*

There's this story that's been wandering through my thoughts, but cannot escape. The story is willing to be told; I am more than willing to tell it. But parts of it will be lost in the preconceptions of certain audience members. Not all of the story - in fact, a good bit of the story - is not pretty, so sharing is likely not possible. 

Or so I thought. At times reliving parts of the story gets pretty painful. Lately, in the midst of conversations with a new friend, I'm struck by a memory long forgotten, or pushed away, and I become distracted by a view of my past through a different lens. One changed by age, experience, faith, any number of things. I hadn't any idea making a new friend could be so frightening, which is ironic because I've never been excited about meeting new people. 

Yet I've been told again and again that I have been given a gift in this story; one that I am to share. 'A gift received is to be given away.' I felt cornered; stuck between a rock and a hard place, as it were. 

Until tonight. Tonight as I drove on the highway, I felt sure that I was never going to be able to tell the story as it should be. I was almost convinced that instead I should quietly walk away. That I should politely decline any encouragement or invitation to even talk casually, and leave storytelling behind. It tore at my heart - does now as I recall - but I couldn't figure any other way. Walking into the church, I knelt and asked where next, since clearly I had been going in the wrong direction. 

The music enveloped me and I allowed myself to listen and respond. 

I'm not sure when the realization came: the story I share needn't start at the beginning. Those details are not always important, although the generalities of them might be. The journey, the results so far, the decision to continue - those are the key points. I lost myself in the Christmas decorations still adorning everything and considered motivation and commitment. Just what sticking it out means. The fact that there is One who didn't walk away when the questions or answers got hard. 

I don't quite know how to share my story yet, but I have a far clearer view of why I might. I have a voice, I have a story, they are gifts to be shared with those who need to hear them. 

And I will. I will share them. 

castles and moats

There is a project I have due tomorrow, and I have been passively avoiding it. By that I mean I am allowing myself to get caught up in other 'business' like sewing, cleaning, Pinterest, counting pennies....just about anything that will seem productive when I look back at the day. [Yes, Pinterest. I made a board of projects I want to get done by fall. It had to be done sometime!] Today I grabbed hold of a piece of advice from my therapist and gave myself the command: "Do nothing but this project for the next hour and a half." It almost worked. I mean, I know where the project is going now (I think), but in the process, I sent a rather lengthy email (related, but likely not necessary) and also took a phone call. In so doing, I was trying to practice avoidance, but they managed to clarify and give direction and shape to the project, so I can maybe mark the 'done' box. Make that the 'started' box.

What came out of the morning was an admission. Not a new one, but a repeat that has never gotten me anywhere before. Here's the thing: the project has to do with opening my heart, baring my soul, and revealing old scars and wounds that may never heal fully, and letting Christ walk with me in the pain, toward healing. Trouble is, when I feel pain, I turn away from everyone, myself included, and isolate. Not to lick my wounds, but to ignore them. My heart, I'm afraid, is a mass of grisly, ugly scars that have tried to heal over despite getting infected from lack of attention. In my brokenness, I believe that pain is meant to be hidden away, ignored, unnamed. Eventually it will go away. And then we can forget about it. My therapist and I are working on that -- albeit slowly because I can't bring myself to look as deep as I need to, even in the safety of his office. On my walk of faith, my heartpain has been touched upon, but I kid myself into thinking that God will make his own way there without my assistance. I mean, he's God, right? Can't he do anything he wants?

Today I admitted that my turning inward is an addiction to me. I try (unsuccessfully) to convince myself that it doesn't affect anyone but me, since I'm alone. I know it's not in my best interest to keep it all to myself, yet I not only avoid sharing, I actively decide not to. To borrow a phrase from therapy, it's comfortable because it's familiar, not because it fits. And when I think something might begin to hurt, I've begun looking for the solitude, except that instead of being a refreshing break from contact with whatever or whomever is causing my distress, it's become extreme, to the point of desolation.

I read this today:

We need to withdraw from time to time
from all unnecessary cares and business.

Sound advice, yes? It's St. Teresa of Avila, and when similar advice was issued a few months ago, I got frustrated (angry?) because I knew this withdrawing I do is not healthy, that it hurts my soul more than it helps. Today, as I read those words, I realized they have the opposite meaning. The key word is 'unnecessary.' For my situation, withdrawing from unnecessary cares points toward contact with others. I need to withdraw from the unnecessary -- dwelling on the hurts and pains. I need to back away from my walled castle and cross the moat to meet those who can offer themselves to me. I need to begin the work of allowing myself to be heard, showing my pain, and ultimately asking for help in nursing my wounds. When others share their pain with me, I can feel it, and I welcome their sharing. Lightening their load is something I don't need to think twice about. But I claim my load to be mine and mine alone. I cannot carry it by myself. I don't know how to share it, how to give it over. Not even to God. I ask him to take it, but I pick and choose which bits he can carry. And that's not fair to either one of us.

Now to figure out how to lower this drawbridge...

an old man

I have a night off. I usually work Monday nights, but here in the middle between Christmas and New Year's, there are no classes. So here I sit with a glass of wine, some candles burning, two books to choose from, and three or four notebooks (and a variety of pens!) within arm's reach. I even have a blanket and two dogs.
It's been an interesting week. I have an appointment with my therapist tomorrow, so I am doing my bi-weekly barometer check to determine if there is anything particularly pressing to talk about. And to review how much of his advice I've followed, considered, or ignored.
And what I keep coming back to is Simeon. Somehow growing up I completely missed anything about him - and Anna - in Bible stories and in church. Somewhere along the line, I had the impression of him as kind of a weird old guy hanging around the temple. I imagined Mary and Joseph being really uncomfortable when approached by Simeon and Anna. I imagined them being rather possessive of their newborn, and having to be polite while these people took their son, passed him around, and said rather scary things.
Simeon had faith. Deep faith in a promise he knew came to him from God himself. For most of my life, I have feared anyone with faith that deep. Heck - people with faith half or a quarter as deep! All those times I missed his story, i really was avoiding him. Sidestepping him like I would anyone who might try to tell me something about any faith or religion. I don't know all the reasons for that fear, that discomfort. I'm very conscious of the fact that I may resemble one of those people I would avoid, and I sometimes check my words, my actions, even my thoughts, accordingly.
And I feel lousy about it.
At one time, not terribly long ago, I saw Simeon as this guy who hung around the temple wanting to just die already. In my mind, shaped as it was (we're working on it), so much had been categorized as "good" or "bad." "Dead" fell in the "bad" category, as did fear, anger, even frustration. And doubt. Praying for courage helped me find Simeon in another place in my soul.
When the boys were small, just about the only thing I ever prayed for was patience. It took a real long while of coming just short of screaming at God that if he didn't hurry up with the patience I was going to go through the roof for me to realize that I was being given opportunities to practice patience, to hone the skill. I quit asking when I drew the conclusion that asking for patience meant that I'd have more in my life to make me impatient. And yet, when I was told "Pray for courage," I dove right in without considering where that might take me. It took a while before I recognized that I was remembering things I'd been afraid of, seeing them from different directions, opening doors into dark spaces in my heart. Last week, it occurred to me that the fear was what I was looking for - not the things that made me afraid. The fear itself was the gift. And I was less afraid. The fear is not "bad," it just is.
Simeon became a man with a dream, a goal, and a purpose. I have a unique purpose, just like Simeon. After Simeon held that newborn child, he knew his life was complete, that there was nothing else that could ever top that moment. He felt. And that's what had always made me uncomfortable - feeling; deeply and profoundly feeling anything - the "good" and the "bad." For me feeling always connected to judgement.
We're working on it.

avoiding myself

I spent the better part of today working on one project in order to avoid working on a few others. Alongside three of our sons, I cleaned their room, dusting, vacuuming, dragging and disposing. The room looks great, and once I find a home for an old "kid" piece, will be a bit more usable for a while.

