways. When we went to Rhode Island for the first time to visit a college, I realized he was taking Route 6 to make the trip longer; to drive home, metaphorically, how far away I would be from what I knew if I went that far away to school. I will always remember that trip as being tortuously long enough to convince me that I could never spend that much time with any of my family members ever again. That journey helped me to make my decision, though not the decision Dad was hoping for, I'd wager. (The end result was okay with him--I loved my life in RI, and there I met the love of my life.)

In my life, though, I've been coasting more than I thought until I looked at the Gulf, at the boardwalk leading to it, and considered how perfection is most beautiful when it is imperfect. That boardwalk made me happy, even though walking on it meant watching out for the boards that were warped or out of place. When I think of the peace I felt there, I can feel the water lapping at my feet, my legs, my arms. I feel the sun as the love shining down on me. The beach and the water were beautifully refreshing, and gave me the strength I needed to make a promise.

In thanksgiving, I promised to examine my heart, and open it to God's graces. I still have questions (plenty of them!) and I still wonder where I'm going sometimes. But there is a trust there in my heart that amazes and awes me. Now I am learning about the joys of believing in more than I did yesterday. Each day is the beginning of another small journey, each of which builds to take me closer to wherever that is. I trust that parts of that journey will be surprises to me--some happy, some sad; some confusing, and some enlightening--but will combine with the plans, hopes and dreams that I work toward.

Faith, at the moment, to me, is a collaboration, and I am ever so thankful for the newness I feel in every aspect of my life. Prayers from years ago--almost forgotten!--have been getting answers (not always "yes," either! and I don't mind!) and more thankfulness, peace and energy has been flowing in. Trust. Trust is the miracle I've witnessed at least twice in the past 6 months. Trust borne of faith, hope, and love.

watching and waiting

Over the past week, I've had a few interesting revelations. First, at Faith Matters on Wednesday night, I realized that the key to following an example of living, and then setting that example for others, is to first set an example for myself. Each day, each moment, each turning point needs to be a time that I want to be able to turn to the next time I come to a crossroads. A simple revelation, but not such a simple habit. Try it yourself...

In reading about Mother Teresa this week, there was a passage about a "terrible darkness" that she experienced after saying "yes" to Jesus. After reading the passage, I noted, "Darkness is followed by light. Always. Sometimes, though, the darkness lasts longer or seems even deeper. The times I have turned to prayer in the darkness (I don't always [pray]; because I forget, or it doesn't occur to me--sometimes to pray, sometimes that it is dark!), the subsequent light has been dazzling, refreshing. Mother's description of lowered head and arms outstretched, heart open [on the cross], mirrors my desire to comfort Jesus." Darkness is not always related to darktime, but the two can be intertwined. I'm wondering this week if my revelations are related to the longer days. If so, the timing for this Consecration couldn't have been better for me...

While it's not a new revelation, I have been thinking about, and looking for, the many, varied blessings in my life. We have our faults and foibles, our scars and our wrinkles. But, more importantly, we have each other, and the joys we've built together. Our life is ours, our love is ours, our faith is deepening, day by day. It's all good. And I am grateful, every day.

little words

I had plans for this evening. I was going to paint my fingernails and then write while they dried. Then I was going to consider dusting this room, or one of the other ones that so desperately needs it (depending on your point of view. Isn't dust an art medium?). Those were my plans for my Monday, made on Sunday night, as I fell asleep, snuggled between my husband and a dog-furnace.

Plans change, though, and oftentimes, we have little to do with the outcome. School was closed, both the school our kids go to, and the school where swim practice takes place. That meant another evening all together--which has been wonderful all weekend, but really puts a damper on my writing time! With practice cancelled, it was decided that the Y was the next best choice. The menfolk packed up their swimming gear, and I packed my sneakers, and off we went. I ran, they swam, my nails are still naked....

But I feel great! Tomorrow, I will likely be a bit sore, as I haven't run quite that far, or with as much intensity, in quite a while. True, running alone felt odd--I haven't been out without dogs and my man in who knows how long!--but then again, running inside, over a climate controlled gym felt odd, too, so what the heck. I got sweaty, isn't that what matters? Oh! And I liked it (again) which makes me shake my head every time. Me, sweaty and happy. Who'd'a thunk it? Certainly not anyone who knew me 20 or 30 years ago! Yes, I got sweaty dancing, but that was different. (How? I'm really supposed to be able to answer that? Did you read the part that it was 20 or 30 years ago? There was an awful lot I didn't know 30 years ago. Hell, there's an awful lot I don't know now!)

