Yesterday I made cookies. I was somewhere through the creaming and adding when I was filled with something that made me stop and wonder just what I was feeling. Looking into the bowl of thick, gloppy stuff, I realized it was some combination of peace and hope and memory. Gratitude.
Not long ago it was fairly frequent that I figured a bowl of cookie dough and a glass of whiskey made a really tasty and reasonable supper. They were nights I hadn't fully prepared for, nights that were regular and predictable, but would still sneak up on me every week. Every week, I judged myself. Some weeks I made cookie dough. I was very blessed in that time to have two people in particular who would simply sit with me, without judgment of any kind, and share cookie dough. One would also share whiskey. Both would let me talk if I needed to, or sit quietly and eat. Or we would watch something on Netflix to make us laugh or cry.
The gratitude I felt yesterday was related to all of those things. And because that time is behind me. And for the memory itself. I'm grateful that I have dear friends who know my heart - not simply because they do, but also because they are willing to listen to me, to look at me and into me. To play "worst case" with me, and also to talk about far-fetched dreams that really mean something else I'm truly aiming for.
Once upon a time, I thought I had hope, that I knew what hope was, is. The other day, emailing a friend, I said that I felt something I couldn't quite define, but it was small, deep, and good. I liked it. In the course of describing it, I realized what I was feeling was real, honest to goodness hope. It's smaller than I pictured it, but stronger, in a nebulous and changing kind of way. Where I'd thought hope was supposed to be something grand and visible to everyone around me, I discovered this hope is mine and mine alone. This hope is attached to the dreams I have that develop into goals - goals that are changeable, malleable, flexible, and even discardable. This hope feeds my soul, rather than my judgment. I spent a whole lot of my life thinking that a goal was permanent; once it was set, it had to be attained, or failure was the result. I never knew there were other options - modifying goals, maybe (but only to make them harder to reach), but scrapping them? Never. Hope, I'm discovering, is related to true humility - seeing yourself for who and what you really are. Knowing, acknowledging gifts and flaws, and working to improve both. I think hope is what feeds that growth.
this hope is what came from those cookie dough and whiskey nights. It's what had me washing those dishes the next morning, and making it through another week. It's what's pulled me away from that self-judgment zone; or rather, is pulling me away, as I still run into it more often than I'd like. It's what brings me peace when the unavoidable "unpleasantries" crop up, as they do almost daily. Because it's always there. The Big Hope I thought was so definitive seemed easier to lose, to have to look for and work for. That hope left me feeling hopeless, and therefore like a failure in some ways for having lost it or let it go. This new hope, this small nugget of reality, is with me regardless of what I see in front of me. Quite often it peeks around my shoulder and looks at me without saying a word until I realize its presence and smile. Like the best of friends, like a lover. This hope stands by me in the pain and hurt, and in the good times, too. This hope says, "yep, that'll be fun, if we get there" without ever saying "that's impossible." Sometimes it does ask "is that really what you want?" And sometimes my response is "yes, it is what I want, even though I am fully aware that it's not what I need, or maybe even not what's best for me, but for today, it's what I want to dream about and wish for." And there's no guilt in the wishing. This hope laughs with me and cries with me, and showed me how far I've come - with a bowl of cookie dough.
I have miles to go. And I'm looking forward to every one of them: steep and rocky, rough and uncharted, smooth and freshly paved, fast, slow, and in between. I have hope as a companion.
Showing posts with label friends. Show all posts
Showing posts with label friends. Show all posts
Sunday, March 5, 2017
Friday, March 25, 2016
all is well
"So you're a city girl?" The question was posed playfully, and my response was equally so. Yet even as I spoke, I wondered, am I? In truth I'm no more city girl than I am country girl. What I love about cities -- rather, what I always used to love about them -- is that I am an unknown, a face in the crowd, one of many. In a city, I always thought I could lose myself; fit better inside my own head. Every city I've ever visited has its own flavor, its own style. I've found the 'country' places I've visited and lived have that, too. And if I am to be completely honest, I love them, too. I can be inside my head as much in a rural setting as an urban one. The question came up when I mentioned Philly, but jumped quickly to San Francisco, and got me thinking about lots of wheres. Where I've been. Where I've not been. Where I'd like to be.
And I remembered being asked earlier in the week if I was a vegetarian. That question I've heard before, but the group was different. I'm not, but I do typically go for the vegetable-rich choice in certain situations. The best way I can explain it is that I don't trust everyone with my meat products, although that's somewhat incomplete. It's also that I know I'm not great about eating all the veggies I should at home, so when there is a ready-made option available, I'll go for it. I know a good thing when I see it! I'm not sure why vegetarian is the first thought, but the question never surprises me anymore. It amuses me sometimes, because there was a time when I strongly considered being vegetarian. I like bacon too much to give up meat entirely.
What do the two questions have to do with each other? Is there a reason I was presented with both in one week? Of course there is, and I may not figure out what the reason is in this lifetime. In the meantime, they've had me thinking about me -- what I like and don't like, especially. I like pop music, rock, classical, country, contemporary Christian, rap.... I like music, and to be surrounded by it. I like silence, and the way it envelops me, and also the way it enhances odd noises, natural noises that music and talk might block. I like to talk and to listen. I like to be listened to. (Both of this week's questions were asked by people who listened to my responses. Really listened. It's a rarer thing than it should be.) I like to drive. I like to create, to put things in order. I like to drink wine, and whiskey, and tequila in mixed drinks. I like to drink water, without ice or lemon. I like food. I like to run, to dance, and to work out. I like to explore -- both my surroundings and my own thoughts and ideas. I like to laugh, to cry, to feel. I like to be near the water -- salt water, specifically, though I like lakes and rivers, too. I like seasons. I like the feeling of a hand in mine, an arm around my shoulders or waist, and the squeeze that acknowledges some private understanding. I like knowing deep in my heart that I'll have that one day. I like sitting on my bed at the end of the day, knowing that I have lived that day.
I'm not a city girl, although I would be very happy there. Nor am I a country girl, per se. I'm not a vegetarian, though I may choose vegetables over any other choice from time to time. I am me, through and through, and more so than even a year ago. A dear friend told me this week "You're doing so well at this life thing!" The truth is, I like this life thing. In fact, I love it. That's somewhat new to me. I actually have one these days! All is well, here in suburbia, and would be equally well in a city, in the country, with vegetables, or with bacon.
It's a matter of finding the beauty in the every day, even the mundane. Thank you for asking.
And I remembered being asked earlier in the week if I was a vegetarian. That question I've heard before, but the group was different. I'm not, but I do typically go for the vegetable-rich choice in certain situations. The best way I can explain it is that I don't trust everyone with my meat products, although that's somewhat incomplete. It's also that I know I'm not great about eating all the veggies I should at home, so when there is a ready-made option available, I'll go for it. I know a good thing when I see it! I'm not sure why vegetarian is the first thought, but the question never surprises me anymore. It amuses me sometimes, because there was a time when I strongly considered being vegetarian. I like bacon too much to give up meat entirely.
What do the two questions have to do with each other? Is there a reason I was presented with both in one week? Of course there is, and I may not figure out what the reason is in this lifetime. In the meantime, they've had me thinking about me -- what I like and don't like, especially. I like pop music, rock, classical, country, contemporary Christian, rap.... I like music, and to be surrounded by it. I like silence, and the way it envelops me, and also the way it enhances odd noises, natural noises that music and talk might block. I like to talk and to listen. I like to be listened to. (Both of this week's questions were asked by people who listened to my responses. Really listened. It's a rarer thing than it should be.) I like to drive. I like to create, to put things in order. I like to drink wine, and whiskey, and tequila in mixed drinks. I like to drink water, without ice or lemon. I like food. I like to run, to dance, and to work out. I like to explore -- both my surroundings and my own thoughts and ideas. I like to laugh, to cry, to feel. I like to be near the water -- salt water, specifically, though I like lakes and rivers, too. I like seasons. I like the feeling of a hand in mine, an arm around my shoulders or waist, and the squeeze that acknowledges some private understanding. I like knowing deep in my heart that I'll have that one day. I like sitting on my bed at the end of the day, knowing that I have lived that day.
I'm not a city girl, although I would be very happy there. Nor am I a country girl, per se. I'm not a vegetarian, though I may choose vegetables over any other choice from time to time. I am me, through and through, and more so than even a year ago. A dear friend told me this week "You're doing so well at this life thing!" The truth is, I like this life thing. In fact, I love it. That's somewhat new to me. I actually have one these days! All is well, here in suburbia, and would be equally well in a city, in the country, with vegetables, or with bacon.
It's a matter of finding the beauty in the every day, even the mundane. Thank you for asking.
Wednesday, January 27, 2016
my favorite pants
Yesterday I sat down for lunch, crossed my ankle over my knee, and discovered that the lower edge of my pants was frayed. Not just frayed, but threads hanging frayed. My favorite pants. My. Favorite, Pants. I'd known they were not long for the Okay to Wear To Work category, as they were fading some, but with all the snow we'd had, and an appointment and a meeting after work, I needed something that would float between work and not work. Seeing the frayed edge made me a little sad, but I still had most of my day in them to go. I reminded myself they were my favorite pants, and pressed on.
Arriving home, I decided to peruse Amazon for the style and brand, hoping against hope that I could find them based on the mysterious numerical codes on the tag, since the original tag with the familiar name was long gone. Finding the tag, I noticed that the waistband was also a bit worn. In fact, all the seams were less than new looking. They looked like broken in, well-worn, very loved favorite pants. That I could wear on a weekend when I was feeling particularly casual.
And I realized I was looking at a metaphor.
Until I took a close look at them, my favorite pants looked fine. Not great, because they were clearly beginning to fade, but they looked fine. Fine enough to wear to work once a week (usually on Friday, my own personal business casual twist). But once I'd seen the truth - the frayed edge of the back of the left hem - I began to see the signs of something more going on. Each telltale spot of wear tugged at my heart in a very different way than some other areas of my life I've been seeing with new eyes. In the biblical context my therapist sometimes like to use, once the scales began to fall away, I've been seeing more than the simple cracks and bumps in my life. I've begun to see the true wear and tear, the dangerously close to breaking parts, the more than a little frayed. My favorite pants fit me. They function. The zipper and the button and hooks are all solidly in place and functional.
But I have to be honest and admit they do not work as dress clothes any longer.
I bought a new pair of pants today. They are similar, but not the same. (They do happen to be the same color, but that was a function of supply, not a matter of true choice.) They may or may not become my next favorite pair of pants. Slowly I will begin to disentangle myself from my attachment to these old pants, until eventually they sit in the bottom of my drawer, even more threadbare than I can imagine at the moment. And I will gratefully say goodbye. Until I looked at - really looked at - the seams and edges yesterday, I had no idea that I could have a 'relationship' with a pair of pants. In reality, that's not what this is; rather serving as a metaphor for a good and true relationship's life cycle. There are neat memories associated with these pants, from work things to personal things, from family events to meeting new friends. I felt good wearing them in part because nearly every time I wore them someone told me I looked nice - someone different just about every time; strangers sometimes. Saying goodbye to a friend is hard. Ending a relationship is painful. These are pants; it'll be much easier. But knowing that all of that wear was happening without my notice for the simple reason that I wasn't even considering looking is a reality check. I find myself in a bit of a life predicament, wondering why no one told me they were getting a bit tired. I've asked enough people that I trust to explain that to me as a life lesson. The response varies, but what it really comes down to is that with scales on my eyes, I couldn't have seen anyway; would not have accepted the idea.
I'm learning to trust more - to trust my instincts, to trust those who love me day after day. to trust the people to whom I choose to open my heart. I'm more selective than I've ever been before, and also more open. More me. My relationships and friendships are now what I want to see in my future, who I want to see there. More honest - like the new relationship I will have with my favorite pants, except the people I'm talking about may spend more time with m public than these old pants.
I just realized the metaphor in having a shopping buddy, like I did tonight. I have a group of friends that have informed me that they are the interview panel for certain levels of friendship. And they are a tough crew - individually and as a group. For that I am so very grateful. When taken at its very basic level, it's kind of like shopping for new pants. At one point, trying on the pants I ultimately bought, my shopping buddy simply said, "Let me see the waistband at the front?" At that moment, I realized that the hard question, the scrutiny that made me feel the most vulnerable, really was the key factor. I needed a shopping buddy to help with the decision I may not have even considered facing. I need my heart family to do the same.
Arriving home, I decided to peruse Amazon for the style and brand, hoping against hope that I could find them based on the mysterious numerical codes on the tag, since the original tag with the familiar name was long gone. Finding the tag, I noticed that the waistband was also a bit worn. In fact, all the seams were less than new looking. They looked like broken in, well-worn, very loved favorite pants. That I could wear on a weekend when I was feeling particularly casual.
And I realized I was looking at a metaphor.
