free my heart

"God could have stopped this if He'd wanted to."

These words, supposedly said in an attempt to comfort, haunted me for over a year. At first because they felt like an admonishment for having held on so long, and then being forced to let go. Later because they fed the age old question of why. Why does He allow certain things to happen. There were times when the words came at me sideways, along with another question: Then why on earth did He wait so long to make it happen? Eventually, because the result was, indeed, a far better place, I let them go, the words.

So I was surprised when they whispered at me this morning as I brushed my teeth. But today they came at me from a different place - somewhere under some memories, some great weight that had been lifted and carried away, but whose imprint will remain at least for a little while. "God could have stopped this if He'd wanted to." No, I thought, He couldn't. Rather, He wouldn't. That would have meant the loss of free will. What I understand about God's will is that it is for us, not against us. God's will in this is not what happened, or how, but the result. God's will is related to the open door in front of me, not the slammed and bolted one behind.

Yes, I do believe that God aids in opening and closing of doors - possibilities, options, opportunities - but nothing in God's will seals off something that was inherently good. Strength shows itself in compassion, in Love, in small kindnesses in difficult moments. Strength comes from God. "Feel some compassion for a weak man showing his weakness." Words that landed on me far more softly than I thought they should in the moment. The truth is, God didn't need to stop either event. But that doesn't mean He made them happen, either.

What God did do was to allow me an infinite range of options for responding. He'll allow that I choose to protect myself. He'll allow that I spend an evening getting rip-roaring drunk (safely at home). He'll allow that I dream the (once) impossible as clear, legitimate options. He'll allow that I use my voice, even in the censored state I to which I must agree. He'll allow that I have moments - days, even - when I forget that He is my consolation. He'll allow that I choose to trust this time. He'll allow that I choose to feel free. He'll even allow that freedom sometimes feels frightening. (Be not afraid does not mean that I shouldn't ever feel fear; it means that I should not take fear on as a state of being. Something I had done for a very long time.)

The future itself does not look anything but bright, shining, and inviting. The practical is, in some moments, pretty daunting. Its range is the same as the sky - from cloud cover to a raging storm. But the storm will pass. It always does. With nicks and dings and maybe total destruction, but I can face it. I am worthy of this challenge. And those words cannot haunt me any longer. God's will be done, which is in Love.

at the door

She stands at the door, poised to exit; her hand pressed to the wood, her torso twisted back in response to those who have last things to say. The star-studded darkness beckons her quietly, while gently those inside continue to offer all she's needed, always. And yet, it is not those closest to the door who speak and reach out, but those in the furthest corners of the room; their tender love rooting her to the spot on the threshold. Those nearby, with whom she spent the most time at the gathering are nonplussed, as if finished with her company, making her wonder if this lingering matters to them, annoys them, if they even notice she is so close to leaving, perhaps for good.

She recognizes the feeling in all its complicated layers. So long ago thinking that being disappeared would matter to no one. More recently, realizing that being replaced unceremoniously is a recurring theme in her life. Always staying in place because of the example she'd admired from childhood; wondering all this time - all her life, really - whether the promise was worth the effort. All the while knowing that it must be, and yet....

So she stands, talking,smiling, laughing over the heads of those nearest, knowing those on the edges are holding her, while torn and broken inside. Turning away would be so easy. Pushing the door open and stepping into the darkness. An argument in her very core: the darkness may be Darkness; the darkness may be the moments before sunrise and glorious Light. Her eyes fool her, as do her feelings. Her mind tells her the door may be locked from the outside; there is no return. Her heart tells her that even if that were true, those on the edges of the room would undoubtedly open if she knocked - if they can hear her, of if they can push their way past the oblivious ones nearer the door - those who are unaware of their role in this moment, despite the strength of their message.

She smiles and talks, laughing with those on the edges who, in their hearts truly know, and cry along with her; tears of sadness, hope, joy, love. Love. Love is on the edges of the room.

"The image is clear and sharp in your mind because it is the one that represents everything that has ever happened in your life." Again and again. Painfully true. She wonders about pushing through the door. About trust and faith. About steadfast Love. And friendship - true, deep, intimate friendship. And the nearness of God.

cool little story

Yesterday, I shared a cool little story with a new friend, and he said, "Sometimes the answer is right there in plain sight. We just miss it." Or forget to look. My story in a nutshell: I was having trouble with a meditation on the Centurion whose servant was healed. I wrote about my difficulty in the devotional book, and my son came and read a passage from his book--mostly unrelated. The next night, he told me about leafing through his bible and coming across a story he found interesting....the story of a Centurion whose servant was healed. He proceeded to tell me about the footnotes and references that explained--very neatly--just what it was I'd been having trouble with. I thanked him for sharing, and told him about my frustration the night before. Then I thanked God for the wink.

This morning, driving to church, I remembered that I had not read the daily readings in a couple of weeks, and had missed at least a day in my devotional, and wondered (yet again!) why it is so hard to develop and keep good habits, when bad habits--even new ones--seem to develop on their own. The next thought I had was that the answer is right there in plain sight. That's when I realized what I was missing. The answer really was right there.

God gave us free will. We tell the kids that all the time. We talk about it. We know it. I know it. And that is the answer to my question. I fall easily into bad habits because I simply don't make a choice. Here's the thing: when I choose, or decide, to make a change for the good--to pray with my devotional, for example--each day I need to further make the choice to follow through with the decision. Each and every day. Why? Because I have free will. When I don't decide, when I let my guard down, or just wait too long to say, "now it's time to read this and pray," there is a golden opportunity for someone else to make an offer. It's far simpler and easier for me to just sit and do nothing at all, or to play on my phone, or even to do the dishes just because they are sitting there, than it is to determine that it is now time to pray--or exercise, or whatever else it is that would be the good habit to form.

I've recognized this before. I blogged once about reading some advice regarding the decision to be married each day. The fact that I am a married woman is not changeable, but how I feel about that--on days when one or both of us is stressed or grumpy, sick, or whatever--is something I can decide to work with or against. I can't necessarily change how the daily situation makes me feel, but I can determine how, or if, or when, I will deal with it. Making that decision purposefully has been a game changer for me. Why I did not apply it to other aspects of my life is one of the mysteries I am still working on solving.

My life is a prayer, and I am working toward seeing it that way each day, not just when I remember to think about it.

light is darkness

And if your light is darkness, how deep will be the darkness! (Matthew 6:15)

This is the second translation of this verse I read this evening. I read the first three times without being able to begin to understand it. I decided to try reading the next verse to see if it made more sense, and in my Bible, this was the translation. Sitting in the gathering gloaming, I found it fitting to think of light and darkness. And just what this particular verse means -- to me, today.