Oftentimes when I have a deadline or a due date for something, I find myself cleaning instead of getting to work. When I was taking my college classes and had a big paper due every five weeks, a new room was organized and squeaky clean with each submission. I'd like to say it's because I want to have the order to clear my head and put forth my best work. But I know it's a matter of avoidance. 

Until tonight, I didn't really think about why I was avoiding; why I tend to put myself under pressure to finish. I always put it down to an unavoidable tendency to procrastinate since I am an Aquarius. Tonight, though, as I considered the projects -- for church, for the team, and for professional reasons -- I admitted to myself that I kind of like the feeling of importance running up against a deadline gives me. I'm glad it's not an everyday thing. My sensitive skin couldn't handle that any better than my heart could! But there is a little bit of "needed" attached to deadlines.

And there's another reason that was even harder to admit.  A quieter, older and more uncomfortable reason. If I put off doing or making, and the finished product is a flop, I have an excuse. The hard truth is, I have a difficult time feeling worthy, capable, talented. I know that I am (which may or may not sound arrogant to you. It's not meant to be. I am; therefore I am worthy and have been given talent that I am capable of cultivating) and yet, no matter how many times I think I have, I just can't shake that niggling doubt.

I put things off because I'm afraid to succeed.

If only I knew why. The best I can come up with right now is that I still have some me to learn about. I've come a long way, but I know there are questions I still don't know how to ask. Or have the nerve to ask. There are still things I don't know how to say. I know because I can see them, hear them, feel them inside my head, and in my heart. I know that's progress because I've never had things bounce around my heart before, trying to get out.

My list is made, and in the morning I will systematically attack each project. I'm looking forward to it. I know I won't finish them all before the weekend is over, but I'm armed with a bit more knowledge of who I am and how I tick. And that's a good lesson learned. 

ask why

When I was in high school, I had a boyfriend I thought was all that. After dating him for about three months, I invited him to a New Year's Eve party that my parents were taking us to. I knew there would be very few kids our age there, and really didn't want to spend the evening with just my sister to keep me company. Did I "forget" to mention to him that there would be Mass at midnight? Probably--which means, of course I did! In my own awkward and unpracticed way, I was trying to invite him into something our family did together without it being weird. Did I realize that less weird for me might be more weird for him? Did I care enough to wonder? No way. I was 15--I was concerned more about me, and how I felt.

Everything was going great--we were hanging out with my sister, maybe we watched TV or played cards. The thing I remember most about that night was Mass. The adults started filing downstairs to the basement where we had been all evening, and that was his first clue that something was going on. I tried to play it off as something I saw all the time. In truth, I was a little freaked out at them coming downstairs--Mass in a basement with no windows is weird. And there is a ridiculous amount of discomfort associated with the realization that you purposely yet unwittingly tricked someone into being trapped in a basement with no escape. I tried to ignore the daggers he shot at me, until, about halfway through, he leaned over and asked, "Why do Catholics do that? Why do they sway like that? It's weird." I turned my head and saw what he saw: everyone swaying--not side to side as one would do when holding a baby, or dancing to music--forward and back. And so was I.

I answered him honestly. "I don't know. I never really noticed before." But it was the last time I did. For months afterward, focusing on not swaying occupied all my attention. Then it became habit to stand stock still. Save for the days (years!) when I baby-swayed, I haven't moved at church. I sit, stand and kneel, but no swaying.

At the time, I had all the answers. I had all A's in school, read a lot, and felt like I knew everything. That question that stumped me was hard to take. It made me doubt myself, my gifts, even, for reasons I may never understand, my faith. Up to that point, I had thought of faith as a given, but with one question, I was thrown. For one simple reason: I didn't know who I could ask. Even then, I figured it had something to do with equilibrium and some other physiological factors, but at church was the only place I ever saw it. I was never told I was supposed to, or that people do for various reasons, nothing. It was a void, a black hole.

Black holes suck in the stuff around them, and this one sucked in quite a bit of goodness. It sucked in just about all the faith that I had. I started asking some questions, but without a clear idea of who to ask, I wasn't really looking for answers. Instead, I was asking questions to point out what I didn't like, the quirks, the stuff I didn't understand--all in such a way that I really was making fun of what I didn't know. And it got to the point that I thought asking questions was a bad thing. If I didn't know, there must be something wrong with me. Funny thing is, though, I only felt that way about questions related to faith and its practice.

Fast forward. I met a great guy. We got married. Had kids. Went to church. Got busy. Time passed. Life was crazy, but good. We were showing our kids faith. They weren't asking too many questions. Nobody had to know what I didn't know--not even me. It was good. Or so I thought.

When Dad died, I started to realize there was something missing in my faith. It wasn't a given. I did a lot of taking in the days, months and years that followed. In many ways, I was still that 15-year-old girl, at least as far as my faith is concerned. Had I considered that might be a legitimate question to ask, had I had someone to go to, high school, for me, may have been very different. All that taking and selfishness turned me more and more inward. I still went to church, I still did the things I thought faith-filled people did, and eventually I hit a wall. And I kept hitting my head against it.

Fortunately, that was mistaken for knocking, and a door was opened. I was having a miserable time, feeling like everything was falling apart, and someone I didn't even know very well told me that if I wanted or needed to, I could call. Just the invitation opened another door: the one in my heart. Soon after, I offered to take Mom to Faith Matters at church, and, lo and behold! Within a couple of weeks, I heard that questions are good. Ask them. Look for answers. And don't stop until you understand. It didn't take long for me to realize that was my nature; in my "real life," I asked questions all the time. Relentlessly, sometimes!

I still don't know about that swaying, but I have had many questions answered--most of which lead to more questions. (I'm in heaven!) And my kids have been asking questions, which makes me so proud of them, especially when they humble me by asking one I can't answer. I love telling them we'll find out together, or to direct them to someone who might know. I've gotten to know the person who offered that invitation, and although I have never called, I have emailed, texted and messaged--a LOT!