Squeezing in words while I stink feels a little like cheating, but the keyboard was calling me; the screen sad in its darkness. These are not the words I intended to put down today. Those will wait until tomorrow, I think: they are about my experience this week with our retreat; or what I mean by 'mindwebs'. Maybe even about the discussion we had after Saturday's sermon, and the quote I liked so much: "No one lays down their life for a known lie."* There's even a chance that I'll paint my fingernails, write, then paint my toes and write some more! There's a lot in there, and I want to share it all!

In the meantime, there's a certain someone I have a standing date with each evening right around this time.


*Deacon Hall worded it slightly differently on paper, but I'm certain that this is what I heard. The meaning, I believe, is the same. And it resonated with me quite a bit.

to the moon

I used to think that I knew the boundaries on my love. Rather, that love was contained within the confines of my heart. That the things I would do for love were expansive, but the love itself was in one place, contained, and easily reachable.

Over the course of the last five or six months, however, I have been experiencing something amazing. My heart has exploded. That is to say, my heart is everywhere. Love now feels like the universe. When I look inside, to see the love in my heart, I see mountains, oceans, stars and the moon. I feel an openness, a freedom that I've never experienced before. A wildness that makes me feel tame, calm, serene. At home.

If home is where the heart is, my home has now become everywhere. I've let go, and now can be open to so many more possibilities, so many more nuances. This morning, talking with Guy, I cried telling him about the vastness of the love in my heart, overflowing its banks. Then we laughed, because crying is just what I do. "It's who you are."

There are no boundaries on love. There is no reason to keep it contained. True love, good love, honest love knows no boundaries, and trying to keep it bottled up only chokes it; like putting a jar over a candle. Once it's released, there is no need to rein it back in. And I have no desire to. I want it to be wild and free.

I've let it go, and it comes back to me.

And I am eternally grateful for the lesson.

day by day

After dropping our oldest off at school today, and making a quick stop at a friend's house and Dad's grave, and having no co-pilot for the drive home, I had a chance to mull over the words that have been swirling in my head for days without synthesizing enough to come out well.

On Friday, I tried two or three times to express what was in my head. The best I could do was my last post, which looked exactly like what I wanted to say, but looked far different, and had a far different feel than that which I usually write and post. Oh, well, that happens, and is a part of who I am; how I create, balance, flow.

Today, though, the key to tying the swirling words was the visit to Dad. I don't always stop when I'm in the area, and there are arguments for and against in my mind and my heart every time. Honestly, I'm not interested in what other people think I should do. I stop when I feel the need.When I do stop, it's not because I have any feeling that he's "there" more than he's anywhere else. It's more that I need to be in a specific place in my history in order to find something there. Clumsily, I could equate it to a pilgrimage: I'm going there to feel a connection between past and present, and only his headstone can be the portkey. On the pedestal, I found an ornament: a cross, with the words "Prayer Heals," left by someone since the last time I was there. Peeking behind the headstone, I chuckled that there is still a circle of dust where the bottle of wine left by my sister (who later asked me to remove it) had been hidden by the caretaker.

Prayer Heals.

Over the past week and a half, I have been participating in a Consecration to Mary, and Wednesday, this question was posed: Why are you here? What made you decide to do this? I've been thinking about it ever since--truthfully, I had been wondering before the question was asked aloud. I'd been struggling with an answer, because the quick and easy answer is that I am doing it because Mom is. I know that's not entirely true, because I had decided to get the book before Mom said she wanted to go, too. So, why? (The questioner, incidentally, was not looking for an answer; this is for my own benefit.)

After my visit, listening to Jeff Cavins (I highly recommend), Jason Mraz and David Cook (favorite song twice) while driving from the top of the state to the bottom, I was able to put together many of my thoughts. First of all, I've always had lots of questions. For a long time, I equated having questions to a lack of faith. Over the past few years, I have come to believe that what I really lack is understanding and knowledge--two things that bug me about anything I'm involved in. Therefore, my questions must be connected more to a desire for understanding, a thirst for knowledge, and a desire for a deeper faith. That's why I'm there: I want to see if I can find some answers, if I can get closer to goodness, faith, sainthood.