Near as I can tell, light and darkness are at times relative. For a few months, I've been trying to determine which spirit is talking to me: the spirit of Light, or the spirit of darkness. There are questions to ask, and faith to go on, but in the end, it is still hard for me to determine which is which. Not always, but often enough.

Tonight I feel particularly battered. And for no reason related to today, or even this week. I think, really, it's a level of recovery marked by deep pain. Earlier this evening, trying to define it, all I could come up with is that feeling of knowing that used to belong to the days leading up to a breakup with my high school boyfriend. We dated for just about five years, and broke up about every six months or so. There was an awful lot to that time, and I wouldn't go back to relive it all over again, but there is something to be said for revisiting the why of at least some of it.

And if your light is darkness, how deep will be the darkness!

Wondering why I got that feeling earlier is a key to a door that I previously never knew existed. I need to determine whether it should be opened, or simply passed by. My light is darkness. At least some of it. Things that I have always believed about myself are not all true. Some are not at all true. Some are indeed true, but only in certain circumstances. Some are completely true, but not necessarily great to acknowledge. But mostly, I would say that I have a good amount of darkness where a measure of light belongs. If I continue to believe in that darkness as my light, the truth of me, then I will, first of all, continue to find myself in dark places that frighten me, and consume me. The darkness -- the actual darkness -- truly is deeper, darker.

Good decisions are not always easy, and do not always look like the ones that others would choose. And all too often, judgments are made that only reinforce the dark. Every decision comes with a cost, and even the cost is not necessarily what one would think. Earlier this week, I found myself saying, "It's not worth it to say something," and was met with the response, "It's always worth it to say something." I've been thinking about that. One of my favorite songs is John Mayer's Say. "Say what you need to say....Fighting with the shadows in your head....Knowing you'd be better off instead if you could only....Say what you need to say.....It's better to say too much than never to say what you need to say." When I hear it, I know that each verse is truth. And yet, I usually find myself closer to Billy Joel's words in And So It Goes: "And still I feel I've said too much, My silence is my self defense." My darkness, my light, has for too long come with silence.

And if your light is darkness, how deep will be the darkness!

The two songs come together on one stanza from each song: "But if my silence made you leave, Then that would be my worst mistake," (Joel) "Have no fear for giving in, Have no fear for giving over.....Even if your hands are shaking, And your faith is broken....Do it with a heart wide open" (Mayer). Opening a heart, my heart, requires a key. Rather, it will require many keys, none of which seem to be hanging neatly by the door, readily accessible. I am fighting with the shadows in my head, and have been for a very long time. Trouble is, I had no idea for so long, because my light has been darkness. Hope is my light; dim at times, but constant.

And that's where I am today.

frogs and branches

This morning's homily began with a story, a riddle [in part, and paraphrased slightly]:

A boy approached his father and presented this question: "Three frogs sat on a branch over a pool. One decided to jump in. How many were left?" The father responded that two frogs were left on the branch, as one had jumped into the pool. The boy repeated the story, asking his father to listen more carefully. The father then replied, "Oh, I see! None were left, because when the first jumped, the others followed." The boy shook his head and said, "No, Father. You see, the frog merely decided to jump into the pool. He did not yet jump, so all three frogs remained on the branch."

Resolutions are something I've not made on New Year's Day for quite a long time. There are a number of reasons for that, none of which I really think make any difference as an argument for or against the practice. It's just something I've not done. Lately, however, I've found myself making resolutions randomly here and there. Most of the time, they have to do on some level with finding myself again, or maintaining the me that I have found.

After hearing this story this morning, though, and the thoughts that follow regarding making resolutions versus making changes (also known as following through), I resolved to stop simply making decisions, and start acting upon them. Each morning, I climb the stairs to work, and resolve to do, say, or behave (or avoid same) in a particular vein, ask (pray) for guidance in same, then climb into bed at night apologizing for falling short and resolving to do better the next day. I've honestly wondered what I've been missing.

Silly me, I've been sitting on the branch, eyes bulging.

So, my resolution is to jump when I decide to jump; to think and pray about decisions, of course, but to do that before the decision and then go with it. Go. With. It. The decision may be to get involved, or to not get involved; to speak or to stay silent. And to realize that what I see when I look back on my day has to power to affect my perception of myself, of my value as a person, a mother, a friend, a worker, a wife, a daughter of God. And ultimately, that last is my responsibility, each and every day.

The homily ended with words something like this: "Lord, you will certainly make life challenging for me. I trust that you will not make it impossible." Jumping off the branch is the challenge; making a decision is easier than following through.

rocks and hard places

Looking out over the vista, grateful for the gifts of memory and review, I found myself excited to move forward, when the time was right. Not long after that post, there was a phone call, some earnest questions, the beginnings of some new life phases, and when I opened my eyes, I was surprised to see a pile of rocks and boulders in front of me. "Yep," I thought, "after that rest, it's time to climb. Thanks for the prep!" and up I scrambled.

First I picked my way around, hopping over the smaller rocks, and looking for footholds and handholds to make my way higher. Then I scrambled up the sloping rocks, and the boulders with flat spots, wondering just how high I would ultimately have to climb. Without warning, I've found myself in a crevice, and (having ignored some sage advice: "And when you want to go explore / The number you should have is 4) without a hand or a rope to pull me out.

It's given me time to think. (No need to panic. I'll find my way out; I'm sure of it.) What I realized is that despite how far I've come, something has not changed. Once again, the first thing I did was decide what I needed to do. In and of itself, this is not entirely bad. However, when courses of action are not even considered--let alone tossed aside as infeasible--things may not turn out as intended. I'm pretty sure, now that I'm heading on toward frustrated, that there were other very reasonable options.

It's entirely possible that I was supposed to choose a rock to carry, or that I was to move some of the rocks out of the way. It's also quite possible that I was looking at a rock waiting to be chiseled and molded into something else, some beautiful figure that only my eyes could have seen under the smooth, round surface. Or that someone else may have been stuck in the rocks, and I should have listened for their cries for help.

It's possible I was being invited to sit and watch more of the view developing.

I need to work on moving past my dependence on myself and myself alone. I thought I had. I forgot that moving forward does not mean forgetting what was behind; leaving missteps off the map. The good is in the journey. I have always believed that, but have often, in my full-steam ahead, missed the forest for the trees.