And I am forever grateful. My heart dances.

paper and pencil

I find myself looking at blank piece of paper. When I realized it, I almost laughed out loud, but had to contain myself in that moment. Instead, I laughed right out loud in my soul, expanding the very walls of my being. The laughter, and the paper, cleared some cobwebs from my mind, and pushed away some anxiety that has been lurking in the corners of my heart, constricting it and keeping me from opening the windows of my self wide to allow the gentle breezes of joy and mercy to blow freely in.

This paper may or may not be the one that haunted me as I asked for answers a few months ago. It's quite possible that it is the answer I was seeking; but it is equally possible that this is one more challenge to face, embrace, and ultimately use as a stepping stone on my journey. This paper is literal, where the other was a vision in my periphery: a frustration borne of trying a wee bit too hard to see what I should wait patiently to discover. This paper honestly paralyzed me for a moment when I saw it, lying on the table in front of me where I had dropped it. How can a piece of paper have this effect? Essay questions. Short answers. About me. About my journey, my hopes, my self.

The thought of answering them was almost a deal-breaker. For about 20 seconds. Then I recognized the anxiety--the No--that had stopped me from taking so many steps that should have been easy when taken with trust. I realized in that moment--well, after the 20 seconds, anyway--that trust is what had been missing so many times when all I needed to do was say Yes.

Tonight, I changed the question, and only just realized it. Once again, that seems to be the key. (I believe Merton said as much somewhere in No Man Is an Island!) Where I had been asking, "What is the answer?" I today asked, "Please, help me with the answers. Guide my hand in writing the words. I am just your little pencil.*" That's when I realized, when my soul laughed, when I saw smiles in front of me, and a nodding head.

I have come to a new place. And recognized it for the beauty, and for the miracle that discovery is.

*Mother Theresa described herself as "God's little pencil." I fell in love with the metaphor!

know no know

A dear friend of mine tells me from time to time, "You know more than you know." Although I don't think I've ever heard him speak these words to me (he usually tells me via text message or email), I hear his voice saying the words. And they echo in my mind, sometimes taking on various forms and meanings:

You know more than you know.

You no more than you know.

You know more than you no.

Each is equally uncomfortable.

I've struggled at times with "no-ing" without thinking. There are times, as Momma, that I have been caught in a No battle, saying the word before really thinking about it. Then I would be stuck in a conundrum of either backtracking or holding to the automatic response when I realized that No was not really the best answer. More recently, I realized I was using the tactic to avoid giving the most honest response: I was asked if perhaps I could be called to lead a Bible study, and my first response was a series of Late Night Top Ten reasons why it would be a questionable idea. I left off Reason #1, though: I've read so little of the Bible it's a bit embarrassing to admit. In the end, after a whole lot of searching and a number of things hitting me right in the head, I had to admit that I No'd too automatically: the real answer was "It's possible." I do No more than I Know sometimes.

And last night, I was at a youth ministry informational meeting, the leader, in response to something I didn't hear, said, "How many theology degrees did St. Peter have?" It was just what I needed to hear. I blurted out that I feel like I don't know anything.  Our pastor, sitting next to me, said that I know more than I think (something that, under different circumstances, would have really bugged me), but there was a chorus of others who said they felt the same way. A discussion followed, about hearing and listening, learning and growing, resources and comfort levels. All the while, I heard my friend's voice in my ear.

I don't think it's any coincidence that the story of Jesus on the Road to Emmaus (Luke 24:13-35) was presented to me twice yesterday. I story that I had heard of, but had never, to my recollection, heard. In a nutshell, Jesus appears to these two guys walking along, and asks them what they are talking about. They tell him the story of Jesus' death and resurrection, and they they all have communion together, at which point they realize to whom they are talking. The point being that Jesus will come to us, where we are. On my journey, I am right where I am supposed to be, at this moment, and where I am is where He will be, if I let him travel with me. I've read a number of times over the past few months that the key is to travel with, not ahead of, and not behind.

How do I ever know what I know? It's funny, because I recognize when I no what I know, and when I know what I no, but knowing what I know is harder to see. It's far more nebulous than even I care to admit. Frankly, it frightens me to think about. I wish I knew why. I wish I knew where to start thinking, contemplating, pondering. I wish I knew how, or when, or who, or if I should ask for guidance, or if it's just something to figure out on my porch when I'm alone.

You know more than you know.

Tell me what it is.

water water everywhere

In the shower this morning, while washing my hair, I was thinking about how sometimes I feel as though I am drifting on this journey. My very next thought was that I have many of my best thoughts in the shower; it's a good thinking place, and I've had a number of friends tell me the same, so it's likely that you, too, have had this experience. (Some of my niftiest tap combinations were born in the shower, although by necessity, were tested elsewhere!) Knowing that these are the thoughts that often mean something important, I went back to the feeling of drifting. And then I thought, "Wait a minute! How can I feel like I'm drifting?"

Here's the odd thing: when I consider my journey (previously, my life journey, and more recently my faith life journey), I always see it as a road or a path. Something to be travelled on foot, and occasionally in a car, though how the car gets from where I leave it to where I need it again, I have no idea whatsoever! From time to time, the path is actually a rocky hill or mountain that I have to pick through carefully, or scale with tenacity. Now and then, there is a nice diversion--a hot air balloon from which to get a nice overall view of where I've been and where it looks like I might be headed (mostly looking back, though. Usually there is mist in the forward, and that is quite alright.), or a tree to rest under or perch in to see what and who might pass by.

I took myself back to the drifting feeling, wondering why I chose that word, and recognized the gently rock and sway of a boat or kayak with no direction or propulsion. The word was accurately describing the moment (it's a good drifting, the kind that feels peaceful, restful, a respite) and I welcomed the awareness. Next thing I knew, I was shaking my head because I was seeing a road, a path--a riverbank! I was really in the same place, going in a direction, with the current. A river is a road in many respects. I knew this from history classes, but had never applied it (like too many things) to my own life.

Last weekend, gazing out at the Atlantic and at the Bay, I felt an amazing sense of freedom, as I always do at wide expanses of sea. I wondered why. What the magnetism comes from. I've heard many theories, ranging from the pull of the moon that makes the tides, to the salt to water ratio in the sea being similar to that of our bodies. This morning, I realized in my quick succession of thoughts, that for me, the attraction is the lack of forced direction. There are no sides, no defining edges, as a road has, a path, or even a stream. (Now that I think about it, I'm attracted to mud puddles for the same reason, so it's not just the salt water, as I often thought!) On my way into work, I saw a quote that made me think about last weekend. I'd seen it before, and when I read it, I thought it was an answer to my question about the attraction: "The cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears or the sea." (Isak Dinesen)

Throughout the day, as I pondered the connections, the threads that would tie all these thoughts together, I realized the beginning of my real answer lies in the borders, or limits, I put on myself, keeping to the path. Even in my contented drifting, I am fearful of straying from what I know. It's not that I don't take chances, or try new things; it's just that I like to know that there is a safety net. If I am really going to reconcile the two sides of my life into one 'real' life, I need to be true to myself in all things, including my journey. I have to be willing--eager even!--to see the wide open possibilities of faith. Trust that the path I follow doesn't just end at the shoreline, or follow its edge, but may--no, will go directly across the ocean from time to time. I need to look directly into the eyes of Love and take one step, and then another. I need to feel in my soul what I feel when I stand on the shore.