Until I took a close look at them, my favorite pants looked fine. Not great, because they were clearly beginning to fade, but they looked fine. Fine enough to wear to work once a week (usually on Friday, my own personal business casual twist). But once I'd seen the truth - the frayed edge of the back of the left hem - I began to see the signs of something more going on. Each telltale spot of wear tugged at my heart in a very different way than some other areas of my life I've been seeing with new eyes. In the biblical context my therapist sometimes like to use, once the scales began to fall away, I've been seeing more than the simple cracks and bumps in my life. I've begun to see the true wear and tear, the dangerously close to breaking parts, the more than a little frayed. My favorite pants fit me. They function. The zipper and the button and hooks are all solidly in place and functional.
But I have to be honest and admit they do not work as dress clothes any longer.
I bought a new pair of pants today. They are similar, but not the same. (They do happen to be the same color, but that was a function of supply, not a matter of true choice.) They may or may not become my next favorite pair of pants. Slowly I will begin to disentangle myself from my attachment to these old pants, until eventually they sit in the bottom of my drawer, even more threadbare than I can imagine at the moment. And I will gratefully say goodbye. Until I looked at - really looked at - the seams and edges yesterday, I had no idea that I could have a 'relationship' with a pair of pants. In reality, that's not what this is; rather serving as a metaphor for a good and true relationship's life cycle. There are neat memories associated with these pants, from work things to personal things, from family events to meeting new friends. I felt good wearing them in part because nearly every time I wore them someone told me I looked nice - someone different just about every time; strangers sometimes. Saying goodbye to a friend is hard. Ending a relationship is painful. These are pants; it'll be much easier. But knowing that all of that wear was happening without my notice for the simple reason that I wasn't even considering looking is a reality check. I find myself in a bit of a life predicament, wondering why no one told me they were getting a bit tired. I've asked enough people that I trust to explain that to me as a life lesson. The response varies, but what it really comes down to is that with scales on my eyes, I couldn't have seen anyway; would not have accepted the idea.
I'm learning to trust more - to trust my instincts, to trust those who love me day after day. to trust the people to whom I choose to open my heart. I'm more selective than I've ever been before, and also more open. More me. My relationships and friendships are now what I want to see in my future, who I want to see there. More honest - like the new relationship I will have with my favorite pants, except the people I'm talking about may spend more time with m public than these old pants.
I just realized the metaphor in having a shopping buddy, like I did tonight. I have a group of friends that have informed me that they are the interview panel for certain levels of friendship. And they are a tough crew - individually and as a group. For that I am so very grateful. When taken at its very basic level, it's kind of like shopping for new pants. At one point, trying on the pants I ultimately bought, my shopping buddy simply said, "Let me see the waistband at the front?" At that moment, I realized that the hard question, the scrutiny that made me feel the most vulnerable, really was the key factor. I needed a shopping buddy to help with the decision I may not have even considered facing. I need my heart family to do the same.
Saturday, June 7, 2014
reaching out
We all need reminders from time to time. Lists for the grocery store, courtesy calls from the doctor's office, alarms set on our phones or email. Sometimes they come in comments made by our children about our own expectations, making us remember what it was like to be their age, needing attention, love, correction, love, guidance, or love. Other times the reminders come in scents or sounds, the feeling of the wind or the sun on your shoulders, or a song. Some reminders are expected, and some come as a surprise. And some come as answers to prayers unsaid.
I've had a particularly stressful time lately. Activities that have brought me peace, have brought frustration. Relationships that should be comforting have been painful. There has been a battle raging in my heart and in my mind, and around me, over my head, invisible to me, but quite nearby.
Last night, I didn't want anything to do with any of it. I didn't want to pray or talk or be anywhere. I wanted to cry, to scream, to play loud music and drive, drive, drive. But I was already tired from a week of late nights, a slight frustration on my own part escalated unnecessarily to anger, hurt and general angst deep in my heart. I sat outside, alone, in the dark, and realized I wanted nothing more than to turn into myself; to tighten my protective shields and hide from the world, my painful memories, and everything I know. So I reached.
Almost immediately, I felt more peace. It was only a text I sent, but in sending it, I admitted to myself that I do need others. I need community--especially when I'm hurting. I told God I did not want to talk to Him; that I did not want to listen. That I just wanted to be. Shortly thereafter, a dear friend showed up in my driveway. We talked and cried some; we hugged a lot. Another dear friend prayed from half a country away. Once again, I was humbled by the comfort of being among others.
This morning, I found flowers in my driveway: a comfort and a reminder. Later, something wonderful happened. God winked at me. A friend I haven't seen in a while, who I had been trying to connect with over the winter, with so many obstacles getting in the way, pulled me aside in a crowded room. Our little talk was made up of very few words, but enough for God to remind me that He is always with me. That each of the people in my life is there for a reason. A reminder that I am--always--His daughter. Even when I want to be alone inside myself.
Thank you all for being in my life, in small ways and in big ways. I am blessed to have this particular community as my help, my net, my family of the heart.
I've had a particularly stressful time lately. Activities that have brought me peace, have brought frustration. Relationships that should be comforting have been painful. There has been a battle raging in my heart and in my mind, and around me, over my head, invisible to me, but quite nearby.
Last night, I didn't want anything to do with any of it. I didn't want to pray or talk or be anywhere. I wanted to cry, to scream, to play loud music and drive, drive, drive. But I was already tired from a week of late nights, a slight frustration on my own part escalated unnecessarily to anger, hurt and general angst deep in my heart. I sat outside, alone, in the dark, and realized I wanted nothing more than to turn into myself; to tighten my protective shields and hide from the world, my painful memories, and everything I know. So I reached.
Almost immediately, I felt more peace. It was only a text I sent, but in sending it, I admitted to myself that I do need others. I need community--especially when I'm hurting. I told God I did not want to talk to Him; that I did not want to listen. That I just wanted to be. Shortly thereafter, a dear friend showed up in my driveway. We talked and cried some; we hugged a lot. Another dear friend prayed from half a country away. Once again, I was humbled by the comfort of being among others.
This morning, I found flowers in my driveway: a comfort and a reminder. Later, something wonderful happened. God winked at me. A friend I haven't seen in a while, who I had been trying to connect with over the winter, with so many obstacles getting in the way, pulled me aside in a crowded room. Our little talk was made up of very few words, but enough for God to remind me that He is always with me. That each of the people in my life is there for a reason. A reminder that I am--always--His daughter. Even when I want to be alone inside myself.
Thank you all for being in my life, in small ways and in big ways. I am blessed to have this particular community as my help, my net, my family of the heart.
Friday, April 19, 2013
merci
My story:
While researching the life and time of St. Therese for a book club discussion of The Story of a Soul, I came across a novena. All my life, I had heard of novenas, but it wasn't until recently that I knew what a novena is.* At the bottom of the page, the instructions said to say the novena, and after nine days, St Therese "will present you with a rose!" By now, I not only realize the metaphorical nature of answered prayers, I've come to embrace it, although at times I still miss the subtleties. Knowing that with prayer, there is nothing to lose, and wondering just what the rose could possibly be, I jumped in. Or, rather, planned when to begin.
The last thing I wanted to do was lose count, so I decided to start on a Monday, and to make the prayer my usual morning offering, at my desk, at work. I tucked the prayer into my bag. On the selected Monday, I pulled the paper out, started the prayer (which is below), and stopped short when I got to the part where I was to add my special intention. I had completely forgotten I would need to pray the novena for something! After some quick thinking, I determined that my offering would be for a couple I had been asked to pray for. I was just about finished with St Therese's little book, and didn't feel as though there was anything I needed for myself, or for my family. She spent a lifetime praying for others she had never seen or met. I was so inspired.
Each morning, I would say the prayer, read my minute meditation, and continue with my day. I remembered to take the paper home with me for the weekend, and only almost forgot to say the prayer on Saturday. Tuesday was the last day, but I said the prayer one last time on Wednesday, just in case. And I felt such peace. I hoped that the people for whom I'd been praying could feel blessings, warmth, love. There was also a very distinct feeling that perhaps just having finished, and feeling refreshed by the exercise was itself the rose.
Then it happened.
Thursday was our son's birthday. I woke happy with memories of his life with us, and especially of the day he was born: a beautiful, perfect spring day. We spent the morning with friends, enjoying the weather, their son and daughter playing with our two sons, and then going out to an early lunch so the kids could nap. I napped, too, and woke with a tightness I'd never felt before. The family we'd spent the morning with had long before agreed to keep our boys when the baby was born, so we called, and headed back over. In the hospital, the doctor told us how happy he was that the baby was polite enough to wait until he'd taught his son to ride a bike before making his appearance. (He is still very polite!) Although I think of that family often, we haven't seen them in years--the kids went to different schools, they had different interests, time and life got in the way.
Similarly, my godparents, with whom I have always felt close, have always lived far away from me. My godmother's sister, however, attends the same church that we do, and I have been seeing her fairly often in the past few months. When she went to visit her sister, I sent her with a note and some pictures, as a surprise. My godmother and I used to be prolific pen pals--she guiding me more than she'll ever know through the bumps and switchbacks of growing up. Life, travel, small children (my own and her grandchildren), and all kinds of other little things got in the way of sharing the long, newsy pages we used to share. I miss it. She sends cards, without fail, for each of the boys' birthdays (including the 'big boy!').
Back to the birthday on Thursday. The card in the mailbox also contained a rose-petal pink envelope, with the most lovely note, addressed to me. I wept as I read it; both for the words it contained, and for the memories wrapped in love and joy brought back as I recognized her wit and turn of phrase. I bloomed, and agreed with all those who say that the world has lost something in the quick send/receive of email and text communication. Yet, in typical Stephanie fashion, I did not recognize the rose in my hand. (Hit me over the head, Lord! is my usual prayer!)
After dinner, instead of cake, we went to the fro-yo cafe we like. As I started to explain to Mom how it all worked (a salad bar of sundae toppings, basically), I happened to look up and see.......the woman who had cared for our boys while our birthday boy was born. She may have been surprised at the hug I gave her without even thinking about the years since the last one, but I knew immediately that she was, in fact, my rose. The first thing she said to me was that she thinks of us from time to time, and I was so excited to tell her that I had been thinking about her that very day--most of the day, in fact--and that we were celebrating that very same day, 15 years ago. We chatted--me forgetting that the boys' fro-yo would be melting--and parted ways both feeling lighthearted. As I topped my coconut and dutch chocolate with yumminess, I thanked St Therese, and said another little prayer for my special couple.
How could I be so sure, immediately, of my rose when I hadn't even realized about the note? (as soon as we walked back in the house that night, I put together those pieces) Because the church that family attended way back when was St Theresa of the Infant Jesus--the Little Flower herself. God must have told her to hit me over the head.
O Little Therese of the Child Jesus,
Please pick a rose for me
From the heavenly gardens
And send it to me
As a message of love.
O little flower of Jesus,
Ask God today to grant the favors
I now place with confidence
In your hands.
(Mention your specific requests)
St. Therese,
help me to always believe,
As you did,
In God's great love for me,
So that I might imitate your
"Little Way" each day. Amen
*A novena, according to The free dictionary, is a recitation of prayers and devotions for a special purpose during nine consecutive days.There is also a Flying Novena, which Mother Theresa used in emergencies. Another story, another time.
While researching the life and time of St. Therese for a book club discussion of The Story of a Soul, I came across a novena. All my life, I had heard of novenas, but it wasn't until recently that I knew what a novena is.* At the bottom of the page, the instructions said to say the novena, and after nine days, St Therese "will present you with a rose!" By now, I not only realize the metaphorical nature of answered prayers, I've come to embrace it, although at times I still miss the subtleties. Knowing that with prayer, there is nothing to lose, and wondering just what the rose could possibly be, I jumped in. Or, rather, planned when to begin.
The last thing I wanted to do was lose count, so I decided to start on a Monday, and to make the prayer my usual morning offering, at my desk, at work. I tucked the prayer into my bag. On the selected Monday, I pulled the paper out, started the prayer (which is below), and stopped short when I got to the part where I was to add my special intention. I had completely forgotten I would need to pray the novena for something! After some quick thinking, I determined that my offering would be for a couple I had been asked to pray for. I was just about finished with St Therese's little book, and didn't feel as though there was anything I needed for myself, or for my family. She spent a lifetime praying for others she had never seen or met. I was so inspired.
Each morning, I would say the prayer, read my minute meditation, and continue with my day. I remembered to take the paper home with me for the weekend, and only almost forgot to say the prayer on Saturday. Tuesday was the last day, but I said the prayer one last time on Wednesday, just in case. And I felt such peace. I hoped that the people for whom I'd been praying could feel blessings, warmth, love. There was also a very distinct feeling that perhaps just having finished, and feeling refreshed by the exercise was itself the rose.
Then it happened.