To dig or to jump or to wait. Something to think about.

standing still

I've found myself at a standstill. Last week, I had this sense of.....what? I could only identify it as darkness, but that didn't seem quite right. Since I really didn't know what it was, I began to push against panic that darkness was going to descend, long before any darktime weather. I almost called a couple of friends to alert them; to have their warm thoughts shore me up. I resisted (and instead overdid social time, to the detriment of my psyche, and my belly). When I stopped to consider why this sense of something, I realized there was no darkness, only calm. The kind of calm and quiet that is palpable and strong enough to keep me in one place.

At one time, this kind of standstill would have pushed me to wonder why, or what I had done wrong, or not done, to be stuck when I had been moving right along (albeit slowly most of the time!). Today, though, seemed like an opportune time to turn around and look at where I've been, how far I've come. Each day on this journey, I've been reminded, in one way or another, how far I have yet to go. And how far I am behind where I could have been, had I made different turns and avoided some detours and unnecessary exits. (This latter part is always argued--without those fits and starts, I would not be who I am, and therefore could not be where I am now, which is right where I'm supposed to be. While I know this, the thought still creeps in on occasion, and must be pushed away or dealt with.) For the first time, looking back over the course, there is no feeling that I've missed something, or left something behind. I'm pleasantly surprised to see that I have actually covered quite a bit of ground! The place I left from is far in the distance, not just a step back, as I've sometimes feared.

This part of my journey has been moving toward, not away, and I can almost see the change in my stride at that transition. My steps may be slower, but they are surer, stronger and steadier. This view is breathtaking and humbling and uplifting, all at the same time. And I find myself grateful for the standstill; for the time to allow this all to sink in, to take root, to sprout wings. For the first time, I do not find myself resisting the inertia. And I wonder if past resistance has brought on the listlessness and dejection that I find in the darktime (which is still a long way off!); if perhaps there was more looking out I should have done, when the tendency was for me to look inward when the spinning of the world slows......

Should have done matters little. Outward I shall look, and use this glance behind as incentive to move ahead. If I can come this far, I can go this far again plus one step more, and then yet again this doubled distance plus one. And when it's time to move forward again--tonight, tomorrow, next week--I will be ready, willing, with eagerness anew. Into a sunrise.



"The price of anything is the amount of life you exchange for it."
~Henry David Thoreau
(thanks, Lee!)

goals and expectations

Earlier this summer, I went for the weekend to a friend's for the weekend. She was having a party, and it was pretty neat to meet so many of her similarly "uncool" friends. There was a whole lot of laughter, good food (especially peanut butter cookies!), good wine, and even party favors for some of us. I felt very at home with my friend's friends, and along with all the other good stuff, and a few stray raindrops, there was great conversation. After all these weeks, there are still a couple of comments and questions that have stuck with me.

Two people, at separate times, when talking about family life, expressed surprise at how long I've been married. In fact, I actually was asked by one man, "You've been married since 1991? To the same person? For real?" I smiled and thanked him. I didn't even bother mentioning that it was early in 1991. It occurs to me that perhaps it's interesting to note that this comment and the other ("You've really been married for over 20 years?") were presented by men. I have no idea what that might mean, but I do know that for most of my life, I've been far more comfortable and relaxed talking with men or boys.

The other question that has stuck with me, making me think more than almost anything else this summer, was asked by another dear friend of mine who was there. She asked how we managed to get our teenage boys, four of them, to go to church with us regularly. The simple answer is that we just take them; we wake them in the morning, make sure they get dressed, and load them in the car. Afterwards, we pick up doughnuts or muffins, if we go in the morning, and sometimes go out for pizza, if we go on Saturday night. The simple answer regarding being married, to the same guy, for over half my life, is similar: there's not really been a choice in the matter.

Reality, however, is not always so easy. There have been plenty of mornings that we've all wondered what the point is in getting so frustrated herding the six of us out the door to pray and find peace. And a good many times when I have not really felt like I was going to get any message out of Mass because of being stressed. And despite the fact that I do make a choice each day, at some point, that I am still, and will remain, a happily married woman, there are times when I have to think a little longer about that question before I arrive at the same conclusion. Occasionally, being happy and/or pleasant is a difficult choice; throwing in the towel would be easier. You know that feeling, when you just want to say, "Why does it matter?"

The fact is, in my mind, there isn't really a "choice." I ask myself the question without ever expecting that the answer will be no. I wake up in the morning, and we wake the boys, without ever considering that there is an option about going together as a family. The interesting thing is, frequently when the morning push is particularly trying, and I figure there will be no room for anything to enter my heart, I end up being especially touched by the music, the readings, the homily, seeing a friend.....It's possible that on those occasions, I let my guard down so that I unknowingly let myself hear more in my heart. I certainly wouldn't recommend this as a "method," but I'm grateful for the persistence. (And not just mine.) Likewise, in our marriage, the stressful, cranky, or just plain frustrating times have often turned out to be the times when we've found the most strength. By choice. My point is, marriage and parenting are not easy, or simply defined, or predictable. Marriage and parenting require having a goal, and working toward that goal, consistently and constantly.

I've been married for over half my life, and been a parent for close to half my life. In that time, we've been to Church nearly every weekend, and had dinner together nearly every day. We've been to more concerts, shows, games, meets and matches than I can count. I've also broken up or gotten into the middle of more disagreements, arguments and fights than I care to remember. The goals, though, have always been the same: to raise these boys to be good men, and to love, honor and cherish each other as husband and wife. Each day dawns new, and our lives are our own; no one else can, or should, expect the life we live. Honestly, when I think about how many years, or days, or decades we've been married, I am just as surprised as those guys early in this story. But at the same time, I am proud of our perseverance. (And, truth be told, our competitiveness!) And quite thankful for those who have been our examples.

Goals and expectations.

circle gets the square

Most of my life I've thought about circles and spirals. The kinds that bring you around again to a point in time, or a place in space that seems destined and unavoidable, though perhaps delayed for various reasons. Lately, I've been reminded of forks in my road that may have delayed or changed the point of meeting some people that have become dear to me.

Some circles are fairly easy to identify as they seem to create tighter spirals. In thinking about these tight spirals, I find myself wondering which other circles may be intersecting. A new friend who feels like an old friend and lives and works where we lived when we first moved here. Minor changes in course over the past 20 years, and we easily could have met earlier. The same could be said for a few other people I've met recently who may or may not become good friends, but who are nevertheless important to me at the moment. And I wonder if those multiple circles are meant to intertwine.