Faith, hope and love, and I'm working on all three.

#lifeisgood

This week has been full of extra blessings. Sunday began with a sermon that made me say, "Ah, ha!" and exemplified how different perspectives can change perceptions. (We attended a beautiful wedding on Saturday evening, and the readings and sermons for both the service and Sunday's Mass were the same.) And we got to stay for a pancake breakfast, to boot! What better start to a Sunday? The afternoon took me to a swim meet -- my first in a while, as the season had changed, and the team as well. My tweet upon my arrival says it all: "That day when being at a pool for a meet is fun again. #lifeisgood #EPACrocks" and I did have a marvelous time, watching our Joseph swim, and getting to know a few parents on our new team. In fact, it was the first time I had consciously made the decision to be "Stephanie" and not "a coach's wife" to get to know swim people. When asked about the transition, I replied openly, from my own perspective. And, damn, did it feel good to be myself!! The new me. :) I read my book in between Joseph's races, texted with a couple of friends, made faces at Guy across the pool, and loved it!

Guy was on vacation this week, and there was so much sharing we were able to do; even with me going to work most of the week. He scraped and washed the porch, so later today, I will start priming while he works at the pool -- giving private lessons after practice is over. I can do nothing but smile when I think of how great this transition has been! This is the team he has been needing for so long; somewhere he can shine and collaborate, where he can teach and learn without feeling controlled and contrived. I'm so happy for him -- and I feel as though we've finally 'come home,' as far as swimming goes.

One of the highlights of the week, though, came on Wednesday evening at Church. Mom and I have been attending a video series on Catholicism while Guy and Joseph are at CCD, and I have been thoroughly enjoying it! It's not just about Catechism, or Bible study, but offers quite a historical perspective on the teachings of Jesus and His followers. That is right up my alley -- the seemingly trivial, nuts and bolts things that somehow were missed in my 8 years of Catholic school. (I honestly don't know why -- Had I understood the historical, contextual meaning of 'turning the other cheek,' for example, I may not have had so many questions all this time.) The good news, to me, is that my faith is probably much stronger and deeper than I had thought. I digress....

Despite this week being wonderful blessed, it has also been a little tumultuous (perhaps the reason I notice the blessings?), including the beginnings of inquiries regarding making harassment charges. But, Wednesday evening, one of those age old questions was asked, and the simplicity of the answer, or an answer, brought tears to my eyes. Earlier in the week, Guy and I had talked about strength and healing, and the tests and obstacles that, when encountered and overcome, make the journey that much sweeter. I told him that, strange as it sounds, there's a part of me that is thankful, after the fact. He agreed that it sounded strange, but assured me I was not crazy. Anyway, the answer offered was this (and I have heard it before, but not so succinctly, and never when I most needed to hear it): "God permits evil to provide for a greater good." I don't completely understand it, but I'm not meant to; none of us are. But there is a need to tear down that which is not structurally sound in order to rebuild and reinforce that which is good.

I'll be the first to admit that my life, my person, my confidence has been built on a veritable fault line! Plate shifting cannot begin to describe my occasional meltdowns. But just today, I was telling Guy, as we tried to avoid the ticking of the clock toward daytime, that there is a space inside where years' worth of anger was. I get scared sometimes, though "scared" is not the right word, because I'm not sure what is in its place. I'm not used to being filled with faith, hope and joy. I'm not used to being me all over the place, either. The scared that I feel is closer to the feeling of anticipating a roller coaster ride with my brother-in-love than the feeling of an open closet door at night, or entering a dark room alone. Is it strange to say that it's a scared that I like, and look forward to?

Such happiness, such joy, faith and love, are filling my heart, my days, my nights, my life, that I almost feel as though I've been living a dream after a sleepless night. A long sleepless night. Clarity. It's a beautiful thing. Thank you!!

fears: pt. 3

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

fears: pt. 2

One thing I am afraid of: walking into a dark room. From time to time, I wonder why it's so scary to walk into a dark room: if there is something hidden in my past that I've suppressed that's caused it, or if it's a common, normal "survival instinct" kind of thing. Most of the time, I just make sure I know where the lights are, and that enough of the space will be lit up enough for me to get through.

Hallways don't normally bother me, unless I'm unsure of whether there is a room along the way. Yeah, that's right, a long, narrow dark space doesn't bother me nearly as much as a big dark square that occupies the same mathematical area. (Fears don't always make sense, you know!) And the other oddity about this particular fear is that if I wake up in the middle of the night, walking into or through a dark room usually does not bother me. I know I am not afraid of the dark, just dark rooms.

From the time my parents first left us home alone without a babysitter, I've known this fear. Going to bed after dark meant walking through one dark room, and past three others--four, if the hall closet was open. I would leave the light on in the family room where I would have been watching TV, and turn on the kitchen light. Then I would go back and turn off the light in the family room. Next, I would go to the end of the hall, past the Living Room, and turn the light on there; then backtrack and turn off the kitchen light. I would leapfrog all the way to my room this way--a process that involved 8 light switches (ons and offs) just to get to my room.

In our current house, it's only occasionally a problem, because there are two streetlights that seem to take care of the problem for me most of the time. Once, at the dance studio where I worked, I was asked to go into the front of the building to get a bag of costumes. I made it as far as the door. When I opened it and saw how dark the room was, I had to turn back. I didn't know where the light switch was, or how big the room really was. I just couldn't do it.

I have a similar fear of open closet doors while I'm sleeping. Literally, I cannot get to sleep if a closet door is open. All my life. When we were first married, I told Guy about it, and, the wonderful man that he is, he has always remembered to close them if he sees one open. He's the only one I had ever told, which actually did lead to at least a couple of restless nights away from home with friends or relatives. Then, one night, in a hotel or something, my brother made a point of closing a closet door near bedtime. Our eyes met, and he said, "I know I'd never be able to sleep with that open." I remember laughing and saying that I have that trouble, too! Although it felt good to know I was not alone in my fear, it did make me wonder what could have made us both, with 12 years between us, have the same fear.