Thursday was our son's birthday. I woke happy with memories of his life with us, and especially of the day he was born: a beautiful, perfect spring day. We spent the morning with friends, enjoying the weather, their son and daughter playing with our two sons, and then going out to an early lunch so the kids could nap. I napped, too, and woke with a tightness I'd never felt before. The family we'd spent the morning with had long before agreed to keep our boys when the baby was born, so we called, and headed back over. In the hospital, the doctor told us how happy he was that the baby was polite enough to wait until he'd taught his son to ride a bike before making his appearance. (He is still very polite!) Although I think of that family often, we haven't seen them in years--the kids went to different schools, they had different interests, time and life got in the way.
Similarly, my godparents, with whom I have always felt close, have always lived far away from me. My godmother's sister, however, attends the same church that we do, and I have been seeing her fairly often in the past few months. When she went to visit her sister, I sent her with a note and some pictures, as a surprise. My godmother and I used to be prolific pen pals--she guiding me more than she'll ever know through the bumps and switchbacks of growing up. Life, travel, small children (my own and her grandchildren), and all kinds of other little things got in the way of sharing the long, newsy pages we used to share. I miss it. She sends cards, without fail, for each of the boys' birthdays (including the 'big boy!').
Back to the birthday on Thursday. The card in the mailbox also contained a rose-petal pink envelope, with the most lovely note, addressed to me. I wept as I read it; both for the words it contained, and for the memories wrapped in love and joy brought back as I recognized her wit and turn of phrase. I bloomed, and agreed with all those who say that the world has lost something in the quick send/receive of email and text communication. Yet, in typical Stephanie fashion, I did not recognize the rose in my hand. (Hit me over the head, Lord! is my usual prayer!)
After dinner, instead of cake, we went to the fro-yo cafe we like. As I started to explain to Mom how it all worked (a salad bar of sundae toppings, basically), I happened to look up and see.......the woman who had cared for our boys while our birthday boy was born. She may have been surprised at the hug I gave her without even thinking about the years since the last one, but I knew immediately that she was, in fact, my rose. The first thing she said to me was that she thinks of us from time to time, and I was so excited to tell her that I had been thinking about her that very day--most of the day, in fact--and that we were celebrating that very same day, 15 years ago. We chatted--me forgetting that the boys' fro-yo would be melting--and parted ways both feeling lighthearted. As I topped my coconut and dutch chocolate with yumminess, I thanked St Therese, and said another little prayer for my special couple.
How could I be so sure, immediately, of my rose when I hadn't even realized about the note? (as soon as we walked back in the house that night, I put together those pieces) Because the church that family attended way back when was St Theresa of the Infant Jesus--the Little Flower herself. God must have told her to hit me over the head.
O Little Therese of the Child Jesus,
Please pick a rose for me
From the heavenly gardens
And send it to me
As a message of love.
O little flower of Jesus,
Ask God today to grant the favors
I now place with confidence
In your hands.
(Mention your specific requests)
St. Therese,
help me to always believe,
As you did,
In God's great love for me,
So that I might imitate your
"Little Way" each day. Amen
*A novena, according to The free dictionary, is a recitation of prayers and devotions for a special purpose during nine consecutive days.There is also a Flying Novena, which Mother Theresa used in emergencies. Another story, another time.
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
family of the heart
Two days after my birthday, while savoring a coconut macaroon at lunch, I thought about 'family of the heart.' The macaroon was a birthday present from a wonderfully considerate, sweet, and devoted friend--the kind one doesn't come across every day, and yet one of the 'crew' I consider family first, and friends second. It's not just because she would remember that no one in my household would ever consider buying me coconut, either! She's stood by me, listened to my rants, stopped by or opened her door on a moment's notice--with or without wine and/or cheese--and reminded me many times what it means to not judge a book by its cover--literally and figuratively. These are traits that most of my family of the heart share, to some degree. Distance makes some of the visits virtual, or with lengthy intervals in between, but the connection between us is clear.
These are the friends who don't require 'facetime.' They don't need lengthy updates about how I've been and what I've done since the last time we talked, but will listen attentively to each detail, asking questions, laughing and crying with me if that's what comes up. My family of the heart are those who understand, instinctively, that which is in my heart. Many are people it seems I've known forever, even after a short time. Some of us have kid connections, some school, some a common interest. All understand that what introduced us is not the most important, or best part of our friendship.
Some, I've known a lifetime, and others I've met recently. All have affected me so deeply, I can't imagine life without them. Although some are related by blood or marriage, many are not. They are all the first ones that would be on the guest list if I were to plan a gathering for an important life event. The age range is broad, the lifestyles diverse, yet each is a brother or sister to me, or a cousin--a peer. They all know who they are, and they are themselves: completely.
I love each of these people. They are among the blessings in my life, and I think of them, pray for them, so very often. Their pains and their joys are mine; our spirits are intertwined. Because of that, we can ease each others' burdens, increase each others' bliss. Our common home is in our hearts, as interconnected as they are. I would love for each of them to meet the others, as we are all part of one great whole. I'm blessed by them, my family of the heart.
These are the friends who don't require 'facetime.' They don't need lengthy updates about how I've been and what I've done since the last time we talked, but will listen attentively to each detail, asking questions, laughing and crying with me if that's what comes up. My family of the heart are those who understand, instinctively, that which is in my heart. Many are people it seems I've known forever, even after a short time. Some of us have kid connections, some school, some a common interest. All understand that what introduced us is not the most important, or best part of our friendship.
Some, I've known a lifetime, and others I've met recently. All have affected me so deeply, I can't imagine life without them. Although some are related by blood or marriage, many are not. They are all the first ones that would be on the guest list if I were to plan a gathering for an important life event. The age range is broad, the lifestyles diverse, yet each is a brother or sister to me, or a cousin--a peer. They all know who they are, and they are themselves: completely.
I love each of these people. They are among the blessings in my life, and I think of them, pray for them, so very often. Their pains and their joys are mine; our spirits are intertwined. Because of that, we can ease each others' burdens, increase each others' bliss. Our common home is in our hearts, as interconnected as they are. I would love for each of them to meet the others, as we are all part of one great whole. I'm blessed by them, my family of the heart.
Saturday, January 12, 2013
and always
Today, My Love
Twenty-two years ago, I spent the morning with some wonderful women preparing for the beginning of the adventure of a lifetime. We had our nails done (a gift for me from my employer), our makeup done (a gift from a friend), and Guy's sister did my hair (a gift from her to me). We laughed and dressed, wondered what affect the weather would have on our day, and marvelled at how quickly time was passing.
We'll start a brand new today, My Love
The kids arrived, with their lopsided smiles and fancy outfits, passing hugs out to everyone. D, with her hat, warmed my heart, telling me that she was so very excited that I would become her 'taunte' for real soon. I wonder if I have ever told her how integral a part she played in the early days of my relationship with her uncle; how special it has been to me that she was willing to have a part in that day, and in so many days since. Once my heart was warmed, Dan-O melted it, pointing out his "'Talian leather shoes" and saying, "You are so beautiful, Aunt Fannie!"
Let all our worries slip away, My Love
The big concern was how to get my lace boots out to the limo. The snow was wet and messy. The last thing I needed was cold feet--in the literal sense! Plastic grocery bags were produced, slipped on like Cinderella's slipper, and tied or rubber-banded to my ankles. I was reminded of elementary school, when Mom would have us put bread bags on our feet inside our snow boots, "just in case" the snow didn't stay out where it belonged. Back then, I was the only one with plastic boot liners; once again, I was the only one in the group with bags on her feet. A funny reminder of the circles in life.
Time for us to start anew!
As Guy walked his mother up the aisle, the soloist sang "Sunrise, Sunset" from Fiddler on the Roof. I peeked through the curtain to catch a glimpse of him, and immediately began to cry. Dad and I were alone in the little room, and he caught me in his arms telling me, "We don't have to go through with this. If you want me to take you out of here, we can go." At the time, I was so confused: I thought he liked Guy; I thought he was excited and happy for me. Years later, I realized it was one of only 2 times my father was so overcome by emotion he didn't know how to simply say, "You're my little girl. And you always will be." Despite my confusion at his reaction, I was overcome with joy that he was my Dad; the man I'd first given my heart to.
So let's pray My Love, All our tomorrows like today, Sweet Love
The rest of the day is a blur of ceremony, pictures, hugs, food, dance, laughter, and joy. Both our families were there (except my brother-in-love, who we thought of often that day, far away in Saudi Arabia) and so many wonderful friends. I have so many pictures, each of which brings back a sliver or the day--a word, a joke, a tear. Two of the dearest, though, I didn't see until many years afterwards: my college roommate snapped a picture of me dancing with Dad, and she had another of the two of us. Two very special moments, with two very special people. I love looking through those albums!
We'll be together this way, in Love
In the years since, we've had good days and bad days--heck, good years and bad years! We've not only aged, but we've also grown up together. We were so young when we married, and really did have so much to learn about everything. Have I ever wondered if we should have done things differently? Sure. Have I ever regretted any of it? Not a chance. There isn't anyone I'd rather have grown up with, learned with, made mistakes with. No one I'd rather be on this roller coaster adventure of a journey with. No one I'd rather dance with, laugh and cry with, talk with, fight with. Be with.
You for me and me for you.
We've faced challenges of all kinds: kids, financial, physical, emotional, marital.....but that can't break us. Together we are strong. At our wedding, against the wishes of some family members, when we lit our unity candle, we insisted on leaving our individual candles lit, too. We felt so strongly that we needed to be seen as individuals, as a man and a woman, in addition to being one, united couple, facing the world together. I still feel that way. Part of my strength comes from having the support of my husband behind me, but most of my strength comes from the fact of me, and my own experience, faith, and interests. We have more in common now than we did then; or, rather, we've found more of the things we share an interest in during these 22 years. But we've also come to terms with the differences we have. I will not likely ever want to just sit and watch a game on TV, just as he will not likely ever want to knit or sew. We still surprise each other with bits of ourselves: things we learn about ourselves and each other, still.
Much like the sunshine on a cloudy day, Love appears from no place
I wasn't looking for a soul mate when I found Guy. Far from it. I was looking to find myself. It seems that's when the best things happen: when searching takes a backseat. Since the first time I saw him, though, I've known that we shared something special. Could we have known each other in a past life, or were we destined to be together? Does it really matter why we found each other? The important thing is that we did, and that the love that has grown between us--though tested many times--has become a life force. I am blessed in that I have found the love of my life, and he has found me.
Just when I need someone to pull me through....
You'll be here for me, and I'll be there for you!
Happy anniversary, My Love. And thank you to all who have been there for us, with us, in support, in love, and in faith, whether in person or in spirit. We couldn't have gotten here without you.
Thank you to Midnight Star for the beautiful song we used for our first dance. Today My Love is engraved in our wedding rings, and has been a powerful reminder to us about how to live our marriage. Quite a departure from the songs for which you were known, and one that we can never request a DJ to play (no one knows what we're talking about!), the melody, lyrics and message come to me to "bring out the joy in me."
Twenty-two years ago, I spent the morning with some wonderful women preparing for the beginning of the adventure of a lifetime. We had our nails done (a gift for me from my employer), our makeup done (a gift from a friend), and Guy's sister did my hair (a gift from her to me). We laughed and dressed, wondered what affect the weather would have on our day, and marvelled at how quickly time was passing.
We'll start a brand new today, My Love
The kids arrived, with their lopsided smiles and fancy outfits, passing hugs out to everyone. D, with her hat, warmed my heart, telling me that she was so very excited that I would become her 'taunte' for real soon. I wonder if I have ever told her how integral a part she played in the early days of my relationship with her uncle; how special it has been to me that she was willing to have a part in that day, and in so many days since. Once my heart was warmed, Dan-O melted it, pointing out his "'Talian leather shoes" and saying, "You are so beautiful, Aunt Fannie!"
Let all our worries slip away, My Love
The big concern was how to get my lace boots out to the limo. The snow was wet and messy. The last thing I needed was cold feet--in the literal sense! Plastic grocery bags were produced, slipped on like Cinderella's slipper, and tied or rubber-banded to my ankles. I was reminded of elementary school, when Mom would have us put bread bags on our feet inside our snow boots, "just in case" the snow didn't stay out where it belonged. Back then, I was the only one with plastic boot liners; once again, I was the only one in the group with bags on her feet. A funny reminder of the circles in life.
Time for us to start anew!
As Guy walked his mother up the aisle, the soloist sang "Sunrise, Sunset" from Fiddler on the Roof. I peeked through the curtain to catch a glimpse of him, and immediately began to cry. Dad and I were alone in the little room, and he caught me in his arms telling me, "We don't have to go through with this. If you want me to take you out of here, we can go." At the time, I was so confused: I thought he liked Guy; I thought he was excited and happy for me. Years later, I realized it was one of only 2 times my father was so overcome by emotion he didn't know how to simply say, "You're my little girl. And you always will be." Despite my confusion at his reaction, I was overcome with joy that he was my Dad; the man I'd first given my heart to.
