castles and moats

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

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

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

I read this today:

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

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

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

meant to be

“Because sometimes you have to step outside of the person you’ve been, and remember the person you were meant to be, the person you wanted to be, the person you are.”
H.G. Wells

A friend posted this quote this morning, and I haven't been able to get it out of my head. Funny thing is, for a good part of the day yesterday the thought ran through my mind again and again, although not in quite the same words. Friday at work I had a glimpse of some mission statements, and something about them bothered me. I hadn't slept well the night before and figured whatever it was would either come to me, or wasn't all that important. As I woke yesterday, there was still a niggling something, so I focused on it, trying to puzzle it out. 

It occurred to me that I don't want to, never intended to, live in anticipation of life. So much time was spent in wondering and talking about what I "wanted to be" when I grew up (I still don't know) as opposed to "who I am" right now. Would I be further along in my quest for finding me if I looked more deliberately at who I am now? At what talents I possess now? Often I stumble upon my "potential" and end up disappointed in myself. When I bring it up with my therapist, he tends to ask what I've accomplished. We sometimes talk about how I could have handled something differently, but bottom line is, i did. I do. I have. I am. When we talk about the future, he recommends dreaming big, and then analyzing the feasibility, rather than looking at what my resources are first. Sort of a "God will provide" attitude, I suppose, as long as the aspiration is in line with my real future -- the future God has intended for me. 

Maybe. 

My big dreams surprise even me. As a result, I have yet to share them, or even write them down. Someone recommended asking God to show me how He sees me, where He sees me. What I see when I ask is always the same, always fills me with peace, and always surprises me. It's not what -- or where -- I'd expect. Again, it's not something I've really shared. I don't quite know how. Or with whom. In some ways I'm isolating myself again, but in a different way, and for different reasons. Yet it feels so much the same. 

After lunch yesterday, I felt an urge to purge, to make a pile of things to get rid of. I've come to realize that the need to actually see a pile of stuff to drop off for a yard sale or consignment is related to another very real need. A need to clean out a closet in my mind or heart. To clean up something in my life that I have more control over than I realize. To take a hard look at myself, where I am, what I'm doing. To step outside myself and see if I am headed toward the person I'm meant to be. There's a pile of old cookbooks by the door now, and a pile of clothes that will get bagged up. Before long, I'll need to open the door on a closet I haven't paid enough attention to, and see what's been gathering dust in my soul.

light is darkness

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that's where I am today.

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.

unmuddling my mind

A couple of months ago, I stopped with words. A few weeks ago, I had mentioned that I stopped writing, but now I realize that there was more than that. Words didn't come to write, and even reading lost its lifelong appeal. Again, I found myself pondering what had changed. So much, so little; and yet I can pinpoint a series of events or thoughts that precipitated the change--a series that happened mostly at the same time or in rapid succession. At some point I read something about blogging being nothing but narcissistic, regardless of the reasons we think we have. This occurred along with a general feeling that no one really, truly cares what I have to say in the grand scheme of things, nor should they. I didn't want anyone to--I just wanted to journal my journey. But it did make my wonder why I might feel the need to scream it out loud. I purposely walked away from my laptop; would only check websites on my phone (a rather cumbersome way to type when compared to a keyboard), would only write down single sentences (copied from others' works) into my datebook to record my state of mind for the day, would force my way through the reading I had found assigned to me. I thought it must be time for a change or something.

But change in interests is a far different thing from change in lifelong loves. You can take that as literally or as metaphorically as you'd like. The fact is, I don't remember ever not reading and writing. I don't ever remember forcing myself to do either--although I have backed myself up against deadlines quite a number of times! Here I was, dreading the thought of reading words, of having words in front of me. Why?

A little over a month ago, I was encouraged to go back through my old blog posts to find something I was looking for. That evening, I was given quite a bit of advice, and took all of it to heart and followed it, to my best ability. Except for the blog post advice. I intended to. A few times I sat down to. But I just couldn't do it. For a week or two, I made excuses to myself about being busy, having a slow computer, being busy, needing to clean or cook--or sleep--being busy. And about that third time telling myself I was far too busy to read my own work--after all, I had others' works that needed to be read for my personal development--I realized that I was scared.

Scared that I would find what I was looking for.

And when I realized that, some other things started happening in my life. Or in my head. It's sometimes hard to tell which. I remembered a few people telling me how touched or moved they were by my sharing my journey, and the people who had asked me for prayers--not advice, or guidance, or anything else from me; just my prayers. I had two strangers startle me into very present moments, offering me gifts of words, and pieces of paper. And I found a blog by an amazing young woman I once knew who shared her journey of faith throughout her pregnancy. Her baby lived about 8 hours: a miracle in every way. The strength of her faith, her willingness to share both her joys and sorrows was nothing short of inspiring. There was nothing narcissistic about it.