Being embarrassed about this fear of dark rooms never occurred to me, but being afraid of doors open to dark closets did. I wonder why that is almost as much as I wonder why I have the fears in the first place. Yet I see no reason to "fix" it. I just turn on lights when I need to, and turn back if I have to. Much the way I deal with the other stuff in life that comes at me. And sometimes, I get a flashlight.

fears: part 1 : a corollary

A dear friend reminded me that there is a distinction between being "alone" and being "lonely," and that "it's not uncommon for people to feel lonely when surrounded by others." My response: "I have been lonely, and I did not like it one bit--that's when I decided I needed to be me enough to like being around me. It's made a world of difference. And I no longer feel like I need to make excuses about being alone."

The fact of the matter is, I have been so lonely at times that I have been concerned about my own behavior. I remember the times growing up when I felt so lonely, I didn't know what could possibly make me feel like I belong anywhere. The friend I just mentioned was actually one of the reasons I could decide to like myself. Thanks to her, and a few other key people in my life when I've hit those lonely times, I have the strength to be happy today.

Loneliness is inevitable. We all get lonely for various reasons, some of which seem real and important to others, and some which seem trivial. Even if the fear of being alone is really a fear of loneliness, I do not fear it. I can face it. Head on. I do not use loneliness, or the fear of it, as an excuse for my behavior--or misbehavior--in any given situation. Feeling lonely in a group, whether a crowd or a couple, happens, and hurts. A lot or a little is irrelevant; hurt is hurt, and sometimes is accidental and can't be helped. (I seem to remember discussing this in one of my classes.....) I tend to use that loneliness to learn about myself, and to determine what's important to me.

However, feeling loneliness, and having no idea how to cope with it, is a sign that you need to find some help. Seek out a friend, a confidante, a bartender, a stranger at a bus stop, and talk to them. Get a referral for therapy. Something and someone to help you be better able to handle those times. But for heaven's sake, choose someone appropriate--someone who does not become something to hide behind, someone you use to just plain prevent loneliness or being alone. Please, get some real help with overcoming, or at the very least, dealing with, that debilitating fear.

fears: pt 1

I've had a couple of people tell me somewhat recently that what they are most afraid of is being alone. While I try to be sympathetic, I simply do not share this fear at all. I don't remember ever having this particular fear--I've always been perfectly happy to be on my own; a trait that seems to make other people crazy from time to time. Interestingly, most of these same people are those who do not enjoy my company. I've often wondered why it matters to them that I would rather sit by myself and read a book than make small talk about nothing in particular. 

There have been some who have tried to call me "anti-social," but it's not that at all. I just prefer to get to know people on my own terms. Observation and intuition are my tools, and have not lead me astray often. Many times, I have told my husband or my kids, "Watch out for that one....." Not once have I been wrong when I've made that warning. Occasionally, I have been fooled by "the sociopath next door," but in that, few of us are alone. Really, if I want to get to know you, I will, but most likely it'll be because you don't bug me.

Some situations make it especially difficult for me to want to be chatty and social. My husband is a rather public figure, and as such, people tend to think they know him when they only know one side of him. When they see me, they frequently have made assumptions about what I must be like, and the fact that I generally defy those expectations doesn't really sit well. For the most part, when I consider my good friends, I see that they are the type that don't postulate in advance; rather, they take in what they see, and piece others together based upon that substance. My friends are people I admire for that practice.

Back to being alone.....

Rather than fear the silence around me or within my being, I relish it! When I am alone in my home or car, I blast the music, sing along, and dance when I can. I realize that what people fear is the greater Alone. The one that we can capitalize because it means "with no one," and uses the greater "with." For that, I take my cue from my Gramma Katie. She was a widow for as long as my siblings and I knew her. She never missed anything! She went places, listened to Paul Harvey (and debated with him in her kitchen!), made me promise when I left for college never to get old. She invited herself to the weddings and funerals held at the church a few blocks from her home--she didn't know anyone, but she had a wonderful time witnessing the joy, and managed to soothe herself sharing in the sorrow. Once I asked her why she never had a boyfriend or got married after Grampa Henry died. She told me there were two reasons: "I never needed to; never felt like I was alone. And besides, when I told him that if anything ever happened to me, I thought he should remarry, he said, 'Thanks,' and never told me the same!" She believed in ghosts, you see...

Not only have I tried to live up to my promise, I have also made sure that I am a person I like to be around. If there comes a time when I find myself alone, I am confident that I will not feel Alone. I have fantastic friends (and plenty of them!) to help me through whatever sorrow may come my way, but I would be fine on my own. And, as I learned from Gramma Katie, I have also 'given permission' to my husband, should he need to thwart the feared Alone, to move forward and find someone else. [He assures me of statistics, which appeal to my logical mind! haha]

fears and foibles

As the sky darkens ahead of the storm in the forecast, I happen to see an ad for umbrellas. This always makes me snicker, the way the computer people "know" when something is going to happen, and advertise accordingly. This particular ad, however, will not work on me. Why? Because I have some kind of irrational fear of umbrellas.

I don't know how long I've had this fear, or what brought it on, exactly, but I do distinctly remember looking out a window in Xavier Hall one rainy day in college, and thinking, "I can't go out there--look at all those umbrellas!" I don't remember if I had to go out to the street for my next class or not, but I do remember the fear, the panic, very well. The most interesting part is that I have a very, very specific reason for wanting to -- NEEDING to -- stay away from the umbrellas on the street.

Perhaps my perceptions of the people who worked in that fair city would present some background....

My grandmother, during one of my holiday breaks, asked how I liked it there--not just school, but the place, too. After all, when my siblings left for college, they stayed in the college towns afterward, so it was natural to wonder if I would do the same. (Actually, in the end, I did, but that's another story for another time.) I told her it was pretty, for a city, and a nice size, but the people were not terribly friendly, and everyone seemed in a great hurry all the time, driving, walking, biking. I told her that as far as cities go, I'd prefer New York. (Yes, even with its umbrellas!)

Fast forward to my umbrella panic. The very specific reason I took issue with the umbrellas people walking on the street were using is that I saw each and every one of those umbrellas poking me in the eye. And sooner or later, I figured, one of them would walk off with my eye attached to it, never to be found again. It's been over twenty years, and I've only recently started using an umbrella, and only when I know I will be the only one in the parking lot after work.

I know the fear is irrational for a few reasons: no one else I know is afraid of getting their eyes poked out by umbrellas; I've never known or even heard of anyone getting their eye poked out by an umbrella (but I'm certain at some point it will happen in a CSI episode!); and I've only been able to share my fear with a select number of people. I don't even think I told my college roommate, and I told her just about everything!! It's odd, too, because of how much I absolutely love rainy days! I loved playing in puddles all the way through college. Walking in the rain was something to look forward to until I stopped wearing contacts. And rain always reminds me of the really cool umbrellas my sister and I had when we were kids: they were shaped like bells and every other panel was clear, so it was like being in a rain tent when we waited for the bus. There's also the more reasonable understanding that if I were under an umbrella myself, the little pointy parts from someone else's umbrella would have to stay further away from my eyes.....