So let's pray My Love, All our tomorrows like today, Sweet Love
The rest of the day is a blur of ceremony, pictures, hugs, food, dance, laughter, and joy. Both our families were there (except my brother-in-love, who we thought of often that day, far away in Saudi Arabia) and so many wonderful friends. I have so many pictures, each of which brings back a sliver or the day--a word, a joke, a tear. Two of the dearest, though, I didn't see until many years afterwards: my college roommate snapped a picture of me dancing with Dad, and she had another of the two of us. Two very special moments, with two very special people. I love looking through those albums!
We'll be together this way, in Love
In the years since, we've had good days and bad days--heck, good years and bad years! We've not only aged, but we've also grown up together. We were so young when we married, and really did have so much to learn about everything. Have I ever wondered if we should have done things differently? Sure. Have I ever regretted any of it? Not a chance. There isn't anyone I'd rather have grown up with, learned with, made mistakes with. No one I'd rather be on this roller coaster adventure of a journey with. No one I'd rather dance with, laugh and cry with, talk with, fight with. Be with.
You for me and me for you.
We've faced challenges of all kinds: kids, financial, physical, emotional, marital.....but that can't break us. Together we are strong. At our wedding, against the wishes of some family members, when we lit our unity candle, we insisted on leaving our individual candles lit, too. We felt so strongly that we needed to be seen as individuals, as a man and a woman, in addition to being one, united couple, facing the world together. I still feel that way. Part of my strength comes from having the support of my husband behind me, but most of my strength comes from the fact of me, and my own experience, faith, and interests. We have more in common now than we did then; or, rather, we've found more of the things we share an interest in during these 22 years. But we've also come to terms with the differences we have. I will not likely ever want to just sit and watch a game on TV, just as he will not likely ever want to knit or sew. We still surprise each other with bits of ourselves: things we learn about ourselves and each other, still.
Much like the sunshine on a cloudy day, Love appears from no place
I wasn't looking for a soul mate when I found Guy. Far from it. I was looking to find myself. It seems that's when the best things happen: when searching takes a backseat. Since the first time I saw him, though, I've known that we shared something special. Could we have known each other in a past life, or were we destined to be together? Does it really matter why we found each other? The important thing is that we did, and that the love that has grown between us--though tested many times--has become a life force. I am blessed in that I have found the love of my life, and he has found me.
Just when I need someone to pull me through....
You'll be here for me, and I'll be there for you!
Happy anniversary, My Love. And thank you to all who have been there for us, with us, in support, in love, and in faith, whether in person or in spirit. We couldn't have gotten here without you.
Thank you to Midnight Star for the beautiful song we used for our first dance. Today My Love is engraved in our wedding rings, and has been a powerful reminder to us about how to live our marriage. Quite a departure from the songs for which you were known, and one that we can never request a DJ to play (no one knows what we're talking about!), the melody, lyrics and message come to me to "bring out the joy in me."
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
a tad sad
"Do you suffer from SAD?"
The question was asked by my oldest son after I told him that I had some Saturday chores to do, but wanted to get them all done before dark on a cold January weekend. An almost tongue in cheek question, but a subject he said had been discussed to some extent in one of his classes. As a matter of fact, a dear, dear friend of mine (who I have never seen nearly often enough!!) and I had talked quite a bit about SAD and its effects last winter. She is quite prone to it, and we often weighed the relative benefits of food, exercise, lights and the like in relieving the associated withering of the soul in winter--or at least what sometimes felt like that!
I told him, though, that I have come to believe that I suffer more from TAD--temperature affective disorder. [Not a real thing, as far as I know!] Although I bemoan the Darktime, I actually, in many ways, have always relished the introspection it promotes: time to curl up on the couch with a quilt and a good book, or learn and work on a new craft, bake to heat up the kitchen. What I really don't enjoy is the still constant pull of life on my Darktime. If I could just "hibernate," ball up and forget the outside world except for the occasional darktime walk to look at stars or Christmas lights, winter would still be my favorite season, as it had once been.
Instead, I have to get groceries, pick up and drop off for practices, rehearsals, matches, meets and games, attend volunteer meetings, and whatever else shows up on my calendar. Don't get me wrong; these are all things I normally enjoy (yes, even grocery shopping), but in the winter, they pose much more of a burden for me. For a long time, it was easiest to understand that this was due to the lack of light in the evenings, but, at that moment that he asked the question, I realized it's not just light. [The seed for this whole musing was planted on the first Sunday of Advent, with a homily about bringing light, and the Advent wreath, and the winter solstice. Quite a beautiful set of thoughts and explanations.....]
What gets me is the cold. The drafts in our old, old house. The tips of my toes being icy from the moment the sun sets until sometime in the night, in my sleep. The chill on my elbows as I type, no matter how many layers I wear, or where I situate myself in the house. I told my son that day that every winter, about this time, I start to think about moving to a nice, tight, draftless condo nearby, where we wouldn't have to worry about the yard or the outside maintenance any longer; but, more specifically, I would be warm in the winter. At least that's what I try to tell myself, until the thought of even considering packing and moving starts to get me depressed and overwhelmed!
Then I kind of laughed to myself, remembering a statement made at our family reunion when it was held in Arizona (a place I loved, and would, possibly, someday, be thrilled to live!): "It's a dry heat: like an oven!" You see, I don't think the cold I feel is entirely related to the draftiness or the outside temperature. I think, bottom line, the cold is related to the dark. It's a big, wide spiral, and as long as I can share my quilt--and my icicle toes--with someone I love, keep a sense of humor, and seek the joy on the edges of the longer and longer days with my family and friends, I'll be fine in the long run.
In the meantime, I think it's time for some baking.
The question was asked by my oldest son after I told him that I had some Saturday chores to do, but wanted to get them all done before dark on a cold January weekend. An almost tongue in cheek question, but a subject he said had been discussed to some extent in one of his classes. As a matter of fact, a dear, dear friend of mine (who I have never seen nearly often enough!!) and I had talked quite a bit about SAD and its effects last winter. She is quite prone to it, and we often weighed the relative benefits of food, exercise, lights and the like in relieving the associated withering of the soul in winter--or at least what sometimes felt like that!
I told him, though, that I have come to believe that I suffer more from TAD--temperature affective disorder. [Not a real thing, as far as I know!] Although I bemoan the Darktime, I actually, in many ways, have always relished the introspection it promotes: time to curl up on the couch with a quilt and a good book, or learn and work on a new craft, bake to heat up the kitchen. What I really don't enjoy is the still constant pull of life on my Darktime. If I could just "hibernate," ball up and forget the outside world except for the occasional darktime walk to look at stars or Christmas lights, winter would still be my favorite season, as it had once been.
Instead, I have to get groceries, pick up and drop off for practices, rehearsals, matches, meets and games, attend volunteer meetings, and whatever else shows up on my calendar. Don't get me wrong; these are all things I normally enjoy (yes, even grocery shopping), but in the winter, they pose much more of a burden for me. For a long time, it was easiest to understand that this was due to the lack of light in the evenings, but, at that moment that he asked the question, I realized it's not just light. [The seed for this whole musing was planted on the first Sunday of Advent, with a homily about bringing light, and the Advent wreath, and the winter solstice. Quite a beautiful set of thoughts and explanations.....]
What gets me is the cold. The drafts in our old, old house. The tips of my toes being icy from the moment the sun sets until sometime in the night, in my sleep. The chill on my elbows as I type, no matter how many layers I wear, or where I situate myself in the house. I told my son that day that every winter, about this time, I start to think about moving to a nice, tight, draftless condo nearby, where we wouldn't have to worry about the yard or the outside maintenance any longer; but, more specifically, I would be warm in the winter. At least that's what I try to tell myself, until the thought of even considering packing and moving starts to get me depressed and overwhelmed!
Then I kind of laughed to myself, remembering a statement made at our family reunion when it was held in Arizona (a place I loved, and would, possibly, someday, be thrilled to live!): "It's a dry heat: like an oven!" You see, I don't think the cold I feel is entirely related to the draftiness or the outside temperature. I think, bottom line, the cold is related to the dark. It's a big, wide spiral, and as long as I can share my quilt--and my icicle toes--with someone I love, keep a sense of humor, and seek the joy on the edges of the longer and longer days with my family and friends, I'll be fine in the long run.
In the meantime, I think it's time for some baking.
Sunday, December 30, 2012
familiarity...
Today is the Feast of the Holy Family. I know people who get caught up in the fact that Jesus in the Temple at the age of 12 did not happen in the winter, or near his birthday, and even that his birthday was not in the winter at all. I say big deal; worry more about the point than the timing. The point of Christmas is that Jesus was born. The point of his Temple visit is that he was there, and he was teaching. A child shall lead them. (A quote from Isaiah that some could say is completely out of context. I say many quotes are. At any rate, here he was, a kid -- my own kid is 12 -- sitting around with the rabbis, teaching them. All I can say is, "Wow.")
More than anything today -- partly because of the homily at Mass, and partly because the Holy Family statue in our church helped me through many, many Sundays as a new mother -- I am thankful for the blessing that is my family. Not just the family that lives in my house, but also the family that is related to me by blood, by heart, and by choice. Some of them make me crazier than others, and some are great to act crazy with, but all of them mean more to me than I could ever say. More than I will ever attempt to say. Some would never believe the feelings I have for them; some would be embarrassed. All are in my life for a reason, whether I have learned it yet or not. Some know more about me than others, and some think they know more than they do. All of them help me to continue to learn things about myself, my past, my future, my goals, hopes, dreams. Some I talk to more than others, and some I may never see or hear from again; yet each and every one is indelibly in my heart, tattooed there permanently, whether I (or they) like it or not.
I'm grateful, thankful, and sometimes overwhelmed to have the family I do. Sometimes supportive, sometimes combative; sometimes adjacent, not always adjoining, and at times downright detached.
Always family.
Family.
Thank God.
More than anything today -- partly because of the homily at Mass, and partly because the Holy Family statue in our church helped me through many, many Sundays as a new mother -- I am thankful for the blessing that is my family. Not just the family that lives in my house, but also the family that is related to me by blood, by heart, and by choice. Some of them make me crazier than others, and some are great to act crazy with, but all of them mean more to me than I could ever say. More than I will ever attempt to say. Some would never believe the feelings I have for them; some would be embarrassed. All are in my life for a reason, whether I have learned it yet or not. Some know more about me than others, and some think they know more than they do. All of them help me to continue to learn things about myself, my past, my future, my goals, hopes, dreams. Some I talk to more than others, and some I may never see or hear from again; yet each and every one is indelibly in my heart, tattooed there permanently, whether I (or they) like it or not.
I'm grateful, thankful, and sometimes overwhelmed to have the family I do. Sometimes supportive, sometimes combative; sometimes adjacent, not always adjoining, and at times downright detached.
Always family.
Family.
Thank God.
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
love you all
As the day winds down, I find myself thinking of all the people I don't get to see nearly enough. My brothers and sisters, their spouses and children. My aunts and uncles, my cousins and their families. My godparents. My friends who have become, for various reasons, family to me. My large-ish family is a huge blessing, and coupled with a bit of Dad's tradition--the one wherein time and distance are not determinate of how close two people can feel to one another--I am even more blessed. Although I would love to spend the day (any day!) with any of my family members, I can't. I really just can't. I do my best to make memories where I can. But I am only one side of the equation. An equation with so many variables....
Merry Christmas to each of you:
Celeste, Arin, Richard, Patrick, Andrew, Mary, Kevin, Cindy, Anna, Mattie, Liz, Frank, Miss Chris, Stephen, Dan, Mike, Caren, Matt, Josh, Chris, Fran, Chris, Michael, Joe, Pat, Bob, Ken, Erin, Lexi, Dan, Jenn, Kinsey, Connor, Pam, TJ, Julie, Rudy, Andy, Janet, Adam, Colin, Nathan, Madonna, Tish, Chris, Connie, Rickey, Jake, Adam, Sean, Kathleen, Joe, Joe, Maria, Krislyn, Shawna, Danny, Danielle, Lynn, Lynne, Michael, Mark, Barb, Cory, Tia, Linda, Anna, Holly, Lu, Linda, Annette, Vicky, AnneMarie, Amy, Ed, Liam, Jack, Allison, Marilyn, Kelly, Ed, Diane, Catherine (!), Raymond, Evan, Christy......there are so many more! In my ideal world, each special day would have hours and hours for each and every one of you.
But the best thing is that you each know that, and feel much the same way. And each of you understand that the distance between hearts is no match for the time/space continuum.
Yeah, that's what Dad taught me. The time/space continuum is less than important when it comes to love and friendship.