The fact is, my journey got kind of stalled for a while. And I wasn't sure how to share that. Sharing the good stuff is more fulfilling. Sharing the hard parts is when I've found the judgement starts, the comparisons, the "see? I told yous." I was stuck. I worked myself into a frenzy trying to do all the right stuff, the right way, at the right time. Instead of keeping my relationship with God open, I tried to force it to get better, bigger, more. As a result, I felt overwhelmed, overwrought, and ultimately, bored. In the past, when I'd get in a fix, I would write it out, pour out the words that came to mind and not really care how coherent it was. Part of my frenzy was in making sure everything I wrote made sense. I guess you could say that I worried that others were depending on me to get this right, and in that way, I did make myself the focus.

These days, I'm in a better place. I'm not bored, that's for sure. I've found the love of faith that I had been all but ignoring. I'm still not rolling along quite like I was, but I've been realizing that may be, at least in part, because I've not been writing it out. My laptop is still old and slow, but I know that if I do not make the time to attempt to work out my confusions, I will never leave them behind.

ask why

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I am forever grateful. My heart dances.

ups and downs

I find myself less solitary lately. Instead of feeling anxious about going to new places, I’m willing. Not necessarily excited, but willing. The interesting thing about this is that I feel more myself; an odd development, as for so long being around people meant trying to be someone other than myself. There were precious few people who could ever see the real me. This had as much to do with them as with me—I was traveling in circles that were not my own; where I did not feel welcome for reasons beyond the people and personalities. In all honesty, “myself” was someone with whom I was not well acquainted. At least in certain situations. And, of course, there were also those times when I had let my true self shine through, and had been burned in the effort. I recoiled, and allowed myself to curl in, tighter and tighter.

I’ve found that the more myself I am, the more myself I can be. True hearts will accept and appreciate my many facets and faces, my faults and frailties, my strengths and dreams. True hearts connect on a heartfelt level—not on the superficial level I had been avoiding for so long. Spirit is the connection, rather than simply enthusiasm. The people I share my life with—my heart, my mind, my laughter and tears—are concerned more with others than with themselves. I fit better with that mindset. It’s far more uplifting than worrisome. The amount of energy is similar, but far more energizing and rejuvenating. Whereas in groups I had felt isolated and alone, I now feel together with, even when I am by myself.

Still, in the past week or so, I realize I have been turning inward a bit. I’m not quite feeling lost, but I am starting to think the directions may have changed. Construction is underway, it seems, and I’m in the middle of it. There is noise, and a mess all around me. The temptation to blame my stress on the interior noise has been great. Then I read this line tonight, “At moments of great stress, we reach for what comforts and sustains us.” (Sweeney, The Pope who Quit, p.202) It made me curious about chicken and egg thoughts, cause and effect relationships, comfort and discord. In the instance Sweeney was referring to, Peter Morrone was returning to a life of prayer as a hermit. My personal stressors are nothing like those he experienced as Pope, but then again, my stressors are my own, and cannot fairly be measured against his, or anyone else’s. Nonetheless, giving up everything I have and do to head for the hills is not an option for me. I may be feeling the need for some hermit time, but really, what I'm looking for is the root of my angst. It's there, hiding. Knowing that, realizing it, is what makes it possible to fight that demon.

Oddly, the best way is often to spend some time with a friend or two.

apart or a part

Everywhere I turn lately there seem to be reminders of who I am, or where I've been. I like where I am now, even when the road is more like a rocky cliff-face than a broad highway. I've also frequently been reminded of how I've gotten here. One such reminder came in my response to a post. The post read, in part:

[Spiritual life] is not something we can tackle alone. No, the wisdom of Jesus is that He founded a Church and did not merely convey a philosophy of life. In his homily yesterday, Deacon David Hall recalled the popular notion that spirituality can be disconnected from religiosity: "I don’t need a church; I have Jesus."  However, among the very first things that Jesus did when starting His public ministry was to surround Himself with others. Every gospel writer considered that fact so important that the call of the apostles is described near the beginning of all four gospels. 
Yesterday the Church celebrated the Feast of the Holy Trinity. This mystery itself is a compelling reminder that God Himself, in whose image we are created, is not an isolated singularity but a community of persons in relationship. The normal Christian life is also lived in relationship, not isolated, not alone.

There was a time when I really did feel that having faith was enough. Saying that it was there in my heart, and believing that being "near" to God was all I really needed. That going to church was nice, but not necessary to being faithful or a good person. But I also knew something was missing, and for a long time, I found that something to be related to religion itself. I thought that religion and faith left me with more questions than answers. Oh, I asked the questions, but--whether purposely or not--I asked them of people who had no basis upon which to answer. I would, actually, wait until someone had voiced a question similar to one of my own. Something along the lines of, "Yeah, what about that?" would flow from my lips, while simultaneously darkening my heart. My faith was hollow, as it was not filled with trust. I was separating myself from what I did know about faith, while telling myself that I was at least following what I understood.

Since that day when I felt I had nothing more to lose, and I said, with all my heart (because it had worked before), "Guide me. Wherever you need me to go, I will go," my journey has changed. That night, I turned to someone I never thought I would, and was met with a message of hope, trust and, most of all, love. Not exactly: I was met with a message of Hope, Trust and Love--all with capital letters. There were a number of "faith moments" shared over the course of that long weekend, and each of them made a huge impact on my heart. The darkness, the hardness dissipated, and in its place, I felt lightness and peace. Joy. Most of all, togetherness.