Maybe it was the fact that I was on my own for the first time, and if something happened to me, I'd have to depend on strangers to take care of me. Maybe it was the realization that I was 6 hours away from home. Maybe it was something someone said. I know it was not because of a love of horror movies -- I'd never liked them, and the scariest ones I ever watched were old King Kong movies on TV. (The way I devour CSI and Criminal Minds now, though, you'd never realize I thought movies like Cujo too gory!)

So, I politely decline when anyone offers me an umbrella, or even the opportunity to share one with them. I'd rather get wet, thank you very much, and keep both my eyeballs intact.

lightening and lightness

Today I read a post about Love, and it got me thinking a bit. Then I saw a quote that made me think some more. And then I realized that it all tied together in a conversation we had this morning. In the post:

"In any given day, we have only a finite number of opportunities to love and be loved: use them well." ~Fr. King.

It was part of a greater post about the person of love. It was quite thought provoking, since I have been struggling with loving some of my neighbors lately. Reading that post gave me a reason to consider the whys and wherefores of changing relationships and the various emotions involved, especially when a philosophical stance is unexpected--whether positive or negative (from my own perspective, of course).

Then, while trolling through Pinterest, I came across another quote:

"Sometimes God calms the storm...sometimes He lets the storm rage and calms His child."

That hit home. Recently, when I had a huge choice to make, I knew that I needed some guidance. I wondered just what to ask for help with--I've learned not to ask directly, because God seems to want me to make my own decisions; He doesn't seem to hand anything over for free. Because this was so big, I had to choose my words carefully. As a result, I did not ask for help in deciding; I did not ask for answers. Instead, I asked for the least I could think of: I asked for the strength to be myself. Nothing more.

The last time I remember getting a solid, easily identifiable answer from God was a few weeks after 9/11. I had prayed every day and night, fervently and desperately, for peace and strength, and safety for our children, and anything else I could think of. One morning, as I was about to begin my frantic prayer, I clearly and distinctly heard a voice in my heart say, "Be not afraid. I go before you always. Come, follow me." It had been one of my favorite songs growing up, and when I heard it, I was calmed. Completely. I agreed, but then became the only-occasional-prayer that I had always been.

Until I needed to be myself, before I could be anything else. And I have not stopped this time (so far). Having the strength to be myself has given me the grace to forgive where I thought there could not be forgiveness; to love where I feared love had died; to be loved and nurtured; to be open to possibilities and so many new beginnings.

Saturday, we went to Mass, and (not unusual) my mind wandered, due in part to the fact that I misheard and wondered who this St. Bob is who had written to the Thessalonians, and partly, I think, because God had other things to say to me. I left with a feeling of peace within myself: affirmation that forgiveness and love were possible for me because I am me, and not because someone else thought I should or shouldn't. (this was also related to my favoritest Pin of all: "Don't judge others because they sin differently than you." Wow!! A very old message put in a different way can make such an impact!)

This morning we were talking about praying. I don't really feel like I ever learned how or when, only where, which makes it inconvenient sometimes. The result is that I pray sporadically--not just when I need something; I also pray when I am thankful, or when I hear about a friend who is sick or hurting. This is the longest I have prayed regularly, and by regularly, I mean more than just once a week at Church. And do you know what? I am myself. And I am so very grateful for the strength to be myself.

wildflowers

Yesterday, I promised myself I would write today (which is not usually a hard promise to keep, except for the time factor), and this morning, I wondered just what I would write about. I poured coffee, took the dogs out, and sat on the porch step, where I found myself thinking about fences. Like the dogs, my thoughts began to wander around the green and somewhat weedy yard of my mind.

At first, my fence thoughts were absolutely related to the dogs. I've often pictured a fence around the yard, and I even know what style I'd like, complete with the gates (I have a few pictures of inspiration that I cut out and put in a binder, long before there was Pinterest!). Of course, because it was early morning, and I was alone, and I had coffee in my hand--and, quite honestly, because I am me, and I can't help it!--I began to wonder whether the fence would more likely keep things (people? animals? demons?) in or out. Which lead, inevitably, to the idea of the fences in my life, in my mind, in my heart.

Forever, it seems, I've had fences inside to keep myself safe. What I've found is that keeping myself safe doesn't always allow for growing. I've let people through the gates, and some have sowed weeds, which angered, irritated and frustrated me enough to close and lock the gate again. More have helped to tend my garden; helping to pull out and dispose of the weeds, helping me to select the right flowers, fruits, vegetables.....Still....

It's the fences that have kept me in.

I've opened the gates for a number of reasons, and I'm determined to keep them opened, cautiously, for a while, anyway. I've discovered that there is buried treasure, as well as weed roots with tendrils that have been missed, broken off, forgotten.

It's funny--the fence I picture around our yard is only tall enough and the spaces are only narrow enough to keep the dogs in, yet when I am looking at myself honestly, there's been a stockade fence in some of the areas of my psyche, and I, myself, have been kept out. It's time to rebuild.

Each day, I am learning anew to appreciate those who make me happy, who allow me to be happy, who know happiness. I'm finding the roses and the wildflowers, and smelling each one.

"Let us be grateful to people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom." ~Marcel Proust.

on the fence

This morning, I have an interview. It's been a while since I've been interviewed for a job--more recently, I've been the interviewer, and I really enjoy that position at the table. This, not so much. And for a number of reasons, first of which is that I really do love my current jobs. Okay, so the summer one gets to me, but I love most of the people I work with, I love the work that I do there, I love my staff, it's mostly the commute and the fact that it's seasonal.

Mostly, I wish life, the world, the times were different, and that I had made, or been guided to make, different decisions in my life. But only sometimes. Whenever I think that, I look around myself and see where I am. I have four great kids, two nutty dogs, a house that I love (for all its faults!), two jobs that, in all honesty, offer me supreme flexibility for the aforementioned, and a husband who is walking this road with me. I am lucky, blessed, fortunate. My life is far from perfect, and lately more like novella than I find comfortable, but it is my life.

Why do I have this interview, then? Because sometimes it's more important to "have." With Jonathan heading off to college, and Henry following suit in just two years, we have different needs than we had before. I'm still struggling with it: a full-time job for the stability, or keep what I have and find a part-time evening job for flexibility? And would that really offer flexibility? What about my kids? That's always the biggest question: what about my kids?

Yesterday, vocations came up. Above all else, I am a Momma. It is more than just motherhood--I have long known it is my vocation. It was not a "choice" that I wanted to be a Mom when I grew up; it was a calling. I don't know why. Ours is not to question why, to paraphrase Tennyson, right? My duty, though, is to nurture. Perhaps that's why I'm a pretty good manager. Certainly, that is why I am unsure and nervous today. I don't know if this is the right thing to do; or, really, what is the right thing to do.

So I will do what I know. I will follow the interview advice of a dear friend, and be myself, and be honest about what I am looking for. What I am needing. And we'll take it from there. Wish me luck...