Merry Christmas to each of you:
Celeste, Arin, Richard, Patrick, Andrew, Mary, Kevin, Cindy, Anna, Mattie, Liz, Frank, Miss Chris, Stephen, Dan, Mike, Caren, Matt, Josh, Chris, Fran, Chris, Michael, Joe, Pat, Bob, Ken, Erin, Lexi, Dan, Jenn, Kinsey, Connor, Pam, TJ, Julie, Rudy, Andy, Janet, Adam, Colin, Nathan, Madonna, Tish, Chris, Connie, Rickey, Jake, Adam, Sean, Kathleen, Joe, Joe, Maria, Krislyn, Shawna, Danny, Danielle, Lynn, Lynne, Michael, Mark, Barb, Cory, Tia, Linda, Anna, Holly, Lu, Linda, Annette, Vicky, AnneMarie, Amy, Ed, Liam, Jack, Allison, Marilyn, Kelly, Ed, Diane, Catherine (!), Raymond, Evan, Christy......there are so many more! In my ideal world, each special day would have hours and hours for each and every one of you.
But the best thing is that you each know that, and feel much the same way. And each of you understand that the distance between hearts is no match for the time/space continuum.
Yeah, that's what Dad taught me. The time/space continuum is less than important when it comes to love and friendship.
Sunday, November 25, 2012
truer words
Yesterday, I awoke with a pain in my soul, caused, in part, by a random and unusual outburst the night before. The pain took the form of doubt and fear, snaking through the recesses of my mind like Eden's serpent. As a result, I was more than just cranky from less sleep than I would have liked; I was downright bearlike, growling and snapping at everything. Not my finest day. The upside is that in trying to steer clear of everyone around me, I got quite a bit accomplished (turkey chili, turkey noodle soup, laundry, dishes), but, as I am never very good at steering clear, I also exploded occasionally at the boys.
When I got a text -- "My children serve tonight. Interested in Jojos or somethin'?" -- I cried. They were tears of ultimate frustration. Our children serve on different teams at Mass, and when either have Saturday night, we try to plan a get-together afterwards. These times are always refreshing, lighthearted, and fun. I was feeling none of these things, and couldn't even envision any kind of improvement in my mood for a very long time. Which I knew could only be the worst kind of self-fulfilling. At first, I simply ignored the message. I didn't even want to leave the house until I would be forced to, but I finally texted back that I was in the foulest of foul moods. I couldn't see myself being any kind of good company. But we had planned on going to Mass at 5:30, and I couldn't see depriving everyone of the multi-leveled refreshment. That would be far too selfish of me. If I couldn't shake it, I could always hide in the bathroom or something.
Twelve people (seven of them the kids and our niece), two bottles of wine, four pizzas (especially tasty last night!), Twitter, Facebook, a "gift jar/hat" and about two hours of conversation later, I felt like a new woman. Alive, loving, loved, renewed. Well worth the risk, as friendship usually is. We are truly blessed to consider each other family, as well as friends. Days like yesterday are when I realize how important that is.
I have a tendency, as many people do, I'm sure, to close myself in when I'm in a bad mood. I knew I should probably call someone, just to chat, but when I have that kind of ugliness behind my eyes, I figure I will likely say something ugly or regrettable. In the end, will my friends judge me for that? Probably not. And when I feel that way, like I don't even want to know myself, I always think later of who would have helped me through -- by chatting with me on the phone, or insisting that I drop everything and do something for my soul. Why do I close in so much? Why do I resist the very things that will help me to feel better, to melt the icy rock of acerbity? I wanted to do yoga: the general stretching, if nothing else, would have forced a little bit of balance. I kept finding excuses that I couldn't -- this floor still needed to be cleaned, the chili needed to be stirred, the laundry needed to be folded -- so I felt more and more off-kilter. I didn't even eat, really; a half a slice of pumpkin pie for breakfast, a banana after the grocery store, some turkey skin and some bits of bell pepper while preparing the chili. But there was so much irascibility in my belly that I didn't even notice an emptiness, until I taste-tested the turkey noodle soup. And then had another spoonful. And another.
By then, I had already had Jonathan call to let our friends know we would be joining them (I didn't trust myself even to text a positive response), and had changed (finally) out of the clothes I had slept in. As the soup nourished my body, it also fed my spirit, which began to reopen, to reawaken, to be relieved. Why hadn't I thought to eat earlier? The boys had invited me to lunch, and I refused, but now I realize joining them would likely have broken the mood. Then again, had I gone, I would not have been able to justify the evening out. In the end, it worked out for the best. I just wish the mood had not been there in the first place.
On the way home, I received another text: "I hope we cheered you up!" I was overwhelmed with thankfulness, and texted back simply: "Far more than I thought possible! Thank you! :)"
"...What wonders wine, pizza, and nonsense will do for a soul." My thoughts exactly.
When I got a text -- "My children serve tonight. Interested in Jojos or somethin'?" -- I cried. They were tears of ultimate frustration. Our children serve on different teams at Mass, and when either have Saturday night, we try to plan a get-together afterwards. These times are always refreshing, lighthearted, and fun. I was feeling none of these things, and couldn't even envision any kind of improvement in my mood for a very long time. Which I knew could only be the worst kind of self-fulfilling. At first, I simply ignored the message. I didn't even want to leave the house until I would be forced to, but I finally texted back that I was in the foulest of foul moods. I couldn't see myself being any kind of good company. But we had planned on going to Mass at 5:30, and I couldn't see depriving everyone of the multi-leveled refreshment. That would be far too selfish of me. If I couldn't shake it, I could always hide in the bathroom or something.
Twelve people (seven of them the kids and our niece), two bottles of wine, four pizzas (especially tasty last night!), Twitter, Facebook, a "gift jar/hat" and about two hours of conversation later, I felt like a new woman. Alive, loving, loved, renewed. Well worth the risk, as friendship usually is. We are truly blessed to consider each other family, as well as friends. Days like yesterday are when I realize how important that is.
I have a tendency, as many people do, I'm sure, to close myself in when I'm in a bad mood. I knew I should probably call someone, just to chat, but when I have that kind of ugliness behind my eyes, I figure I will likely say something ugly or regrettable. In the end, will my friends judge me for that? Probably not. And when I feel that way, like I don't even want to know myself, I always think later of who would have helped me through -- by chatting with me on the phone, or insisting that I drop everything and do something for my soul. Why do I close in so much? Why do I resist the very things that will help me to feel better, to melt the icy rock of acerbity? I wanted to do yoga: the general stretching, if nothing else, would have forced a little bit of balance. I kept finding excuses that I couldn't -- this floor still needed to be cleaned, the chili needed to be stirred, the laundry needed to be folded -- so I felt more and more off-kilter. I didn't even eat, really; a half a slice of pumpkin pie for breakfast, a banana after the grocery store, some turkey skin and some bits of bell pepper while preparing the chili. But there was so much irascibility in my belly that I didn't even notice an emptiness, until I taste-tested the turkey noodle soup. And then had another spoonful. And another.
By then, I had already had Jonathan call to let our friends know we would be joining them (I didn't trust myself even to text a positive response), and had changed (finally) out of the clothes I had slept in. As the soup nourished my body, it also fed my spirit, which began to reopen, to reawaken, to be relieved. Why hadn't I thought to eat earlier? The boys had invited me to lunch, and I refused, but now I realize joining them would likely have broken the mood. Then again, had I gone, I would not have been able to justify the evening out. In the end, it worked out for the best. I just wish the mood had not been there in the first place.
On the way home, I received another text: "I hope we cheered you up!" I was overwhelmed with thankfulness, and texted back simply: "Far more than I thought possible! Thank you! :)"
"...What wonders wine, pizza, and nonsense will do for a soul." My thoughts exactly.
Monday, October 8, 2012
a morning off
One of the perks of working in a school is having the day off when the kids do. (I know many businesses have the day off today, too, but my husband would not if he hadn't taken a vacation this week.) At one time, a day off like this would have meant a day trip somewhere, or a weekend up at Mom and Dad's or something. Anymore, it just means a lazy wake up, and a bit of hanging around.
Today, having the morning off meant snuggling in with Guy and both the dogs, coffee in bed while goofing off on my laptop, and a walk with a dear friend while Guy is at practice. Afterwards, we'll get the porch ready to paint, have lunch, and drop Mom and Henry off for appointments before Guy goes to practice again this evening. I'm looking forward to the short week, even though the calendar is already jammed with appointments, soccer game security, a letter or two to write, and Homecoming to cap off the week. It'll be a good busy, for once. My entire outlook is better, and I have my family and my faith to thank.
I continue to pray for the strength to just be myself. I've discovered the power in being true to oneself, as it allows me to let my faith guide me as much as my gut. I'm also very thankful for all I have in my life: my family, my husband, my peace of mind. This is where I should be, and where I intend to jump off from for the rest of my journey. Life is more the journey than any destination, and I am well on my way. I have a map for when I need it--for when I get lost--but mostly, I make it up as I go along. With me, I finally have the right companions, with Faith as my guide.
What a beautiful morning. I feel so alive!
Today, having the morning off meant snuggling in with Guy and both the dogs, coffee in bed while goofing off on my laptop, and a walk with a dear friend while Guy is at practice. Afterwards, we'll get the porch ready to paint, have lunch, and drop Mom and Henry off for appointments before Guy goes to practice again this evening. I'm looking forward to the short week, even though the calendar is already jammed with appointments, soccer game security, a letter or two to write, and Homecoming to cap off the week. It'll be a good busy, for once. My entire outlook is better, and I have my family and my faith to thank.
I continue to pray for the strength to just be myself. I've discovered the power in being true to oneself, as it allows me to let my faith guide me as much as my gut. I'm also very thankful for all I have in my life: my family, my husband, my peace of mind. This is where I should be, and where I intend to jump off from for the rest of my journey. Life is more the journey than any destination, and I am well on my way. I have a map for when I need it--for when I get lost--but mostly, I make it up as I go along. With me, I finally have the right companions, with Faith as my guide.
What a beautiful morning. I feel so alive!
Thursday, September 27, 2012
an almost open letter
For the past couple of days, an apology has been rolling around in my head, but I haven't been able to let it out because something just hasn't seemed right. I couldn't put my finger on it, but then I realized what it was: what I thought I needed to apologize for is not what feel sorry about. And "sorry" isn't even the right word. "Guilty" is probably closer. Yes, closer. Not exact yet, but closer.
But what I'm guilty of is not what you are thinking, I'd wager. For the first time since I met him, I believed the words of a bully. One of many Insignificant Distractions of late. [see a previous blog post, if you'd like] Anyway, I am embarrassed that I believed what he said about you and your questions. Although, as I recall, you did not deny the questions, just the actions that would/could have followed. And yet, I still could not bring myself to apologize to you for that embarrassing lapse of reason. Why? I kept asking myself.....
And then I realized. I believed it because it sounded just like something you would say, and something you would do. My brain was in overdrive, piecing together many emotions and memories; like an old VCR tape when you could rewind while watching, and see the whole story in reverse.* That's when I saw it: the scenes when all of this happened before.
Do you remember? That first trip I didn't get invited on because you decided to pass judgment on me based on something someone else said. We stood in the creek, and you apologized profusely; saying that you couldn't believe that you had let someone else's words change your mind about inviting me--and my whole family. By then, it was too late for us to go, with my schedule, and everyone else's, except for one of my sons, who went to help you. With my blessing, remember? I looked forward to going the following year.
I didn't go, because my schedule again conflicted; but this year, I scheduled it off--well in advance. There's the rub. The thing I really wanted to talk to you about that day; the thing that really was bothering me. I thought I needed to apologize because I'd lied about why I couldn't go. It was a good lie, too--the really believable kind! Unless you look at the rest of my summer, that is, and what was in my head. I said I couldn't go because I'd be out of reach on my cell phone, and that work needed to be able to get in touch with me. While that's true enough, it's not why I didn't go. Also true is the fact that neither my sunglasses nor my glasses fit well with my bike helmet. Not being able to see well is a pretty good justification for not going. But that was not why I didn't go.
I didn't go because, in all honesty, two of the men on the trip give me the creeps, three of the men on the trip treat some of the kids in a way that I don't like--verbally (and there I go, not being completely honest--my kid and one other kid, who also was not sure about going on the trip, but did.), one of the men on the trip was far more insistent that I go than I felt comfortable with, one of the men was too much of a stranger to be any issue at all, and one of the men was my husband--the only one I really wanted to be on vacation with! (Yes, if you are doing the math, there are more men listed than were there--at least two of the men overlap categories.) Worst of all, I knew that, once again, I would not speak up and tell them to knock it off. Why? For fear of hurting your feelings. Yes, your feelings. I did not go on the trip because I was ashamed that your feelings meant more to me than those of children that I love.
Yet I realized that when I answered the phone, you had already decided that you were angry. You tried to tell me that I made you angry by "accusing" you. I passed on what had been told to me. You told me you were angry that I sounded happy when I answered the phone. Why shouldn't I?