Lofty goals, but what better way to be a better person? Shouldn't goals be lofty? I have nothing to lose. I've worked on and developed balance in myself, in my life, and I've been getting this close all the time. So the next step is to focus on my spirit, my soul. Having life crises will do that for you: it makes you look at where you are, analyze it, take stock of the good, the bad and the ugly, and rearrange, reprioritize and reorganize. I'm opening, blooming, growing, developing.

A little late, maybe, but better late than never.

a lovely lady

Dark water swirls around her legs
ripples, rhythmic, icy cold
Rocks wobble beneath her feet
smooth, slippery, hard
The night air kisses her cheeks
ears, eyes, nose
The sound of life in the reeds
waving, swaying, rustling

Why is she here?
What does she see?
She is looking, searching, thinking
Hoping to find
.......

Hoping to find a place in her heart
to give--
freely, completely, openly,
generously, selflessly....
more

Stars shine above
the moon, a sliver
making the pinpricks of light all the more bright.
Each a portal to heaven
but only one way

Loved ones, guide her
lead her, pray for her
That she may pray
and live

ah-chooo

Sniffles.

Having sniffles is the worst. My current sniffles are accompanied by an infrequent, but nasty sounding cough, and I don't like them. During the day, despite the constant need to stay within arm's reach of a tissue box (and, therefore, hand sanitizer at work), I feel pretty good! As long as I take my cold medicine, I could almost forget about this cold. Except that my columella is pretty raw by now.

Then, right around 6 pm, I hit a wall. It's a nice, padded wall, but it slows me right down anyway. A cup of tea and a little bit of a volunteer project perked me up a wee tad, but I am still dragging. I can tell because I'm having a tough time understanding the words swirling in my mind. They seem backwards, inside out, slow.

Early to bed again tonight, and another attempt at a run in the morning. A cold lasts 10 days (the best medicine I ever got was this little tidbit of information!) and I'm right on schedule with this one. Yesterday was the worst day, so each day now should see fewer and fewer tissues in my little wastebasket by my desk.

In the meantime, Christmas decorations can sit out a little longer. The dogs can get a little extra attention, and the Bubba and I can play a few more games. And evening snuggle time will start earlier. It's almost enough to make me like being a bit under the weather.

Almost.

skin off my nose

Occasionally I am asked why I post what I do, meaning personal feelings, I suppose. Actually, I should clarify that: Occasionally, I am told by friends or my husband that someone has asked them why I post such personal feelings. I am always amused that, without any prompting from me, they response they give is that writing is therapeutic for me. The response amuses me because it is so true. More than once, probably in an effort to dig up dirt, the query then becomes "What does she need therapy for?" My friends and my husband deserve all the best kudos, because the next response is a smile, a shake of the head, and "Maybe you should ask her."

My response would be "Who doesn't need some kind of therapy?" I write because I can. Words bounce around my head, and it feels good to allow them to flow from my fingertips. I can't make them come out; when I try to write, I'm faced with disappointment. I like the way my fingers feel on the keyboard, watching the shapes that form words on the screen in front of me, and the cursor dance along the lines.

Ever since Creative Writing class in high school, I've enjoyed having a "style" of writing. No, I cannot identify or classify it, other than it is personal. My best poems and stories in the class were deeply personal, and they were the most satisfying, too. I could just put all my words in a private journal, and hide it under my mattress, but why? I like to know what others think just as much as I like to let people know that I don't care what they think of me. I am who I am; what I am; where I am. And, being organic, I am fluid and subject to change, growth and even stagnation. Writing helps me to see where I am, where I've been, and where I'd like to go.

Why do I put my feelings out there for anyone to see? Because that's where I've always expressed myself. As a dancer and choreographer, my heart and soul were on view, and subject to interpretation (right or wrong) by anyone who cared to see and pay attention. And from that experience, I came away with some very good friends--people who were on the same wavelength, or who took the time to ask me what I meant. As an introvert (mostly, with extroverted tendencies, or vice versa. Read more of my posts), the idea of expressing myself face to face with anyone (other than the closest of my personal circle) falls somewhere between intimidating and terrifying. It doesn't even matter how "personal" the feelings might be; I just clam up, shrivel, shrink, and often, in the end, chicken out. Keeping feelings and emotions bottled up is one thing; hiding them from myself so that I don't have to talk, or for fear that I might accidentally say something I don't really want to is something else entirely. Because that's what happens from time to time: I speak, and the words from my lips are not as fluent as what comes through my fingers, and can be (and have been!) easily misinterpreted.