An interesting circle that's crossed my mind lately is much bigger. Possibly the biggest circle I've come across, and, therefore, likeliest to be a long-shot. (Although I've come to understand the unlikelihood of mere coincidence.) When Ronald Reagan was elected, I had my first thoughts about a career path. The hostages in Iran were released, and the news was all about what sanctions might be brought, where exactly international waters were, and whether there really was a fear of "cowboy justice." I was completely intrigued by the field of International Law. According to our encyclopedia (which had been published roughly 15 years before I was born), there was no such field, per se. Nevertheless, when I went to high school, I enrolled in French and Spanish. By the time I graduated, I had taken 5 years of each language, and a year of Russian, as well. I would have taken Greek, happily, but the class was held after school, I had a job in the evenings. My goal, having largely forgotten the law aspect, was to be an interpreter at the UN. For various reasons that had less validity than I realized at the time, but as I started getting college catalogs in the mail, one particularly colorful cover caught Dad's eye.

Catholic University had nothing to offer in the Hospitality field I was then considering, but it was the right distance away from home and was near a city Dad traveled to on business. (I didn't realize how important that was to him until I eventually graduated from a school near another city he visited often.) It did have some interesting law majors--including International Law. I was also fascinated by the offerings in Canon law. I seriously considered changing my college goals, but I was talked out of it by my guidance counselor. (Law is no field for a smart young woman like you. And what good would a course in canon law be for a woman at all?) Honestly, it wasn't that hard for me to toss the thought aside: when I was in 8th grade, we went to DC for some reason, went to Mass at the Cathedral, and while there, all our clothes were stolen from our car. I was, interestingly, more upset that my favorite skirt, top and dressy sandals were gone forever than I was about any "violation." I remember Dad saying that anyone who would steal from a car in a church parking lot clearly was more in need of what they took than we were. I was not quite sure I agreed....

Again I was reminded of my early interest when I took my Hospitality Law class. I loved it. I loved the instructor--a crusty older guy with a quirky sense of humor, and a weird way of trying to awe us. (He once told us how to commit the "perfect murder" that would be impossible to be convicted of, even if we were caught, because there would be no evidence. All we would leave would be circumstantial. Odd and creepy.) I loved the way he argued that Connecticut should be outlawed, and there should then be a way to teleport from the end of I-95 in Rhode Island to the beginning in New York. Most of all, I loved the content. I loved everything about tort, proving cases, finding precedents, writing up something like 6 cases per week. (One case study was about the signage in a parking garage. I was in heaven!) At the beginning of class on the first day, he told us the only way to get a good grade in his class was to work. One hour of homework each day, and we could expect a D-C; 2 hours, a solid C. An A would require, at minimum, 4 hours of homework per night. If we managed to do less work and get the grade we wanted, we were to let him know. He'd retire. I accepted the challenge, and pulled off an A--with an hour and a half of work dedicated to Law each morning. Total. Everything about it made sense to me. I wanted to change my major.

Unfortunately, I was stubborn. I had one more trimester of classes left. I had already decided that I was going to take the Associates degree and run. I had already convinced Dad that working for a couple of years and going back to school was the best thing for me. I had already decided that instead of having a career in Recreation and Leisure Management, I was supposed to be an English teacher. But I had fallen in love with Law. When the professor told us that the school had approved a Sports Law class for the following year, and that anyone who had ever had an A in his class would get first shot at it, and that he didn't expect any women to have any interest, I was sooooooo tempted to re-enroll in school, just for that class.

I wonder now if I had followed that pull to law, would I still be at this place at some point in my life. If I would still have the people in my life that support, guide, challenge me on a regular basis. (One of whom teaches law at Catholic. Although I wouldn't have met him while I was in college, had I followed my first instinct, we may have crossed paths professionally.) If it's too late to jump into the legal waters. I'm not a shark. But the types of law I was interested in didn't (seem) to require that type of personality. In no way do I feel unfulfilled. Just a continued curiosity. One that, likely, many would not understand, and insist that if I think about it, I must have regrets. I do not. Not in the least. I see that a circle has come full around, and I feel peace. Curiosity is not, for me, something that gets in the way of peace. Curiosity is something that drives me to continue to grow, to learn, to move forward.

learn, grow, pray

There are times when clarity comes in crumbs, not in big signs. There are times when the clarity comes from saying or doing. And some times when keeping quiet (and wondering why the mouth just won't open) speaks volumes.

Forgiveness was the topic tonight, and the related difficulties: letting go, identifying, drawing that fine line between an important lesson learned and something else. Something like fear, hatred, resentment, bitterness. I've been in a position to feel any and all of those things, yet I found that when I chose to forgive -- honestly forgive -- I found strength. And comfort.

Somehow, we get the feeling that forgiving is giving up, and in some ways I guess it is, if you mean giving up the stuff that eats you up inside. But forgiving is not the same as admitting defeat or defect, it's not weakness. And it doesn't mean that forgetting is necessary, although constant, painful reminders are certainly not beneficial.

For me, the work of healing began with the decision to forgive, followed by a decision to pray for all those involved. (Something I continue to do, though not as often now.) I was (and still am!) amazed at how quickly the memory faded, like an old photograph; a sepia-toned image of another time and place. The scariest part was making that decision to forgive; admitting that I wanted to. Why? I may never know for sure, but I suspect a devilish influence on my emotions. I was tempted to react harshly; to judge without having all the facts.

My point is, as much as it surprises me to say, I'm grateful. Grateful for the experience, the knowledge, the grace, the growth. Without this exercise in forgiveness, there are so many things about myself I wouldn't know. Actually, I'm pretty sure I still don't know the depth of what I've learned, and may not ever. I'd rather not be tested again, but that's not for me to decide. I'll just keep learning, growing, praying.   

fingerprints

What was said: "I look at a thumbprint, and realize that no two are alike. If God can make every single thumbprint different, why would we think that he would ever stop there?"

I was floored! Such a simple idea, and so obvious, and yet so amazingly complex! There is no reason to think that any one of us is exactly like another. We, as humans, classify. Safe/Unsafe. Friendly/Unfriendly. Okay to eat/Poison. Work/Play. Love/Hate. Good/Bad. But aren't there various levels of many of these classifications? Don't we need to differentiate again and again, and determine, according to the occasion, just where something fits in our classification systems?