I am happier than I have ever been in my life.
I'm sorry for thinking what we had was a 'friendship.' There's the apology. Over the past few days, I have thought about all the time we spent together, and realized it wasn't what it seemed. I won't go into that. Your anger at me is displaced. I did nothing. I was as surprised as anyone, and as confused. But I have moved on. Forward. I am living again, and rebuilding myself.
The fact that you've passed judgment on me based on something you heard -- twice -- does not make it okay for me to pass judgment based on something I heard. I'm not trying to justify my actions. For a day or two, I mourned the death of a friendship; until I realized it was all in my imagination, anyway.
Two recent pins have made me think of you: "Go ahead. Judge me. Just remember to be perfect the rest of your life." (qsprn.com) and "You become like the 5 people you spend the most time with. Choose carefully." (www.takethelidoff.blogspot.com) Think about that. I wish I'd seen the latter far sooner. I would have spent far less time and energy telling myself that our friendship was separate from your friendship with people who had nothing but unkind things to say about me, despite not having spent any time getting to know me. I won't make the same mistake again. I hope you don't, either.
Goodbye.
*If you are scratching your head about that, it's probably because you've only ever been able to "skip" backwards on a DVD. Your loss. Watching one's favorite shows in reverse once in a while, though bad for the tape, was great fun!
But what I'm guilty of is not what you are thinking, I'd wager. For the first time since I met him, I believed the words of a bully. One of many Insignificant Distractions of late. [see a previous blog post, if you'd like] Anyway, I am embarrassed that I believed what he said about you and your questions. Although, as I recall, you did not deny the questions, just the actions that would/could have followed. And yet, I still could not bring myself to apologize to you for that embarrassing lapse of reason. Why? I kept asking myself.....
And then I realized. I believed it because it sounded just like something you would say, and something you would do. My brain was in overdrive, piecing together many emotions and memories; like an old VCR tape when you could rewind while watching, and see the whole story in reverse.* That's when I saw it: the scenes when all of this happened before.
Do you remember? That first trip I didn't get invited on because you decided to pass judgment on me based on something someone else said. We stood in the creek, and you apologized profusely; saying that you couldn't believe that you had let someone else's words change your mind about inviting me--and my whole family. By then, it was too late for us to go, with my schedule, and everyone else's, except for one of my sons, who went to help you. With my blessing, remember? I looked forward to going the following year.
I didn't go, because my schedule again conflicted; but this year, I scheduled it off--well in advance. There's the rub. The thing I really wanted to talk to you about that day; the thing that really was bothering me. I thought I needed to apologize because I'd lied about why I couldn't go. It was a good lie, too--the really believable kind! Unless you look at the rest of my summer, that is, and what was in my head. I said I couldn't go because I'd be out of reach on my cell phone, and that work needed to be able to get in touch with me. While that's true enough, it's not why I didn't go. Also true is the fact that neither my sunglasses nor my glasses fit well with my bike helmet. Not being able to see well is a pretty good justification for not going. But that was not why I didn't go.
I didn't go because, in all honesty, two of the men on the trip give me the creeps, three of the men on the trip treat some of the kids in a way that I don't like--verbally (and there I go, not being completely honest--my kid and one other kid, who also was not sure about going on the trip, but did.), one of the men on the trip was far more insistent that I go than I felt comfortable with, one of the men was too much of a stranger to be any issue at all, and one of the men was my husband--the only one I really wanted to be on vacation with! (Yes, if you are doing the math, there are more men listed than were there--at least two of the men overlap categories.) Worst of all, I knew that, once again, I would not speak up and tell them to knock it off. Why? For fear of hurting your feelings. Yes, your feelings. I did not go on the trip because I was ashamed that your feelings meant more to me than those of children that I love.
Yet I realized that when I answered the phone, you had already decided that you were angry. You tried to tell me that I made you angry by "accusing" you. I passed on what had been told to me. You told me you were angry that I sounded happy when I answered the phone. Why shouldn't I?
I am happier than I have ever been in my life.
I'm sorry for thinking what we had was a 'friendship.' There's the apology. Over the past few days, I have thought about all the time we spent together, and realized it wasn't what it seemed. I won't go into that. Your anger at me is displaced. I did nothing. I was as surprised as anyone, and as confused. But I have moved on. Forward. I am living again, and rebuilding myself.
The fact that you've passed judgment on me based on something you heard -- twice -- does not make it okay for me to pass judgment based on something I heard. I'm not trying to justify my actions. For a day or two, I mourned the death of a friendship; until I realized it was all in my imagination, anyway.
Two recent pins have made me think of you: "Go ahead. Judge me. Just remember to be perfect the rest of your life." (qsprn.com) and "You become like the 5 people you spend the most time with. Choose carefully." (www.takethelidoff.blogspot.com) Think about that. I wish I'd seen the latter far sooner. I would have spent far less time and energy telling myself that our friendship was separate from your friendship with people who had nothing but unkind things to say about me, despite not having spent any time getting to know me. I won't make the same mistake again. I hope you don't, either.
Goodbye.
*If you are scratching your head about that, it's probably because you've only ever been able to "skip" backwards on a DVD. Your loss. Watching one's favorite shows in reverse once in a while, though bad for the tape, was great fun!
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
a great teacher
This morning, I woke to find news that a teacher of mine from High School had been murdered, outside his home. While I was shocked, I continued on with my morning as usual. At work, I told a co-worker, and after finding a news article online, emailed it to her, along with my thoughts at the moment.
I remember, I had space in my schedule, and decided to take some business classes, so I took accounting to fulfill a math requirement, and I took Intro to Marketing as an elective. How hard could it be? I thought, and I figured I would be circulating in a slightly different crowd than usual. Both thoughts were not entirely correct! The marketing information was fascinating to me--none of it was particularly difficult for me, but I ate it up: shrink wrap vs. clam shell packaging; the ratio of soda straw diameter to soda cup as figured by fast food chains; the relative hardness of seating in regard to turnover in a dining room.....all information that ultimately helped me in some of my college classes, though I remember sitting in that back corner of the room whining along with everyone else that it was fairly useless information. (I had a mad desire to fit in when I started that class.) As for the "new crowd," well, some of my friends must have had the same idea, as I don't remember meeting too many I didn't already know there. The teacher was Mr. Poet, and I loved class with him. He was not murdered.
He did, however, encourage any of us that were enjoying his class to join the school's Distributive Education Clubs of America (DECA), which he co-advised with a fairly new teacher, Mr. Keith Reed. Mr. Reed was, I discovered today, reading the news articles, only 6 years older than me. Yet he had the confident professionalism that made him both much older than that and ageless at the same time. And, yes, we all thought he was "cute." I remember even Mr. Poet mentioning it from time to time. I believe he was newly married at the time, and impressively aloof to our admiration. We didn't know anything about DECA, or what we were supposed to do as part of the club, but we would get to spend time with a fun, youthful teacher--and get out of school once in a while! What more could high school seniors ask for? Turns out, there was so much to learn--about business, about competition, and about life.
In DECA competition, Mr. Reed put me in the Supervisory Level competitions, even though I was terrified at the idea of playacting as a Manager. He said he knew that I had more brains than most of the judges, and that all I had to do was be myself and I'd do well. Nothing ever made me feel more confident in high school than his assurance, along with darn good scores at my first attempt at competition! I don't remember how many competitions we went to, although I do remember a hotel stay that was one of the best experiences of my Senior year. Sharing a room with three friends, all nervous about performing well and looking good in our business suits, was good prep for college dorm living! At competition, we would wait in chilly hallways for each other, and at awards, we'd eagerly await each other's scores, and graciously thank "Keith" (or "Keithage," as Jackie referred to him!) for his guidance, to which he would shake his head and say, "You can't call me that, you know." Eventually, it evolved into KEEEEEith! Since graduation, I have always thought of him as "KeithReed;" all one word.
When I'd have boyfriend troubles, he'd tell me to behave "professionally" and "with dignity" so that it wouldn't evolve into drama in my life. I learned so many life lessons from him. From him, I learned the value and importance of discretion, transparency, discernment. At the same time, I learned about teamwork in a work setting, and how it differs from, and is similar to, the teamwork necessary in sports. When Tanya and Jackie made it to National Competition, he encouraged us to be supportive of them, rather than jealous, promising to cheer for them on our behalf, which I have no doubt he did. At that same competition, I was being awarded a DEX scholarship from Johnson & Wales, where I would be going to college. Keith, my parents, and I (reluctantly! I wanted to go to NOLA!!) agreed that it made no sense for me to go on the trip just to accept the scholarship. Instead, Keith walked the stage to accept it for me while Jackie and Tanya cheered him on. Before I even knew what one was, he was my mentor.
I lost touch with him after graduation. (I left that September with the intent of never looking back. Another story for another time.) And with Mr. Poet. Though I have thought about the lessons, and the random information about marketing and merchandising floating in my head, and I frequently thank God that they were part of my development. Keith Reed will be missed by the students he was serving as Superintendent, those for whom he had been Principal, and by us, his early students, as well as by his family and friends. My prayers, and my tears, are for you today. I never could say it in the public school setting in which we knew each other: God bless you. Thank you for all you were, and for continuing to utilize the extraordinary gifts you had!
I remember, I had space in my schedule, and decided to take some business classes, so I took accounting to fulfill a math requirement, and I took Intro to Marketing as an elective. How hard could it be? I thought, and I figured I would be circulating in a slightly different crowd than usual. Both thoughts were not entirely correct! The marketing information was fascinating to me--none of it was particularly difficult for me, but I ate it up: shrink wrap vs. clam shell packaging; the ratio of soda straw diameter to soda cup as figured by fast food chains; the relative hardness of seating in regard to turnover in a dining room.....all information that ultimately helped me in some of my college classes, though I remember sitting in that back corner of the room whining along with everyone else that it was fairly useless information. (I had a mad desire to fit in when I started that class.) As for the "new crowd," well, some of my friends must have had the same idea, as I don't remember meeting too many I didn't already know there. The teacher was Mr. Poet, and I loved class with him. He was not murdered.
He did, however, encourage any of us that were enjoying his class to join the school's Distributive Education Clubs of America (DECA), which he co-advised with a fairly new teacher, Mr. Keith Reed. Mr. Reed was, I discovered today, reading the news articles, only 6 years older than me. Yet he had the confident professionalism that made him both much older than that and ageless at the same time. And, yes, we all thought he was "cute." I remember even Mr. Poet mentioning it from time to time. I believe he was newly married at the time, and impressively aloof to our admiration. We didn't know anything about DECA, or what we were supposed to do as part of the club, but we would get to spend time with a fun, youthful teacher--and get out of school once in a while! What more could high school seniors ask for? Turns out, there was so much to learn--about business, about competition, and about life.
In DECA competition, Mr. Reed put me in the Supervisory Level competitions, even though I was terrified at the idea of playacting as a Manager. He said he knew that I had more brains than most of the judges, and that all I had to do was be myself and I'd do well. Nothing ever made me feel more confident in high school than his assurance, along with darn good scores at my first attempt at competition! I don't remember how many competitions we went to, although I do remember a hotel stay that was one of the best experiences of my Senior year. Sharing a room with three friends, all nervous about performing well and looking good in our business suits, was good prep for college dorm living! At competition, we would wait in chilly hallways for each other, and at awards, we'd eagerly await each other's scores, and graciously thank "Keith" (or "Keithage," as Jackie referred to him!) for his guidance, to which he would shake his head and say, "You can't call me that, you know." Eventually, it evolved into KEEEEEith! Since graduation, I have always thought of him as "KeithReed;" all one word.
When I'd have boyfriend troubles, he'd tell me to behave "professionally" and "with dignity" so that it wouldn't evolve into drama in my life. I learned so many life lessons from him. From him, I learned the value and importance of discretion, transparency, discernment. At the same time, I learned about teamwork in a work setting, and how it differs from, and is similar to, the teamwork necessary in sports. When Tanya and Jackie made it to National Competition, he encouraged us to be supportive of them, rather than jealous, promising to cheer for them on our behalf, which I have no doubt he did. At that same competition, I was being awarded a DEX scholarship from Johnson & Wales, where I would be going to college. Keith, my parents, and I (reluctantly! I wanted to go to NOLA!!) agreed that it made no sense for me to go on the trip just to accept the scholarship. Instead, Keith walked the stage to accept it for me while Jackie and Tanya cheered him on. Before I even knew what one was, he was my mentor.
I lost touch with him after graduation. (I left that September with the intent of never looking back. Another story for another time.) And with Mr. Poet. Though I have thought about the lessons, and the random information about marketing and merchandising floating in my head, and I frequently thank God that they were part of my development. Keith Reed will be missed by the students he was serving as Superintendent, those for whom he had been Principal, and by us, his early students, as well as by his family and friends. My prayers, and my tears, are for you today. I never could say it in the public school setting in which we knew each other: God bless you. Thank you for all you were, and for continuing to utilize the extraordinary gifts you had!