My goal is simple: I wonder if I'm the only one with the feelings and experiences I've had, and I hope to let others know they are not alone. There's strength in numbers, especially (ironically) for introverted extroverts, or extroverted introverts. We're few and far between, but far more common than people tend to think. How's that for a paradox? And really, is this goal really so different from that of any other writer? Or any other artist? All it is, when we get right down to it, is an effort to make a connection. A human connection.

Interestingly, people who speak directly to me about my posts generally either ask me to continue, or tell me that they have always felt the same way, or that they really needed to see what I had to say, for whatever reason. The people I "connect" with, connect. I love them. If they find a connection, there must be one there. I feel bad for the people who decide to resist connections; I wonder what in their lives keeps them aloof, afraid, distant. Is there something in their world they are unwilling to face? Something they don't want others to notice? Why the discomfort of reading, seeing, possibly feeling someone else's emotions? And the big question: if it bothers them so much that I would share my personal feelings (good, bad, and things in between), then why on earth do they continue to read my words? If I make you so uncomfortable, turn the page.

I'm okay with that.

and always

Today, My Love

Twenty-two years ago, I spent the morning with some wonderful women preparing for the beginning of the adventure of a lifetime. We had our nails done (a gift for me from my employer), our makeup done (a gift from a friend), and Guy's sister did my hair (a gift from her to me). We laughed and dressed, wondered what affect the weather would have on our day, and marvelled at how quickly time was passing.

We'll start a brand new today, My Love

The kids arrived, with their lopsided smiles and fancy outfits, passing hugs out to everyone. D, with her hat, warmed my heart, telling me that she was so very excited that I would become her 'taunte' for real soon. I wonder if I have ever told her how integral a part she played in the early days of my relationship with her uncle; how special it has been to me that she was willing to have a part in that day, and in so many days since. Once my heart was warmed, Dan-O melted it, pointing out his "'Talian leather shoes" and saying, "You are so beautiful, Aunt Fannie!"

Let all our worries slip away, My Love

The big concern was how to get my lace boots out to the limo. The snow was wet and messy. The last thing I needed was cold feet--in the literal sense! Plastic grocery bags were produced, slipped on like Cinderella's slipper, and tied or rubber-banded to my ankles. I was reminded of elementary school, when Mom would have us put bread bags on our feet inside our snow boots, "just in case" the snow didn't stay out where it belonged. Back then, I was the only one with plastic boot liners; once again, I was the only one in the group with bags on her feet. A funny reminder of the circles in life.

Time for us to start anew!

As Guy walked his mother up the aisle, the soloist sang "Sunrise, Sunset" from Fiddler on the Roof. I peeked through the curtain to catch a glimpse of him, and immediately began to cry. Dad and I were alone in the little room, and he caught me in his arms telling me, "We don't have to go through with this. If you want me to take you out of here, we can go." At the time, I was so confused: I thought he liked Guy; I thought he was excited and happy for me. Years later, I realized it was one of only 2 times my father was so overcome by emotion he didn't know how to simply say, "You're my little girl. And you always will be." Despite my confusion at his reaction, I was overcome with joy that he was my Dad; the man I'd first given my heart to.

So let's pray My Love, All our tomorrows like today, Sweet Love

The rest of the day is a blur of ceremony, pictures, hugs, food, dance, laughter, and joy. Both our families were there (except my brother-in-love, who we thought of often that day, far away in Saudi Arabia) and so many wonderful friends. I have so many pictures, each of which brings back a sliver or the day--a word, a joke, a tear. Two of the dearest, though, I didn't see until many years afterwards: my college roommate snapped a picture of me dancing with Dad, and she had another of the two of us. Two very special moments, with two very special people. I love looking through those albums!