I remember a month or two before our boy #2 was born. I was pretty sure I had this kid thing figured out. Because the pregnancy itself had felt different, I just knew that the baby would not be the same as his brother. Boy #1 was pretty easy, as far as babies go--not the sleep-all-night-at-birth dream baby, but he did do pretty well as an infant, and as a toddler, he was fairly happy-go-lucky and even helpful. I just knew that boy #2 was going to be the opposite--whatever #1 liked, he would not; whenever #1 liked to sleep, #2 would want to be awake. I'm not even sure what "opposite" would mean, but at the time, I had some really clear ideas, and I was pretty confident about the whole thing. I had even braced myself for the inevitable difficulties of having two kids that just could not get along for long.

I had quite a surprise. In some ways, he was different--as he should be! But in other ways, they were very much alike. What I had not factored in was that they were each individuals who would let me know, in short order, who they are. I was there (am still) to guide them, not to determine them.

A similar thing happened when we decided to get a dog. It had been a few years since our beloved black standard poodle had died. When we saw black standards advertised, I told Guy that I just couldn't handle having a dog that looked so like the last one, but wouldn't have his same personality. Instead we got a poodle that was supposed to turn silver (he was born black), and never has. Yes, he shares some characteristics with his predecessor, but he also has his own personality--and quirks! I sometimes think he was meant to stay black as a lesson to me.

I've wandered far from the amazement I felt at the thumbprint statement, but not so far that I don't remember where I was. Each of us is different. Special. Unique. We should see ourselves that way. We should see others that way--the part that I tend to think is harder to do. I've just started reading Thomas Merton's No Man Is an Island for the Spiritual Book Club at church. From the prologue:
"I cannot discover God in myself and myself in Him unless I have the courage to face myself exactly as I am, with all my limitations, and to accept others as they are, with all their limitations."

To face myself, and accept others. How beautiful is that? Each of us has our own whirls and swirls, some of which mean baggage and tough stuff, but most of which means beauty and knowledge; if only we decide to appreciate it. We need to remember that some of the tough stuff has led to strength because it comes from experience. My head is rattling with the memory of the notes I took on palmistry for a paper I wrote in college (my topics were never quite what anyone else would choose....) inferring that the universe of "me" is largely pre-written on my hands, with details added with experience.

I don't know.....perhaps the possibilities were written there, and revealed by my choices. I'm still quite intrigued.....

ramble a bit

Last week at a book club (Gone Girl, by Gillian Flynn--a book I found fascinating, but not particularly rewarding), a discussion question was presented:

At one point, Amy quotes the advice "Fake it until you make it." Later, Nick writes, "We pretend to be in love, and we do the things we like to do when we're in love, and it feels almost like love sometimes, because we are so perfectly putting ourselves through the paces" (404).

Generally speaking, do you think this is good marriage advice? Do Nick and Amy disprove this advice?

The decision around the table was that this is never good marriage advice. I don't remember anyone even touching on the second part of the question. Although in the case of Nick and Amy, I find it to be appalling advice [*****SPOILER ALERT!!!!!***** She's a murderess and he is her depressed and self-centered husband], in general, I don't think there's anything wrong with going through the motions once in a while.

Before you get annoyed and turn the page, hear me out. Everyone gets bored. Everyone gets cranky. Everyone goes through times when they just don't feel like issuing forth any extra effort whatsoever. How many times have I (you) gone ahead and taken that fitness class, or pulled on a pair of running/walking shoes even though the mood wasn't right? I know for a fact there were many nights (and Saturday mornings!) when I taught dance that I just didn't want to leave my house, fight traffic, and deal with my class, but I did. And each one of those times, I told myself to fake it; to make it look to the people who were paying for me to be there as though I was having the time of my life. And I can say, in all honesty, almost every single time I went there to fake it, I had a better class than usual.

Making a habit of faking, or faking without knowing the reasons behind it, or faking without being unwilling to talk about it at some point is a bad idea. Living a lie is different from faking it until you make it. Nick went through the motions of loving Amy because he was literally afraid for his life. That's just stupid. Amy went through the motions because if she could make Nick love her, she would be amazing. That's just wrong (on a whole LOT of levels!!). That is NOT what I'm talking about here. Nor am I talking about lying, having an unfulfilling sex life, or suffering in silence from any offense, or abusive/toxic relationships.

What I'm talking about are those times when you realize that there's a reason you fell in love, and even though today it doesn't seem like it's there, it is, because it's still in your heart, and in the memory of your soul. Or when you realize that laziness has set in for whatever reason, and the habit is taking control. Those are the times when you have to keep in mind that a relationship is a living, breathing thing, in need of nurturing and even exercise. Those are the times when you have to dig out a smile when you don't feel like it, search the cobwebbed corners of your mind for a favorite shared memory, open yourself to possibility.

I got a CD from church about prayer in marriage. On it, Fulton Sheen talks about the inevitable "dry spells" of anything we, as humans, do for life. Sometimes they cause us to stop what no longer holds our interest, and other times we get frustrated by the seemingly sudden lack of interest. The decision is ours. If we are writers, we might call it 'writer's block,' runners, 'hitting a plateau.' As a dancer, I would take a class in another technique or from another teacher in order to jumpstart my slagging enthusiasm from time to time. In marriage, for a myriad of reasons, many people have the impression that everything should come up roses all the time, and if a dry spell hits, the magic must be gone and the marriage is over. Fulton Sheen said that those are the times when it's up to the spouse who is still flying high to carry the other through prayer and love. It was beautiful! Shortly after listening to the CD (and laughing through tears!) I saw a little ditty that I had seen before, but not paid much attention. Celebrating some huge number of years of marriage, a couple was asked their secret. The response: We never fell out of love at the same time.

We never fell out of love at the same time.

Isn't that beautiful?? Even in those dry spells--those times when he was making her crazy forgetting to _____ (fill in the blank), or when she was constantly ___________ (fill in the blank), the one still managed to love the other. To be in love with the other. It's not always easy. When we mentor engaged couples, we encourage them to keep their workbooks for those days when they need a reminder of the planning the wedding days, the getting read for a long marriage days.

Like any journey, there are times when concessions must be made. My brother says, "Don't say you don't care where we stop if you really don't want Chinese," not because he plans to stop for Chinese, but because sometimes when we think that something doesn't matter to us, we realize pretty quickly that it does, and that can ignite into an argument, or it can become an opportunity to fake it for a bit in order to ensure that love can continue on its course.

no crystal ball

Yesterday, I sat in a room full of professionals wondering just what they all know, and how they got to where they are. I listened to a former co-worker talk about his new position, and still daydreaming about an interview in a faraway place.