Monday, September 3, 2012
out the door
Some days, saying good-bye is not all that difficult. Today, for instance, as I listened to rain fall on the canvas awning, all I could hear were silver dollars plinking down, and that made walking away at the end of the day particularly satisfying. And the fact that there will only be one more walk away is even more gratifying.
So much of what I have learned about myself has been related to a frustrating atmosphere. Yet I understand that is appropriate. Learning my limits, facing my limitations, forcing my boundaries, -- all lessons borne of frustration, to a certain extent.
Not everything has been so difficult. Most of the planning, teaching, training and relating has been, at least most of the time, enjoyable and even easy for me. I've enjoyed working with both kids and adults, and even made some wonderful friends. I will never turn my back, but I am happy to walk away; to close the door and look for the next open one.
No, the frustration has been singular and intense, and has left quite a bitter taste in my mouth. I feel used, and at the same time, unseen--neither of which sits well with me! I am not to be ignored, minimized, overlooked. These are things I fight tooth and nail, in my own quiet way. I've made my case, spoken my mind, and what happens next is my own; my choice, my future, my lessons learned.
Best of all, though, I have my family and true friends to love an support me. My husband and sons who have heard all my stories, laughing and grumbling right along with me. And my dear friends who have asked, in turn, how it's all going, and have been able to relate each of my experiences to one of their own. I truly am blessed to have learned so much--about myself, about life, about others.
And I'm ready to move forward with that knowledge.
So much of what I have learned about myself has been related to a frustrating atmosphere. Yet I understand that is appropriate. Learning my limits, facing my limitations, forcing my boundaries, -- all lessons borne of frustration, to a certain extent.
Not everything has been so difficult. Most of the planning, teaching, training and relating has been, at least most of the time, enjoyable and even easy for me. I've enjoyed working with both kids and adults, and even made some wonderful friends. I will never turn my back, but I am happy to walk away; to close the door and look for the next open one.
No, the frustration has been singular and intense, and has left quite a bitter taste in my mouth. I feel used, and at the same time, unseen--neither of which sits well with me! I am not to be ignored, minimized, overlooked. These are things I fight tooth and nail, in my own quiet way. I've made my case, spoken my mind, and what happens next is my own; my choice, my future, my lessons learned.
Best of all, though, I have my family and true friends to love an support me. My husband and sons who have heard all my stories, laughing and grumbling right along with me. And my dear friends who have asked, in turn, how it's all going, and have been able to relate each of my experiences to one of their own. I truly am blessed to have learned so much--about myself, about life, about others.
And I'm ready to move forward with that knowledge.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
fears: part 1 : a corollary
A dear friend reminded me that there is a distinction between being "alone" and being "lonely," and that "it's not uncommon for people to feel lonely when surrounded by others." My response: "I have been lonely, and I did not like it one bit--that's when I decided I needed to be me enough to like being around me. It's made a world of difference. And I no longer feel like I need to make excuses about being alone."
The fact of the matter is, I have been so lonely at times that I have been concerned about my own behavior. I remember the times growing up when I felt so lonely, I didn't know what could possibly make me feel like I belong anywhere. The friend I just mentioned was actually one of the reasons I could decide to like myself. Thanks to her, and a few other key people in my life when I've hit those lonely times, I have the strength to be happy today.
Loneliness is inevitable. We all get lonely for various reasons, some of which seem real and important to others, and some which seem trivial. Even if the fear of being alone is really a fear of loneliness, I do not fear it. I can face it. Head on. I do not use loneliness, or the fear of it, as an excuse for my behavior--or misbehavior--in any given situation. Feeling lonely in a group, whether a crowd or a couple, happens, and hurts. A lot or a little is irrelevant; hurt is hurt, and sometimes is accidental and can't be helped. (I seem to remember discussing this in one of my classes.....) I tend to use that loneliness to learn about myself, and to determine what's important to me.
However, feeling loneliness, and having no idea how to cope with it, is a sign that you need to find some help. Seek out a friend, a confidante, a bartender, a stranger at a bus stop, and talk to them. Get a referral for therapy. Something and someone to help you be better able to handle those times. But for heaven's sake, choose someone appropriate--someone who does not become something to hide behind, someone you use to just plain prevent loneliness or being alone. Please, get some real help with overcoming, or at the very least, dealing with, that debilitating fear.
The fact of the matter is, I have been so lonely at times that I have been concerned about my own behavior. I remember the times growing up when I felt so lonely, I didn't know what could possibly make me feel like I belong anywhere. The friend I just mentioned was actually one of the reasons I could decide to like myself. Thanks to her, and a few other key people in my life when I've hit those lonely times, I have the strength to be happy today.
Loneliness is inevitable. We all get lonely for various reasons, some of which seem real and important to others, and some which seem trivial. Even if the fear of being alone is really a fear of loneliness, I do not fear it. I can face it. Head on. I do not use loneliness, or the fear of it, as an excuse for my behavior--or misbehavior--in any given situation. Feeling lonely in a group, whether a crowd or a couple, happens, and hurts. A lot or a little is irrelevant; hurt is hurt, and sometimes is accidental and can't be helped. (I seem to remember discussing this in one of my classes.....) I tend to use that loneliness to learn about myself, and to determine what's important to me.
However, feeling loneliness, and having no idea how to cope with it, is a sign that you need to find some help. Seek out a friend, a confidante, a bartender, a stranger at a bus stop, and talk to them. Get a referral for therapy. Something and someone to help you be better able to handle those times. But for heaven's sake, choose someone appropriate--someone who does not become something to hide behind, someone you use to just plain prevent loneliness or being alone. Please, get some real help with overcoming, or at the very least, dealing with, that debilitating fear.
Friday, August 24, 2012
two more days
For a year now, my friends and I have been talking about this day. The day we pack the car to take our oldest off to college. (When I say "we," I mean "our son") Many of my friends have already taken that drive, and are now looking at us knowingly; some offering words of wisdom, some telling us what to expect, some gracefully showing their own range of emotions without expecting ours to be the same. It reminds me of another, somehow similar, time in our lives with Jonathan.
As our firstborn, everything about him was so much more unknown. Each stage of pregnancy, every piece of furniture bought, even the types of diapers we looked at all came with so much well-intentioned advice. Some we listened to, and some we later laughed about, and in the end, when it was someone else's first time, we couldn't help sharing our own thoughts. It's part of life, of being the social animals we are, to share what we experience, and sometimes to feel a bit like an expert when we've been through some right of passage.
It's events like this that make me think most of Dad. It used to hurt some (some?? Did I just say, "some?" Because it used to hurt like hell to have Dad come to mind when an Event came up!) when these kinds of milestones occurred. In all honesty, yesterday I just happened to think that Dad was pretty excited about me going off to college all those years ago, and maybe that's why I can be more excited than worried, nervous or upset. Probably it's just because I'm me, and it hasn't hit me yet. My style of anticipation is a little more dramatic--I tend to foresee the stuff that couldn't possibly happen, and put off the more "real" stuff until I actually go through it. At any rate, last night on my way home, when I hit a red light, it suddenly hit me that within a few days, we'd be driving away from him at college.
We laugh at the thought of parents who don't know how to leave their kids rooms after unpacking, and I have to admit, I was a little saddened that there were no activities or festivities planned for the parents on move-in day. But today, while listening to a good friend talk about dropping his son off, and how it affected him, I realized a common theme that Guy and I share: we've never experienced this before--from either direction. Guy was a commuter student, and lived at home. My parents did not drop me off at school: I insisted that my boyfriend take me, and no one argued the point. I, we, don't know what it's like to say good-bye to a parent in a dorm room, so how could we possibly know what we are doing? Frankly, I'm now a little freaked.
I still firmly believe this is the next chapter; simply a page turning on the beginning of a fantastic adventure. But what if I do turn out to be "The Most Attached Parent" and his roommate and his parents think I'm nuts?? (Well, more nuts than I really am; which is actually quite endearing, I'm told.) What if I don't have enough emotion, and Jonathan thinks we're glad to be rid of him? Where is my example?? Years ago, Dad and I had a talk about this very same subject. He had reached an age older than any of his male relatives, and he didn't know how to "be." I remember telling him that he'd been doing a mighty fine job thus far, and I knew he could just keep being himself. He promised to give that a go.
There are times now when I wonder if he prayed for the strength to be himself, as I do now. The following years, he considered to be life's gravy. This weekend, I will be myself; I will give it a go and hope for the best.
Good luck, Jonathan. Fly high, with the wings we've given you.
As our firstborn, everything about him was so much more unknown. Each stage of pregnancy, every piece of furniture bought, even the types of diapers we looked at all came with so much well-intentioned advice. Some we listened to, and some we later laughed about, and in the end, when it was someone else's first time, we couldn't help sharing our own thoughts. It's part of life, of being the social animals we are, to share what we experience, and sometimes to feel a bit like an expert when we've been through some right of passage.
It's events like this that make me think most of Dad. It used to hurt some (some?? Did I just say, "some?" Because it used to hurt like hell to have Dad come to mind when an Event came up!) when these kinds of milestones occurred. In all honesty, yesterday I just happened to think that Dad was pretty excited about me going off to college all those years ago, and maybe that's why I can be more excited than worried, nervous or upset. Probably it's just because I'm me, and it hasn't hit me yet. My style of anticipation is a little more dramatic--I tend to foresee the stuff that couldn't possibly happen, and put off the more "real" stuff until I actually go through it. At any rate, last night on my way home, when I hit a red light, it suddenly hit me that within a few days, we'd be driving away from him at college.
We laugh at the thought of parents who don't know how to leave their kids rooms after unpacking, and I have to admit, I was a little saddened that there were no activities or festivities planned for the parents on move-in day. But today, while listening to a good friend talk about dropping his son off, and how it affected him, I realized a common theme that Guy and I share: we've never experienced this before--from either direction. Guy was a commuter student, and lived at home. My parents did not drop me off at school: I insisted that my boyfriend take me, and no one argued the point. I, we, don't know what it's like to say good-bye to a parent in a dorm room, so how could we possibly know what we are doing? Frankly, I'm now a little freaked.
I still firmly believe this is the next chapter; simply a page turning on the beginning of a fantastic adventure. But what if I do turn out to be "The Most Attached Parent" and his roommate and his parents think I'm nuts?? (Well, more nuts than I really am; which is actually quite endearing, I'm told.) What if I don't have enough emotion, and Jonathan thinks we're glad to be rid of him? Where is my example?? Years ago, Dad and I had a talk about this very same subject. He had reached an age older than any of his male relatives, and he didn't know how to "be." I remember telling him that he'd been doing a mighty fine job thus far, and I knew he could just keep being himself. He promised to give that a go.
There are times now when I wonder if he prayed for the strength to be himself, as I do now. The following years, he considered to be life's gravy. This weekend, I will be myself; I will give it a go and hope for the best.
Good luck, Jonathan. Fly high, with the wings we've given you.
Friday, August 17, 2012
fears and foibles
As the sky darkens ahead of the storm in the forecast, I happen to see an ad for umbrellas. This always makes me snicker, the way the computer people "know" when something is going to happen, and advertise accordingly. This particular ad, however, will not work on me. Why? Because I have some kind of irrational fear of umbrellas.
I don't know how long I've had this fear, or what brought it on, exactly, but I do distinctly remember looking out a window in Xavier Hall one rainy day in college, and thinking, "I can't go out there--look at all those umbrellas!" I don't remember if I had to go out to the street for my next class or not, but I do remember the fear, the panic, very well. The most interesting part is that I have a very, very specific reason for wanting to -- NEEDING to -- stay away from the umbrellas on the street.
Perhaps my perceptions of the people who worked in that fair city would present some background....
My grandmother, during one of my holiday breaks, asked how I liked it there--not just school, but the place, too. After all, when my siblings left for college, they stayed in the college towns afterward, so it was natural to wonder if I would do the same. (Actually, in the end, I did, but that's another story for another time.) I told her it was pretty, for a city, and a nice size, but the people were not terribly friendly, and everyone seemed in a great hurry all the time, driving, walking, biking. I told her that as far as cities go, I'd prefer New York. (Yes, even with its umbrellas!)
Fast forward to my umbrella panic. The very specific reason I took issue with the umbrellas people walking on the street were using is that I saw each and every one of those umbrellas poking me in the eye. And sooner or later, I figured, one of them would walk off with my eye attached to it, never to be found again. It's been over twenty years, and I've only recently started using an umbrella, and only when I know I will be the only one in the parking lot after work.