We'll be together this way, in Love

In the years since, we've had good days and bad days--heck, good years and bad years! We've not only aged, but we've also grown up together. We were so young when we married, and really did have so much to learn about everything. Have I ever wondered if we should have done things differently? Sure. Have I ever regretted any of it? Not a chance. There isn't anyone I'd rather have grown up with, learned with, made mistakes with. No one I'd rather be on this roller coaster adventure of a journey with. No one I'd rather dance with, laugh and cry with, talk with, fight with. Be with.

You for me and me for you.

We've faced challenges of all kinds: kids, financial, physical, emotional, marital.....but that can't break us. Together we are strong. At our wedding, against the wishes of some family members, when we lit our unity candle, we insisted on leaving our individual candles lit, too. We felt so strongly that we needed to be seen as individuals, as a man and a woman, in addition to being one, united couple, facing the world together. I still feel that way. Part of my strength comes from having the support of my husband behind me, but most of my strength comes from the fact of me, and my own experience, faith, and interests. We have more in common now than we did then; or, rather, we've found more of the things we share an interest in during these 22 years. But we've also come to terms with the differences we have. I will not likely ever want to just sit and watch a game on TV, just as he will not likely ever want to knit or sew. We still surprise each other with bits of ourselves: things we learn about ourselves and each other, still.

Much like the sunshine on a cloudy day, Love appears from no place

I wasn't looking for a soul mate when I found Guy. Far from it. I was looking to find myself. It seems that's when the best things happen: when searching takes a backseat. Since the first time I saw him, though, I've known that we shared something special. Could we have known each other in a past life, or were we destined to be together? Does it really matter why we found each other? The important thing is that we did, and that the love that has grown between us--though tested many times--has become a life force. I am blessed in that I have found the love of my life, and he has found me.

Just when I need someone to pull me through....
You'll be here for me, and I'll be there for you!

Happy anniversary, My Love. And thank you to all who have been there for us, with us, in support, in love, and in faith, whether in person or in spirit. We couldn't have gotten here without you.


Thank you to Midnight Star for the beautiful song we used for our first dance. Today My Love is engraved in our wedding rings, and has been a powerful reminder to us about how to live our marriage. Quite a departure from the songs for which you were known, and one that we can never request a DJ to play (no one knows what we're talking about!), the melody, lyrics and message come to me to "bring out the joy in me."

a tad sad

"Do you suffer from SAD?"

The question was asked by my oldest son after I told him that I had some Saturday chores to do, but wanted to get them all done before dark on a cold January weekend. An almost tongue in cheek question, but a subject he said had been discussed to some extent in one of his classes. As a matter of fact, a dear, dear friend of mine (who I have never seen nearly often enough!!) and I had talked quite a bit about SAD and its effects last winter. She is quite prone to it, and we often weighed the relative benefits of food, exercise, lights and the like in relieving the associated withering of the soul in winter--or at least what sometimes felt like that!

I told him, though, that I have come to believe that I suffer more from TAD--temperature affective disorder. [Not a real thing, as far as I know!] Although I bemoan the Darktime, I actually, in many ways, have always relished the introspection it promotes: time to curl up on the couch with a quilt and a good book, or learn and work on a new craft, bake to heat up the kitchen. What I really don't enjoy is the still constant pull of life on my Darktime. If I could just "hibernate," ball up and forget the outside world except for the occasional darktime walk to look at stars or Christmas lights, winter would still be my favorite season, as it had once been.

Instead, I have to get groceries, pick up and drop off for practices, rehearsals, matches, meets and games, attend volunteer meetings, and whatever else shows up on my calendar. Don't get me wrong; these are all things I normally enjoy (yes, even grocery shopping), but in the winter, they pose much more of a burden for me. For a long time, it was easiest to understand that this was due to the lack of light in the evenings, but, at that moment that he asked the question, I realized it's not just light. [The seed for this whole musing was planted on the first Sunday of Advent, with a homily about bringing light, and the Advent wreath, and the winter solstice. Quite a beautiful set of thoughts and explanations.....]

What gets me is the cold. The drafts in our old, old house. The tips of my toes being icy from the moment the sun sets until sometime in the night, in my sleep. The chill on my elbows as I type, no matter how many layers I wear, or where I situate myself in the house. I told my son that day that every winter, about this time, I start to think about moving to a nice, tight, draftless condo nearby, where we wouldn't have to worry about the yard or the outside maintenance any longer; but, more specifically, I would be warm in the winter. At least that's what I try to tell myself, until the thought of even considering packing and moving starts to get me depressed and overwhelmed!