It got me thinking about my own future, yet again. For so many years, I have thought about my life in parts and pieces--work, home, faith were all separate parts of my life, so naturally should be developed individually, right? I've been coming to realize that I would really prefer that all the facets of my person need to be cultivated in a common direction as one glorious gem, sparkling in the light. While this has been coming together in my mind, my heart is lagging a wee bit behind...a resistance to a mindset that I have a difficult time admitting to. Sitting in that room, I felt a little of that barrier crumbling (it felt good!), and let my mind wander into wishes and daydreams.

The result was a series of related thoughts about travel, learning, knowledge, trust and risk. I've been yearning for a train trip for the past year or so, and had been intrigued by the work of passenger service. I remembered that I want to look into flight lessons for our son, who recently asked how much they are, and I wondered when that motorcycle safety class is going to be offered next. But mostly I realized that I am ready to tackle something new. The following text exchange between me and my husband:

So, here's what I'm thinking: I wanna find a challenge.
What's that mean?
Not sure, exactly. Pondering.

Twenty minutes later, I got an email from a job posting site that I've subscribed to since 2010 or so:

"Again, you can't connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something - your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever. This approach has never let me down, and it has made all the difference in my life."
~Steve Jobs

I saw this as confirmation. I've been thinking so much lately, and working on coming to grips with what I really do feel is where I should be going. The words I hear in my mind surprise and thrill me, but are such a deviation from what I thought I wanted that I have a hard time qualifying them.

My status update last night:

Had a good day, and somewhere along the way, realized I'm ready for the challenge. I'm just not quite clear what that means yet.... :)

Encouragement and suggestions followed, and I know I always have support. What I know for sure is that I need to open myself a little bit more. In the meantime, I've scheduled my exam for work, which could lead to any manner of changes and challenges, and I will continue to pray and ponder. I'm anxious and antsy, and for the first time in a very long time, that results in excitement about the anticipation. Active involvement in this carving, cutting and shaping is making me feel so alive!

diary thoughts

Topping off my coffee cup this morning before running out to the car, I smiled and shook my head. There was a time when we were competitive with each other, over everything, it seemed. Including the last drops of coffee in the pot. Who would get more in their second cup?

Today, as I poured, my first thought was that there was plenty there; that after he dropped me off at work, and came back home to work for the morning, he would have plenty of coffee to carry him through. And I was glad.

And we got here following the path of Another. Few roads are easy, and I've come to believe that a good part of the reason is related to highway hypnosis: that phenomenon whereby the driver is lulled into a dull state of less-than-high awareness of the road because of the rhythmic motion of wheels on the road. Looking back at everywhere I've been, I see that I've learned and grown far more from the bumpy bits than the straightaways.

My tendency was once to outwardly ignore what's bothering me, regardless of the cause (meaning myself of someone else), while inwardly stewing, steaming and percolating. There came a time when I finally needed to open myself to the power of goodness and mercy. I resisted, but when I was offered an invitation to just try, to make up my own mind whether I wanted to, or could, forgive, I found that the effort was far less than I had ever imagined.

St. Ignatius says, "Our one desire and choice should be what is more conducive to the end for which we are created." (First Principle and Foundation) Mercy: forgiveness beyond that which we deserve, or believe we deserve. We were created to love. Love wins. Love never ends.

Coffee?

journeys begin

Shoes are my least favorite article of attire. Socks, I like, shoes, though, I wear because I have to. As soon as I walk in the door, off they go. When I learned (many years ago!) that leaving shoes at the door helps in keeping the house just a tad cleaner, I rejoiced! And immediately started training my family to leave their shoes by the door. True, they sometimes get in the way of our everyday life (we have neither a "mudroom" nor entrance hall--or even a closet!), but my happy feet enjoy freedom from the time I get home until I have to leave the confines of our humble abode. Summer is awesome, because other than work and Church, I'm all about flip-flops or naked pigs. (In the colder months, I also get to indulge my penchant for sliding on the wood floors! Never grow up!)

I try, with varying degrees of success, to keep my shoes out of the way, if not organized. However, my sneakers make up a pile of their own between the radiator and the cupboard. I have the pair I wear for running, and I few pairs I wore out running that I keep around for various reasons: rainy walks, long standing up days, just in case the running shoes blow out unexpectedly. My work and dress shoes I try to keep in the closet in our bedroom, but there are usually a pair or two stashed around the room; removed in haste, of course.

About three times over the past week or so, I've reached for a pair of shoes and come up with two different shoes. That much didn't surprise me as much as the fact that every time, it has been two right shoes. Normally when I put my running shoes on, it's in the early morning dark, so I look for the subtle variations that are visible by the streetlight shining through the window, and sometimes end up with a mixed pair at first. Two right running shoes happened twice. (All the more strange because after our run, the pair of shoes is together at the top of the pile.) The third time, I reached down to grab my shoes on the way out of our bedroom before work, got downstairs, and discovered I had two black shoes, both the right side of a pair. And they look nothing alike!

After the second time, I suspected there might be a reason, but after the third time, I began to wonder just what the message could be! This morning, I began to realize that I had an inkling. As I've certainly mentioned before, I'm not one for subtle signs (directed at me!), and have often prayed that messages thunk my over the head. The meditations in my little morning book this week, the prayer I decided to read from an app on my phone, even some little something from our retreat orientation last night have all had a theme that I didn't pick up on until lunchtime, reading the last little bit of Soeur Therese of Lisieux's story.

When I was a kid, dancing, my teacher found it odd that I was left-footed when I am right-handed. Turns to the left, kicks, lunges, all were more instinctual to the left. The right caught up, eventually. (Interestingly, my left hand did not cooperate with choreography quite as well, presenting some challenges!) I had all but forgotten. Standing backstage during a facility tour two nights ago, I suddenly had a feeling that something should be clicking. I missed the performing, or rather, the anticipation of performing, that I had done so many times. For a fleeting moment, I thought the message was to "put my best foot forward."

Still, it took me a while to realize that was only part of the lesson. Slowly, the pieces began to fall into place; the meditations and prayers were about doing one's best--at work, at play. Getting dressed this morning, the quote on my mirror caught my eye: "Your work is to discover your world, and then with all your heart give yourself to it."* I marvelled that a similar sentiment was brought out last night, with regard to the Sacred Heart.