I know the fear is irrational for a few reasons: no one else I know is afraid of getting their eyes poked out by umbrellas; I've never known or even heard of anyone getting their eye poked out by an umbrella (but I'm certain at some point it will happen in a CSI episode!); and I've only been able to share my fear with a select number of people. I don't even think I told my college roommate, and I told her just about everything!! It's odd, too, because of how much I absolutely love rainy days! I loved playing in puddles all the way through college. Walking in the rain was something to look forward to until I stopped wearing contacts. And rain always reminds me of the really cool umbrellas my sister and I had when we were kids: they were shaped like bells and every other panel was clear, so it was like being in a rain tent when we waited for the bus. There's also the more reasonable understanding that if I were under an umbrella myself, the little pointy parts from someone else's umbrella would have to stay further away from my eyes.....
Maybe it was the fact that I was on my own for the first time, and if something happened to me, I'd have to depend on strangers to take care of me. Maybe it was the realization that I was 6 hours away from home. Maybe it was something someone said. I know it was not because of a love of horror movies -- I'd never liked them, and the scariest ones I ever watched were old King Kong movies on TV. (The way I devour CSI and Criminal Minds now, though, you'd never realize I thought movies like Cujo too gory!)
So, I politely decline when anyone offers me an umbrella, or even the opportunity to share one with them. I'd rather get wet, thank you very much, and keep both my eyeballs intact.
I don't know how long I've had this fear, or what brought it on, exactly, but I do distinctly remember looking out a window in Xavier Hall one rainy day in college, and thinking, "I can't go out there--look at all those umbrellas!" I don't remember if I had to go out to the street for my next class or not, but I do remember the fear, the panic, very well. The most interesting part is that I have a very, very specific reason for wanting to -- NEEDING to -- stay away from the umbrellas on the street.
Perhaps my perceptions of the people who worked in that fair city would present some background....
My grandmother, during one of my holiday breaks, asked how I liked it there--not just school, but the place, too. After all, when my siblings left for college, they stayed in the college towns afterward, so it was natural to wonder if I would do the same. (Actually, in the end, I did, but that's another story for another time.) I told her it was pretty, for a city, and a nice size, but the people were not terribly friendly, and everyone seemed in a great hurry all the time, driving, walking, biking. I told her that as far as cities go, I'd prefer New York. (Yes, even with its umbrellas!)
Fast forward to my umbrella panic. The very specific reason I took issue with the umbrellas people walking on the street were using is that I saw each and every one of those umbrellas poking me in the eye. And sooner or later, I figured, one of them would walk off with my eye attached to it, never to be found again. It's been over twenty years, and I've only recently started using an umbrella, and only when I know I will be the only one in the parking lot after work.
I know the fear is irrational for a few reasons: no one else I know is afraid of getting their eyes poked out by umbrellas; I've never known or even heard of anyone getting their eye poked out by an umbrella (but I'm certain at some point it will happen in a CSI episode!); and I've only been able to share my fear with a select number of people. I don't even think I told my college roommate, and I told her just about everything!! It's odd, too, because of how much I absolutely love rainy days! I loved playing in puddles all the way through college. Walking in the rain was something to look forward to until I stopped wearing contacts. And rain always reminds me of the really cool umbrellas my sister and I had when we were kids: they were shaped like bells and every other panel was clear, so it was like being in a rain tent when we waited for the bus. There's also the more reasonable understanding that if I were under an umbrella myself, the little pointy parts from someone else's umbrella would have to stay further away from my eyes.....
Maybe it was the fact that I was on my own for the first time, and if something happened to me, I'd have to depend on strangers to take care of me. Maybe it was the realization that I was 6 hours away from home. Maybe it was something someone said. I know it was not because of a love of horror movies -- I'd never liked them, and the scariest ones I ever watched were old King Kong movies on TV. (The way I devour CSI and Criminal Minds now, though, you'd never realize I thought movies like Cujo too gory!)
So, I politely decline when anyone offers me an umbrella, or even the opportunity to share one with them. I'd rather get wet, thank you very much, and keep both my eyeballs intact.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
venting: my hat
I have a hat that I love.
Or, rather, I HAD a hat; now it's a misshapen disk of rattan, which made me cry. "Someone," in doing the chores laid out yesterday, put quite a pile of books on top of my hat. It was not in the best shape to begin with--as I said, it was my favorite (and I don't have favorites easily!) and as such had been bumped around a bit. Still. The worst part? The "Someone" is apparently No One who lives in this house.
Isn't that always the way?
Of course I know the hat is just a hat. To you. To me, it is not only protection, but it was quite a find. I have a rather large, round parietal bone, and therefore have so much trouble finding hats that fit without giving me a headache or a rash on my forehead. This one was marked down AND I bought it while shopping with my brother, to boot! It was a special hat, to say the least.
It's what the hat represents that bugs me. In our house, so much of the "stuff," though replaceable and material, does have meaning to me. That's not to say I can't live without it, or would call it more valuable than my family, but I am very sentimental, and tend to identify with the emotions and feelings related to my stuff. All I have ever asked is that my housemates show some respect for my stuff.
Because it represents me.
There are many people in my life that care about me, and I appreciate each and every one of them. For some reason, though, many of the people that I care the most about--my children, my mother, my blood--seem to think I'm just a hat. That I can be scrunched and mashed, stuffed, tossed, and simply re-blocked. For most of my life, I've lived with it; rolled with it. I can't. What I have to say, and what I find to be important are no less valid than what others say and feel. It's beginning to hurt me physically that my spoken words, my actions, my being do not carry weight; that when someone else says the same things, they are suddenly more authoritative and compelling.
Respect me. For me.
Don't get me wrong: I do not need someone to come save me. My husband is wonderful at talking me through the times when I need it most; I genuinely matter to him. What I need is to stand up myself. To tell those who dismiss me that they simply cannot. They are not people I can ingenuously walk away from--I love them for what we have shared, for who they are to me. I'm not angry with them. Just hurt by their offhand manner. I have value, I mean something. I can only be re-blocked so many times.
My hat represents me. It is not me, but it stands for my spirit. Don't try to break it.
Or, rather, I HAD a hat; now it's a misshapen disk of rattan, which made me cry. "Someone," in doing the chores laid out yesterday, put quite a pile of books on top of my hat. It was not in the best shape to begin with--as I said, it was my favorite (and I don't have favorites easily!) and as such had been bumped around a bit. Still. The worst part? The "Someone" is apparently No One who lives in this house.
Isn't that always the way?
Of course I know the hat is just a hat. To you. To me, it is not only protection, but it was quite a find. I have a rather large, round parietal bone, and therefore have so much trouble finding hats that fit without giving me a headache or a rash on my forehead. This one was marked down AND I bought it while shopping with my brother, to boot! It was a special hat, to say the least.
It's what the hat represents that bugs me. In our house, so much of the "stuff," though replaceable and material, does have meaning to me. That's not to say I can't live without it, or would call it more valuable than my family, but I am very sentimental, and tend to identify with the emotions and feelings related to my stuff. All I have ever asked is that my housemates show some respect for my stuff.
Because it represents me.
There are many people in my life that care about me, and I appreciate each and every one of them. For some reason, though, many of the people that I care the most about--my children, my mother, my blood--seem to think I'm just a hat. That I can be scrunched and mashed, stuffed, tossed, and simply re-blocked. For most of my life, I've lived with it; rolled with it. I can't. What I have to say, and what I find to be important are no less valid than what others say and feel. It's beginning to hurt me physically that my spoken words, my actions, my being do not carry weight; that when someone else says the same things, they are suddenly more authoritative and compelling.
Respect me. For me.
Don't get me wrong: I do not need someone to come save me. My husband is wonderful at talking me through the times when I need it most; I genuinely matter to him. What I need is to stand up myself. To tell those who dismiss me that they simply cannot. They are not people I can ingenuously walk away from--I love them for what we have shared, for who they are to me. I'm not angry with them. Just hurt by their offhand manner. I have value, I mean something. I can only be re-blocked so many times.
My hat represents me. It is not me, but it stands for my spirit. Don't try to break it.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
lightening and lightness
Today I read a post about Love, and it got me thinking a bit. Then I saw a quote that made me think some more. And then I realized that it all tied together in a conversation we had this morning. In the post:
It was part of a greater post about the person of love. It was quite thought provoking, since I have been struggling with loving some of my neighbors lately. Reading that post gave me a reason to consider the whys and wherefores of changing relationships and the various emotions involved, especially when a philosophical stance is unexpected--whether positive or negative (from my own perspective, of course).
Then, while trolling through Pinterest, I came across another quote:
That hit home. Recently, when I had a huge choice to make, I knew that I needed some guidance. I wondered just what to ask for help with--I've learned not to ask directly, because God seems to want me to make my own decisions; He doesn't seem to hand anything over for free. Because this was so big, I had to choose my words carefully. As a result, I did not ask for help in deciding; I did not ask for answers. Instead, I asked for the least I could think of: I asked for the strength to be myself. Nothing more.
The last time I remember getting a solid, easily identifiable answer from God was a few weeks after 9/11. I had prayed every day and night, fervently and desperately, for peace and strength, and safety for our children, and anything else I could think of. One morning, as I was about to begin my frantic prayer, I clearly and distinctly heard a voice in my heart say, "Be not afraid. I go before you always. Come, follow me." It had been one of my favorite songs growing up, and when I heard it, I was calmed. Completely. I agreed, but then became the only-occasional-prayer that I had always been.
Until I needed to be myself, before I could be anything else. And I have not stopped this time (so far). Having the strength to be myself has given me the grace to forgive where I thought there could not be forgiveness; to love where I feared love had died; to be loved and nurtured; to be open to possibilities and so many new beginnings.
Saturday, we went to Mass, and (not unusual) my mind wandered, due in part to the fact that I misheard and wondered who this St. Bob is who had written to the Thessalonians, and partly, I think, because God had other things to say to me. I left with a feeling of peace within myself: affirmation that forgiveness and love were possible for me because I am me, and not because someone else thought I should or shouldn't. (this was also related to my favoritest Pin of all: "Don't judge others because they sin differently than you." Wow!! A very old message put in a different way can make such an impact!)
This morning we were talking about praying. I don't really feel like I ever learned how or when, only where, which makes it inconvenient sometimes. The result is that I pray sporadically--not just when I need something; I also pray when I am thankful, or when I hear about a friend who is sick or hurting. This is the longest I have prayed regularly, and by regularly, I mean more than just once a week at Church. And do you know what? I am myself. And I am so very grateful for the strength to be myself.
"In any given day, we have only a finite number of opportunities to love and be loved: use them well." ~Fr. King.
It was part of a greater post about the person of love. It was quite thought provoking, since I have been struggling with loving some of my neighbors lately. Reading that post gave me a reason to consider the whys and wherefores of changing relationships and the various emotions involved, especially when a philosophical stance is unexpected--whether positive or negative (from my own perspective, of course).
Then, while trolling through Pinterest, I came across another quote:
"Sometimes God calms the storm...sometimes He lets the storm rage and calms His child."
That hit home. Recently, when I had a huge choice to make, I knew that I needed some guidance. I wondered just what to ask for help with--I've learned not to ask directly, because God seems to want me to make my own decisions; He doesn't seem to hand anything over for free. Because this was so big, I had to choose my words carefully. As a result, I did not ask for help in deciding; I did not ask for answers. Instead, I asked for the least I could think of: I asked for the strength to be myself. Nothing more.
The last time I remember getting a solid, easily identifiable answer from God was a few weeks after 9/11. I had prayed every day and night, fervently and desperately, for peace and strength, and safety for our children, and anything else I could think of. One morning, as I was about to begin my frantic prayer, I clearly and distinctly heard a voice in my heart say, "Be not afraid. I go before you always. Come, follow me." It had been one of my favorite songs growing up, and when I heard it, I was calmed. Completely. I agreed, but then became the only-occasional-prayer that I had always been.
Until I needed to be myself, before I could be anything else. And I have not stopped this time (so far). Having the strength to be myself has given me the grace to forgive where I thought there could not be forgiveness; to love where I feared love had died; to be loved and nurtured; to be open to possibilities and so many new beginnings.
Saturday, we went to Mass, and (not unusual) my mind wandered, due in part to the fact that I misheard and wondered who this St. Bob is who had written to the Thessalonians, and partly, I think, because God had other things to say to me. I left with a feeling of peace within myself: affirmation that forgiveness and love were possible for me because I am me, and not because someone else thought I should or shouldn't. (this was also related to my favoritest Pin of all: "Don't judge others because they sin differently than you." Wow!! A very old message put in a different way can make such an impact!)
This morning we were talking about praying. I don't really feel like I ever learned how or when, only where, which makes it inconvenient sometimes. The result is that I pray sporadically--not just when I need something; I also pray when I am thankful, or when I hear about a friend who is sick or hurting. This is the longest I have prayed regularly, and by regularly, I mean more than just once a week at Church. And do you know what? I am myself. And I am so very grateful for the strength to be myself.
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