(loss of) clarity and vision

Helping my aging mother is hard. "Handling" her has always been difficult for me; we clash on everything, beginning with personality, and ranging all the way to lettuce. This is really nothing new, and I am truly not surprised, and I find myself--often--wishing.

Her sight has deteriorated, and with it her feeling that life is worth living. Time and again, she has told us that there is nothing without seeing. She alternately tells strangers that she is legally blind (which may or may not be the case) and wonders why people think she can't see (because she doesn't attempt to focus on people's voices at times).

Guy asked her one evening if she believes sight is the most important of the senses. "Of course!!" she responded. "What other sense is?" She went on to say that it is the most important because it's the only one that makes everything possible: with out perfect vision, she won't be able to cook, or to read, or to talk to people. No one else except blind people have trouble with these things, she said. So we started asking her questions.....So, if you are missing a hand, and therefore some sense of touch, you can cook? Oh, yes, she said. It's hard, but you could do it. So people who are deaf can converse anywhere? Oh, yes, they can learn to read lips, or do sign language. They can overcome that loss.

And so it went, with her "proving" that no sense was as "important" as sight. No "handicap" was as bad.

Why and how, then, can people who are blind from birth live full and productive lives. "They probably can't," she said, " because they can't see." Nothing has made me so sad as hearing that sentiment. In the conversation, the question finally came up--

"Don't you think that acceptance plays a part in dealing with any handicap?"

Her reply: "Probably. But I am not accepting of much."

Ain't that the truth! She has not yet accepted my father's death, nearly 5 years ago. (I'm not happy about his death, and I miss him terribly, and talk to him often, but I have accepted it, and am able to live my life without him) In their relationship, he was the hunter/gatherer, and she was the gardener; even when it came to friendships. She does not do well in new situations, or in groups of strangers, no matter how big or small. My father, on the other hand, shone in a room full of strangers. I always marvelled, and still do, at his ability to befriend anyone, and put them at ease in any situation--even when afterwards he might say that he couldn't stand them. Somewhere in my mind, I always knew that he was the light who attracted people like moths, and Mom was the one who maintained, somehow. He was the icebreaker. Because I'd known this my whole life, I mistakenly assumed that she knew, too. When she moved here and insisted on meeting her own friends, rather than getting to know any of ours, I thought perhaps she was hoping to transform herself; to go outside her comfort zone, and reach out to others.

Instead, she expected others to reach out to her.

She would come home from Church, and tell me that the people were so unfriendly. No one had asked her if she was new in town. None of her new neighbors had come to her door and introduced themselves (except for the ones on this side of the house, and on that side, and the two across the street....). No one had invited her to come over (again, except for the ones across the street, and those ones there...). At the grocery store, no one came up to her and asked about the melons. When I pointed out that she had not engaged anyone else, either, she told me, time and again, that she shouldn't have to; that she should be approached. And still, she did not want to meet any of our friends' parents, or spend any time conversing with our friends. Why? She didn't want to have to explain where Dad is. That's what she's told me. As if, at 74, there is some kind of shame in being a widow, or it's not "normal."

And now, with failing sight, she sees little value in talking to others. She has difficulty reading, but won't just say, "Please use a bigger and bolder font when you email me." (something my godmother asked me to do once when responding to one of my 12-font emails.) "Please use a bold marker to write to me, instead of a pen." "Please use black ink on unlined white paper." She wants no one to accommodate for her, and she does not want to accommodate.

And, as always, there is little I can say that is "right." When I last told her that she should do something other than sit by herself, she told me that I expect too much. I expect too much that my perfectly healthy, yet somewhat vision-impaired, only 74-year-old mother should live her life, instead of sitting around waiting to die?? Yes, she said.

And so, I take her to the grocery store, and do it wrong. We take her to Church each week, but she feels isolated there. I take her to doctor appointments, and she complains that I am not keeping track of the mileage. She thanks me now, and tells me she appreciates all that I do, but I still am wincing from the gentleman who asked how my grandmother is, and was stunned to learn she is my mother. (I tried to believe it was because I looked young, but I know I don't look that young!)

The other day, she told me she keeps praying for courage and strength, and doesn't understand why God won't give it to her, and keeps making this so hard; and that she'd read that one cannot pay for their sins by suffering here on earth. I asked her, once again, what makes this "suffering." She can still listen--to the books on tape that the Association for the Blind sends her, or to books on tape we could get her from the Library; she can still talk with the boys, on the phone with her children and far-off friends and relatives. She can still live, and that, perhaps, God would like her to rejoice in the things she could still do. And she responded that she does, all the time, think about all the things she could do, at one time, but can't do now. I could only bite my tongue and grieve silently.

After all, I had already told her, when you pray for strength and courage, what you get are challenges to make yourself stronger and face your fears. Prayers of Thanksgiving are so much more effective.

what you've heard really is true

I have very few regrets in my life, and, fortunately, the ones I do have are more related to opportunities I've passed up rather than things I have done that I shouldn't have. Still, there are lessons I've learned, and truths that have been revealed along the way. Nobody wants to hear anyone say, "some day you'll understand," but if I could write a letter to my younger self....

Dear Teenage Me,
 There are so many things you need to know about yourself--far more than you think you already know. You will change. Your life will change, and life will change you, and there is no way to know which is affecting which more, or what the end result will be. That much you know, although the extent is unknown to all but the Spirit you most believe in.

For now, be true to yourself. I know you think "fitting in" is all-important, but I've come to realize that everyone else in the room has the same goal. None of your friends has cornered the market on what is "cool" or "fresh" or "legit" or whatever it is you and your friends call it. Neither has the media. Your parents may seem old-fashioned--and in some ways they are, to be sure!--but they did live through the same pressures that you did. Really, they did. Absolutely, "things were different then," but that doesn't change the fact that every adolescent has had to deal with severe and difficult peer pressure. Not many people make it through High School without some kind of story to tell, and even fewer would say that they would do it all exactly the same way, given the choice. Or that they would want the same experience for the children in their lives. Unfortunately, in an effort to forget the pain and difficulties of being a teenager, far too many adults say, "You don't know how easy you have it." But instead of tuning them out, or getting annoyed with them, ask questions. And drop the attitude when you ask; listen for a real answer, and if you don't get one, ask again.

As adults, we don't really like to be questioned. We'll try to brush off the questions; to give you easy answers that don't really tell you anything. Ask anyway.
Don't ask questions that you don't really want the answers to. Ask what will help you. Ask how we dealt with peer pressure, with bullying, with breakups and first love. Ask if the risks were worth it; how they might have changed our lives, our ideas about ourselves, our parenting now. And listen carefully to how we feel about reputations back then--whether it still matters what those friends thought of us at the time.