Then Soeur Therese.....What clicked really had little to do with anything in the book. Reading today, I made the connection between "right" and "just" and my shoes. Put my best foot forward; not my right foot, but my Right foot. A little reading about Grace and Mercy. A comment on the journey of faith. A journey that starts with a single step, but strives to continue with right steps. It all came together, just before I read this: "...I see clearly that you are mistaking the road, and that you will never arrive at the end of your journey. You want to climb the mountain, whereas God wishes you to descend it. He is awaiting you in the fruitful valley of humility." (The story of a soul)

To top it all off, I listened to a CD while waiting for track practice to end, and heard Fulton Sheen say that far too many people say they wish to lift up their cross and follow Jesus then say their cross is too difficult, too heavy, certainly not what God would intend. I've been there. I've been to the darkest and dreariest parts of my soul. By the Grace of God, and with the help of many along the way, I take one step at a time. I falter, I wander off the path, I still sometimes feel lost, but I try again each time.

*quote is attributed to Buddha

moving mountains

Mustard has been quite a topic over the past week. An odd thing, really, since we really only ever say the word mustard when we have hot dogs. And we haven't had them since summer, that I can remember. Earlier this week, we had meatloaf for dinner, which involved putting it together the night before, and then having one of the boys turning on the bread machine, and then adding a glaze. (Yes, the meatloaf is cooked in the bread machine, and it is soooooo good!) Son #2 helped me with the shopping list before he mixed together the meatloaf. (Raw meat is something I try to avoid whenever possible. Maybe someday I'll work through that.....) Combing through the recipe, he asked, "What's 'prepared mustard?'" I explained that it's mustard like we put on hot dogs; mustard that is made into the condiment, rather than mustard seeds or mustard powder.

In the morning, I told Son #3 and Son #4, individually, that we would need them to help out by turning on dinner, and making the glaze. Each of them asked, in turn, "What's 'prepared mustard?'" I explained to each of them, getting the same result from each of them: "Ah. I see."

I thought nothing of it. They had never seen the term before, and I always chuckle a little when I see prepared mustard listed as an ingredient. I would only think that I was using mustard powder or mustard seeds if they were specifically listed--unless I was making pickles. Then I would know that I need mustard seeds.

Last night, I was at the vespers discussion group at church, and somehow the discussion came around to depth of faith. As we talked, and I told about the faith I viewed versus the faith I felt, pieces started to fall into place. Talking about the promise I made to learn about my faith, to ask and seek answers to the questions I come across, I pointed out that I always knew my faith was there; it just seemed to me to be smaller than that of my father, my husband, some of my friends--all people whose faith I had always admired. People whose faith, in all honesty, I envied (ironically!). Suddenly, I saw a connection to last week's Lenten struggles, and the mustard questions of the week.

"My faith was always there; it was just small--Like a mustard seed!" Grins and nodding all around. And I realized I'd had the gifts I needed all along.

Those questions I have are questions I should ask. Asking questions, seeking knowledge, is something I work toward in my secular life. Why I would resist asking, learning and wondering in my spiritual life is something I don't yet understand. My husband and I are exploring that together, though. Nine months or so ago, I made a promise to God that I would put my faith and future in His hands, and that I would, therefore, learn. And I have learned so much, but most of all I've learned that there is far more to learn than I ever will.

And that's a beautiful thing. One of the most beautiful things about faith.

Then this morning, I was reading my book (The story of a soul, by St. Therese of Lisieux), and she mentioned her mustard seed faith. And tonight, the meditation I read on the Luminous Mysteries mentioned mustard seeds.

Coincidence? I think not.

progress

This past week of Lent has been the most challenging for me. While the weeks prior have had their own challenges, this week was filled with additional interruptions of various sorts. When I realized I had missed a day, and was on the verge of missing a second, my first inclination was to justify by telling myself that I had done something else, made some other sacrifice that would even out my original promises. The difference this year, is that I realized how futile the justification truly is. I can rationalize all I want, but the fact is, I made the promises to God; personally and privately, to be sure, yet a vow, nonetheless. In almost the same moment that I tried to excuse myself, I was filled with the understanding that I could start again, then and there, and get back on track.

As I'd hoped, my Lenten sacrifice feels far less so, and is becoming a habit that I enjoy, and that brings some peace to my day, and my heart. I'm imperfect, and will forever struggle to keep up with my new good habit. For reasons I have yet to understand, good habits are harder to continue than bad habits. Or, put more simply, good habits are easier to break than bad habits! Goodness is quieter, less noticeable. Why is that? Goodness brings more of a sense of well-being.

Why does temptation draw us in so?

home sweet home

"There's no place like home." Iconic dates and phrases were part of the topic this morning. At first, I wondered how it would relate to the story of the woman who was brought to be stoned.* Ingeniously, and yet so obviously, it was stated that she must have been thinking something like "there's no place like home" while waiting to hear her fate. The homily went on to talk more about the importance of home. It was hard, but I managed to wait until after the sermon was over to mull things over (ponder them!), and find the connections in my own life.

It's St. Patrick's Day: another one of those days that make me think about Dad, and the relationships each of us had with him. A day that marks my first time standing up, too, and becoming the honest-to-goodness oddball I have always been meant to be. (And not minding in the least, since I'm no longer working so hard at the impossible: fitting in.) That's a good story, but not one for today. I'll just sit here and smile about that first small victory.

Thinking about Dad, and hearing Dorothy's iconic words brought me down a memory lane that has brought me to where I am today. An unnecessarily curvy, windy and bumpy road, in all likelihood, but my road nonetheless. When I think of Home, I think of a place where there's Love Overflowing...

For a long time, home was far away. I would get stressed, upset, lonely, dark, I would say, "I just want to go home!" Probably at least 90% of the time when I'd say that, I'd be standing in my own living room. Why I had a need to "go home" I didn't understand. That I was likely hurting my family saying it, I realized. It wasn't until we returned from Dad's funeral, and Guy said to me, "Now you won't ever be able to go home. I'm so sorry." At first, I was confused: Mom still lived in the house I'd grown up in, and I didn't think that I really meant the house anyway. Then he said, "Dad was home to you, wasn't he." It still brings tears to my eyes, because of how true the statement, how painful the realization--about home, Home, and me.

So much has changed since then. I used to cry every time I listened to that song from The Wiz. More because it hurt to think that Home meant Love than anything else. I didn't realize Home is not about a place or a space on this planet. "Living here, in this brand new world/Might be a fantasy/But it taught me to love/So it's real, real to me" The Home I have now is certainly not a fantasy (it's taken far too much work, vulnerability and honesty to be anything but Real and True Love), and it is certainly not a place or space that anyone else can touch or see on their own.