Then I kind of laughed to myself, remembering a statement made at our family reunion when it was held in Arizona (a place I loved, and would, possibly, someday, be thrilled to live!): "It's a dry heat: like an oven!" You see, I don't think the cold I feel is entirely related to the draftiness or the outside temperature. I think, bottom line, the cold is related to the dark. It's a big, wide spiral, and as long as I can share my quilt--and my icicle toes--with someone I love, keep a sense of humor, and seek the joy on the edges of the longer and longer days with my family and friends, I'll be fine in the long run.

In the meantime, I think it's time for some baking.

all our tomorrows, today

Although I don't remember exactly, I'm sure that somewhere in the hustle and bustle of wedding preparations and final fittings 22 years ago this week, there was a moment when I stopped and wondered how, or if, my life was going to change. I remember so little of the preparations at this point--just over a week away--but I do remember being so wildly happy about the plans we'd made, the dreams we'd shared. I vaguely remember being a tad concerned about the forecast, but no matter what, despite being very, very young, I knew we were about to have the greatest adventure of our lives.

And it has been.

We've had ups and downs, but that's exactly what we signed on for: "For richer or poorer, in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, as long as we both shall live." I told Guy once that when he really is getting my goat, I think of that day, and saying, "I do" in front of all those people who managed to get to the Church (the weather definitely looked worse than it was. I swear!) and that's all I need to remind me that some promises are more than just immutable; they are resilient and impenetrable.

At a rough spot, I remember Guy asking me what I was doing to improve my attitude. (We were both in quite a cranky place. Each of us had lost a parent, and both of us were stressed about life, income, everything.) I came across a bit of advice for those who like to write, and, though it sounded morbid, I decided to give it a try: write a eulogy or obituary for the one you love. The article I was reading argued that in such pieces, there can be no negativity, so the good things will resurface, distill, and become focal points. I didn't hesitate. I wrote the following, longhand, folded it up in my planner, and proceeded to forget I had written it. You see, as I wrote, I realized I didn't need the reminder: I am in love with my husband. Pure and simple. I found this yesterday when transcribing birthdays from that old planner from a few years ago into my new planner. Guy never saw it; and I was pleased to find that my heart feels just the same today.

Guy took my breath away the first time I saw him, and continued to do so. That first time, I was struck by the confidence and bearing that he possessed -- I could hardly believe that he was only my own age. Where I was confident in myself, he was determined regarding his future: he had a plan, a dream, and knew how to achieve it. I had an instant crush.

Through him, I learned that exercise and sports can be fun. He taught me how to throw a football, catch and hit a softball, shoot a basketball. He inspired me to take tennis lessons, learn to swim (effectively), and, eventually, to dance again.

I know that I have always driven him crazy: I talk too much; I clam up when I get grumpy; I cry easily; I hate to get frustrated--so I either avoid things I'm unsure of, or I blow up--neither of which serves any purpose other than embarrassing myself. Nevertheless, despite getting irritated with me, Guy always managed to touch my hair, my hand, my back, and calm me.

Because he treated me with respect from the very first, I became, or rather, found that I was, a strong woman. Whereas many of my thoughts and ideas had previously been either ignored or humored, with Guy I had an interested audience. He would listen to the unusual connections I make, and ask questions that helped to clarify and expand my thoughts. Mostly those conversations amounted to notes on scrap paper, which I can see may also have frustrated him to no end, but for me, they were always extremely enlightening; sometimes revealing larger truths, and sometimes resulting in pure silliness.

Guy does not make me whole. I can function well without him because of the person he has helped me to become. He is not the only person to have shaped me in some way as an adult. He is not the only person I turn to when I need something. Yet with him, I continue to become. It is because of Guy that I want to continue to evolve with a purpose. It is because of the life we've shared that I work toward improving myself. At the same time, I am fully aware that I can, and would, continue to grow even without him. I enjoy the effort all the more because Guy is a part of it. I love him. -- I have since I first saw him, and cannot imagine stopping, for any reason.

Why do I love him? Because "I do."

it's what's for dinner

Who would have thought that sauerkraut could cause such strong reactions in people? Honestly, I had no idea.