Be true to yourself. You may think that you are, because you are doing what you want to do instead of what your parents want you to do, but are you really? How important is it, really, to do what someone else is doing? To wear what someone else is, to act like someone else? Does it really make that person your friend? As a little kid, the game of Follow the Leader is fun and silly, but as a teenager, it can become confusing, frightening, and downright dangerous. Don't always follow. I've learned that wearing and doing what I like has led to people saying that I have "a great sense of style," even on the days when I am just wearing sweats and a t-shirt. Dressing like the fashion magazines, pop stars, or the popular kids at school just adds up to a uniform. Trust me on that.Yes, it's fun to have new clothes and to be fashionable, but only if it is both flattering and comfortable to do so, otherwise, you might as well be a lemming.


And don't risk your own self for the sake of what someone will think of you. If he breaks up with you because you won't have sex, he'd just have broken your heart some other way, but at least he won't have taken a piece of your being with you. If she teases you for being a sentimental boy, she may not be comfortable enough with her own feelings to allow you yours. Is that worth your heart? If others' behavior is risky, obscene, or just plain idiotic, they are not strong enough themselves to be someone to emulate. Those who respect themselves are the ones who people remember and respect the most in the long run.
You will be told, "Everyone is...." You will tell your parents, "Everyone is....." When you say it to your parents, you know it's a lie; therefore, you should probably consider that when you hear it, too. That's the hard part. I mean it, that is the hardest part.

The things you do to try to fit in, and that can only be explained with that reason, are usually the things that will get you into trouble. End of story. Those who are at the top of that food chain don't even really want to get to know the real you. Spend more time worrying about how you want to be remembered later than about what will be said tonight. Remember that no matter how big or small your school/neighborhood/town might be, it really is tiny, and news about regrettable acts travels far faster than that of strength and character.

Strive to be YOU. And remember that your kids will ask you questions, too. Live the way you want to answer them. Yes, you will make mistakes, and you will do things that don't fit your own view of yourself. Best to admit them, face them, and allow the people who truly have your best interests at heart to help you sort through them. That's not likely to be anyone in that crowd who was with you at the time. No, it's more likely to be your parents, a teacher, an adult you trust--someone who's been there and has had time to reflect.

You probably stopped reading a long time ago. I remember feeling preached to, and zoning out and ignoring any advice from adults. I hope, if that's the case, with all my heart, that you make better choices than your peers. That you become a leader, or even a lone wolf, because you believe in yourself.

Because I believe in you.
I really do.
And I'm here for you.
Warmly,
Me

never forget; ever

September 11. 9/11. However you say it, the memories and emotions come with the same intensity. A single day, but one that impacted even those who like to think it didn't.

That day, 10 years ago, was a beautiful, clear early autumn Tuesday. We walked Jonathan to school, then dropped Drew at preschool, having no idea that in that time, the world had changed. I remember that when I got home, I called Guy at work and he told me that someone flew into a building in Manhattan. I figured small, single engine plane--barnstormer-type--muttered what an idiot the pilot had to be, and began to tell him about my morning with the boys, as usual. He insisted that I had to see what was going on, so I reluctantly turned on the TV. I was completely stunned by what I saw: smoke, clouds of dust, a gaping hole in a magnificent building--and then I saw the most horrible thing of all. As I watched, the second plane flew into the South Tower. 'Stunned' does not even begin to describe how I felt. The wind had been knocked out of me; the very life force. I believe strongly in the collective conscience of mankind, and it was fractured beyond measure. I felt emptiness, deep to the bottom of my soul, along with dread and terror. Clearly, this was the intended reaction.

I stayed on the phone with Guy for a time, but with the announcement that another plane--Flight 93--was off course, I couldn't stay on the phone with him. Shortly thereafter, I was on the phone again with my sister in Atlanta, who very plainly stated that this could very well be our last conversation. What I hadn't thought about were possible targets. I was trapped in a "right now" cycle of thought--perhaps because my family was not securely together. Guy was at work, two boys were at two different schools, and I was at home with the other two. My thoughts had been tied to rounding everyone up when the right time came. Celeste pointed out that if the terrorists were wise, they would strike communications centers next--CNN, for example--in order to increase the feeling of panic: no news=fear of the unknown, a thought far more devastating at that moment than being able to see and hear what was going on in real time. She went on to say that the next targets would be military bases, such as the one in North Dakota where my brother-in-law was stationed.

My soul limped with me to preschool to collect Drew. The parents in the hall outside the classroom were all equally pained. Not one of us knew what to expect, how to cope, where to turn, but each of us knew that for our 3-year-olds, we needed to be strong and optimistic. The teachers had not been apprised of any details, just that there was something happening that would be difficult to face in the hours, days, months and years to follow.

I remember the silence in the days that followed. No planes in the air, only fear, grief, even faithlessness. I remember picking Jonathan up at school, and the pretty Muslim mother stopped wearing her veil, and I felt ashamed that she should be fearful of her own identity. And yet, I did not speak with her; did not introduce myself. I remember the tears that I cried every time I was alone from the boys--the boys for whom I tried to be a rock of safety in this storm of the unknown. I remember B telling me that she had been prescribed anti-depressants because she really could not cope with the events, the news, the silence in the air. She told me she didn't think they were strong enough; she needed more to find peace. Her mantra had become, "Thy will be done." I remember sobbing when I hung up the phone. I could not let go of my fear enough to have faith enough in anyone's will. Anyone at all, even God's.

I had trouble sleeping; had vivid nightmares wherein the fire department would knock on the door in the night to evacuate us, but had no answers as to where we should go. Just get out. Now. I had a constant need to know what everyone was doing and where they were at all times. I was going crazy. Each morning I woke and cried--hard--because I did not think I'd be able to cope, to pretend to my children that life was okay, that they were blessed, and safe, and that the bad guys behind the whole thing would be brought to justice. I wanted to be relieved of that duty, and that pressure.

One morning, after the planes were flying again, I woke to a voice in my mind and in my heart. It consumed me completely. "Be not afraid. I go before you ALWAYS." A song I learned as a child from the Folk Group at church, about the Beatitudes. A favorite song, actually, but I was not singing it, nor thinking about it. And it was spoken. I felt warm, held close, safe, and yet I said, "I AM afraid!" Again, the voice, calm and clear in the center of my being, "Be not afraid. I will give you rest."

I began to live again that day. My remembrance shifted from the pain and sorrow that bring fear to that which brings connectedness. While I was wrapped up in my own pain, I could not see that others felt what I was feeling; that others needed me as much as I needed them and still do. I've always admired firefighters, clergy, the military--people who choose to give their lives to someone or something greater than themselves, as literally as they give figuratively. I will never forget. Remembering is what makes us stronger. Remembering is what gives us the courage to build on what we know--about ourselves as individuals, as family, as a nation. I still weep. I won't stop. I'll fly my flag, I'll thank those who give of themselves, and I will move on.

September 11. 9/11. A single day. A lifetime.