There really is no place like home, and it really is a place where love overflows and is filled with affection. Home, now is not only where my heart is, but where Guy's heart is, too.

*That whole stoning story is more amazing every time I hear it. Every time, I realize some other reason that there was no way stoning was the answer. Long ago, I realized what the priest today said: "Donde es hombre? It takes two...." Today, I realized that Mary could well have suffered the same fate. In between are many small realizations. Read the story. Wonder at the amazing power of the simple action of writing in the dirt.

something to work on

"Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends" John 15:13
~~How do you interpret this?
I've read this verse many, many times and, until friday, I had always interpreted it very literally. It's interesting how revelation comes as we need it to..

This was a friend's status update the other day, and it really got me thinking. My immediate thought, upon reading it, was that I had so many things to say in response, and therefore, a perfect prompt. Then a few hours later, another friend texted me with another question about how to handle the bullying her son is enduring at school; bullying that is so consistent that he comes home angry and/or in tears on a regular basis. He's 15. And not normally prone to being emotional.

Immediately, I saw the connection (because these kinds of things really do not happen coincidentally!) and realized my answer to Shawna's original post needed focus.

My first thoughts about interpretation of John's words involved stepping out of oneself for the sole benefit of another, and that things like giving up one's time or forgiving someone count. The text was a message that set me straight. While I still am pretty sure that I was on the right track, and I'm not supposed to only take this passage literally, I was a bit discomfited by the realization that came to me while conversing with this friend. And there's a possibility that it might just be easier to die for someone than to speak up about a wrong, to stand up and stand firm. Not when it's one's own child--that is part of the job, and instinctual, to a certain extent. (still not exactly easy, by any means!)

What I had realized is that there are times when it seems easier to go with the flow, or to sweep something under the rug, or to let someone else make the hard or scary decisions. Yet another friend says "No one has any right to make you feel less than." To those who try to make us feel less than, we do need to learn to stand up; but, further, when we see or know that anyone is being made to feel less than, we should lay down ourselves in order to stand up.

I sound like I'm talking in circles, but in my mind, it's simple to understand, and yet, very rarely, done well. If I stand up to a bully for the sake of a friend (friend here meaning anyone who needs defending) in order to feel good about myself--because I had once been through the same torment, for instance--or to impress or even repay another, then I am doing a good thing, but not necessarily a good deed. However, if I stand up with no thought to how it makes me look, or how it may come back at me, or how painful the memory might later be, then aren't I laying my own self aside, giving of my heart and soul, simply for the sake of another? While this makes sense to me, and seems a simple exercise, I cannot say that I have successfully completed it often. Mostly because I get distracted, I think, and start to fret about my own fears, memories, demons.

Something to work on. But not by myself. I realize that I likely cannot lay down my life without the support of faith and guidance, and knowledge of right versus wrong, love versus hate, good versus evil. Those distinctions are not measured by my own personal yardstick or experience; that is not my place. Laying aside my pride, my fears, my own priorities and needs will take--should take--a great act of more than just courage; likely an act of mercy.

turnips and kumquats

Lent has been quite a subject lately, for very obvious reasons, and has led to some conversations I've never had before, at least outside of my own family. Lent is something I've always had a tough time with, starting back in elementary school religion class. Fr. O'Brien would come in to talk with us before Ash Wednesday, trying to impress upon us the importance of giving up something significant to us as a Lenten sacrifice. And he always promised us suggestions. Unfortunately, the suggestions were always the same: to "give up candy, gum and pop."

As a kid, my first problem with this was that in our family we never called it "pop." A really, really minor problem, even in my kid mind, but it still made me just want to snicker at the whole idea. My second, and bigger problem--heck, my legitimate problem--was that I didn't like gum in the first place, and we hardly ever had candy or soda at our house, anyway. For a few years, I gave up candy, gum and pop simply because he suggested it, and he was our pastor, and so, in my mind, he must know what's best for us. Besides, if success is guaranteed, so are the associated blessings, right? (Remember, I was a kid in elementary school! I could have used some more personal guidance, I think, but I had no idea that I could ask about these things.)

At some point, I realized my flawed logic, and started to try discerning something more "right" to give up. Generally what happened was that I started thinking kind of late, and didn't really have a nebulous idea until about the Monday after Ash Wednesday, at which point, I would wonder if it was worth it if I'd already missed so many days, so I'd second guess what I'd chosen, and try to double up for the rest of the Lenten season. As a result, I usually ended up frustrated, both by my procrastination and the resulting unreasonable expectations of myself. In high school, I gave up whatever bad habit I may have developed in the previous months.

Then I went away to college, and when a friend asked about Lent, another friend and I declared that we were giving up slapping each other on the back. For whatever reason, we had developed the habit of slapping each other by surprise, and we both knew it hurt. It was probably the most difficult -- and beneficial! -- Lenten sacrifice I've ever made. Since then, there have been others that were hard to keep, but did not change me quite as much as a person: the year I gave up saying the words "Stop it!" to my kids; the year I gave up half-n-half in my coffee, and as a result nearly had to give up coffee.

The other day, I was involved in a quick conversation with a friend who said that perhaps his plan for Lent was a bit more than he could handle, so he was thinking of cutting back a little. Honestly, inside, I agreed, as I know through experience how much time he was committing, and how necessarily busy his life is. However, I also know my own track record with Lent, so I told him I'd been in his boots. I usually make my personal pledge, then worry that I've bitten off more than I can chew. Then I find myself negotiating with God to modify every week. In the end, Easter shows up, unexpectedly somehow, and I feel more guilty than purified because I just couldn't make up my mind.

A few years ago, in a homily or a discussion, the idea of doing instead of (or in addition to--sometimes, I admit, I hear what I want to use. I'm working on that!) giving up was presented. I've done much better with that. Instead of avoiding, or denying, or feeling the need to explain, I must find the time, make the intention to do something specific each and every day. These sacrifices of time have changed me each year since. Some stick more than others over the course of the year, but I feel more thankful for the effort for 47 days (that's another story, too! I don't do the whole "Sunday doesn't count" thing. These things I do, I intend and hope will become habits.....don't get me started!) Over the course of the season, I still find myself wanting to negotiate a bit, but I'm more able to tell myself that I should stay the course; that I do have the time and the energy to do what I've set out to do, if I just do it, without making it a production; just be true.