I grew up with no particular New Year's Day traditions, other than perhaps finishing my thank you notes before school started up again. My grandparents would come for dinner, but holiday dinners were always something different, and usually something we'd never had before (or again after, for that matter). [When I was a little older, possibly my early teens, I remember Gramma Katie meeting me at the door on New Year's Day, and telling me not to come in. When she saw the confusion on my face, she explained that it was good luck for the first visitor of the year to be male, so I would have to wait until Dad or my brother to walk through the door first. Since then, I have tried to more sneakily incorporate this tradition.] It wasn't until I met my husband that I started to experience the concept of "traditional" foods on holidays and other special occasions. Since then, we have developed our own food traditions, particularly on Christmas Eve.

The other day, while grocery shopping for the week, we modified Jonathan's menu to have steak on New Year's Day with Mom. After getting the steaks, chicken and some bacon from the butcher, I turned to Guy and asked if we should get some shrimp, too. I didn't think anything of it, other than it makes a nice appetizer when dinner's not quite ready. I found out later that when one of the boys asked why we'd gotten shrimp (it wasn't on the menu, after all, and we tend to be sticklers there), he said that it was because I'd remembered that it was traditional for his family to have shrimp on New Year's Day. When I heard the explanation, I admitted that had nothing to do with it, but I will try to remember to include it in the future, since it clearly means more to him than either of us had realized.

What does all this have to do with sauerkraut? Well, I can't stand the stuff. We live in an area of the country that is steeped in Germanic tradition, and apparently that New Resident Handbook that we seemed to have misplaced when we relocated from a totally different area of the country includes the fact that here, if you want to survive the year, you must have pork and sauerkraut on New Year's Day for good luck. For the first few years here, I would try patiently to explain that I did not have any ties to this particular tradition, and that since I didn't know it, it couldn't possibly apply to me. For most of the years since, I've just avoided talking about the menu for this particular day off. Today, however, I posted as my Facebook status: "So glad I did not grow up with that pork and sauerkraut on New Year's thing so I don't have to pass it on! Happy New Year! Bring on the surf and turf!" (Have I mentioned that I can't stand sauerkraut??)

What a response! Most people, as usual, had some variation of "if you'd only try mine, you'd like it!" And while lemon pepper or garlic and hot peppers do sound as though they would improve the stuff, I'm still not sold. The one comment about leaving out the juniper berries may have come closer to the issue, but still.

Before I go on, I should probably say that I am of Polish/Eastern European and Irish descent. Kraut is not completely foreign to me. I've known, from a very young age, that I would have starved at an even younger age had I been raised in the Old Country, based on those foods I was introduced to. Boiled food makes me hungry within an hour (except for pasta, which makes me hungry in 2 hours. Chinese food fills me for hours; sometimes days) and I just can't do kraut. Kielbasa and pierogies, on the other hand, I could eat, and is still one of my favorite meals, provided the pierogies are filled with potatoes and cheese, not kraut. We used to tell the boys that if they were not good, Santa would put a can of sauerkraut in their stockings. Seriously, that's how I feel about the stuff.

In college, the dining hall was on a 10-day schedule, and in the rotation was Reuben sandwiches and hermit cookies. The only day to get the hermits was the day with the Rubens. Those hermits were good. As a result, I decided I could like Reuben for the sake of the cookies. And they weren't bad, despite being made with pumpernickel, corned beef and kraut--none of which I liked. At all. I thought maybe it was the combination of all things together, or the hermits as a reward. Or the chocolate milk. Whatever it was, it got to where I actually looked forward to Reuben day.

Until the day I realized that Reuben night always found me feeling rather sick; wicked cramps, and a terrible grinding in my belly. My beloved lunch was turning on me, I thought, and then it occurred to me that until I started eating sauerkraut, I didn't have that problem. By Christmas, I had given them up, and didn't have the semi-weekly nausea.

You can say all you want that it was probably the bread. Or the meat. Or it could also have been the cookies. But I know, deep inside, that it was the cursed kraut. It's just icky. And how could that possibly mean good luck to me? Anyone who wants to can have it for their dinner on January 1. I'll stick with what I know will make me happy. And won't stink up my kitchen. This year, steak with buerre d'maitre, and all the fixin's. Oh, it was good!

And shrimp cocktail. It's tradition.