Afterwards, I looked at the moments in church differently. I began to see more similarities than differences in the people gathered. I began to want to find real answers to some of my questions. I've learned that the answers don't always come in order--because the order is not for me to determine. There are still things that frustrate me, confuse and confound me; there are still times when I find myself pulling back into myself, because I have made a habit of using my nature as an excuse to isolate. What I've learned about myself far outweighs anything I ever thought I could learn; it's sometimes painful, but mostly marvelous. I've begun to reach beyond myself; I've found that I can.

I will always be more introverted than extroverted, but I've learned that there is a difference between embracing the facets of myself, and using them as a shield to keep myself isolated, alone. Apart. My response to the post above:

The times when I've felt alone on my journey have all been times when I told myself I didn't need to go to a building or a service to believe. Now, I'd much rather be a part than apart!

I still find faith outside and away, but I no longer feel like an outsider. I am a part of the whole because I do not place myself apart from the whole.

seeds to flowers

Walking in the rain is my favorite. Not the gushing downpours usually associated with my working outside in the summer, but the gentle, soft and cool rain that comes as a surprise because you couldn't hear it from inside the house. The kind that makes you say, "Oh! It's raining!" and you go out anyway.

At times, like today, the rain is especially welcome. Rain, clearly, has a cleansing quality--washing last night's humidity out of the air, and leaving instead that wonderful rain smell that sustains (many of) us until the next rain. Rain also has a cleansing quality for the soul, and as we walked today, we spoke of some of the more difficult aspects of our youngest days. Somehow, sharing the things that can hurt the most are easier in the rain, less drastic, and ever-so-less painful.

Why is that? Why does rain make me feel more open to hear, more open to tell? Perhaps it's the feeling that the heavens or the cosmos is involved somehow. Or that God has opened up a little, so we feel less alone. Maybe it's the tenebrosity, the lack of light, that makes us feel a little safer, a little more open. A little more loved. It may even be the wetness of the rain itself, enhancing a fluidity in our feelings and emotions. Water seeks its own level, and fluidity in one's soul would clearly move to a more level spot....

And yet, the things we talked about bubbled up from the depths. The overflowed through what felt like the smallest of cracks in a carefully constructed barrier. Things that should have sounded awful, but, with the help of the rain, were diluted enough to be tolerable; not likable, but bearable. Raindrops mixed with tears, and slid away; softly, easily, nearly without notice.

When my father died, it snowed. Like crazy. Like over three feet crazy. By the time we got home, everything had iced over, and we had a heck of a mess to clean up, just to get in our driveway. It was late, it was dark, and we were so very tired. Bone tired from sorrow, driving, and plain old exhaustion. I remember that moving that snow and ice was so symbolic for me. It wasn't rain; it wasn't soft, or gentle, cleansing or pure. It was hard and cold, with sharp edges and so much weight--just like my very core, my heart, my being. I screamed at the snow; threw great big boulders of icy whiteness into the yard with all my might. It helped, but not nearly as much as running water.

Today's rain is gentle and light--not a shower, but slightly more than a sprinkle. And, in the early morning hours of our walk, was just what we needed. Just what I needed. My pains and hurts are no greater than anyone else's, but they are my burden, and mine alone until I share them. The fact that others -- someone, somewhere -- is worse off than I am sometimes discourages me from sharing and lightening my load. Walking in the rain, with someone who wants to hear, equalizes the pressure, and only then can I grow.

Only then can I grow.

wildflowers

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

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

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

It's the fences that have kept me in.

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

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

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

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

with a little help

Sometimes, what we need most in life is to know who our friends are. And sometimes, the realization is surprising, to say the least. In the past few weeks, I have learned that real, true friends never judge the decisions we make, even if we are feeling judgemental of ourselves. I've learned that sometimes friendship and the love that comes with it can come from the least expected place. And I've learned that sometimes, someone we thought had surprised us with friendship, really is the chameleon we originally thought.

I've also learned that the truest friends will not necessarily ask or even need to know what's going on, but might just be there, heart and soul, as a distraction, if that's all you need. Distance, as I've always known, matters little in true friendship, but it sure makes shoulder-leaning tough.

Perhaps I shouldn't be too surprised. I have a litmus test right here inside me. A few years ago, I graduated from college as our son was Confirmed. In planning the party, I found myself so excited for my friends to meet my friends. I kept saying to myself, "Oh, she will really like her! They will be so much fun together!" Then I realized, my best friends, the ones I can share my ups and downs with, are pieces of me. Yes, they have wildly varied interests, occupations, lifestyles--but deep inside each of my friends lies a small piece of who I am, just as I lie inside them.

Recently, I've been going through a rough patch. Some people have noticed in my demeanor or my Facebook posts. Some have heard, one way or another. Some have reached out, and some have simply called to chat about nothing. I am truly blessed by the love and understanding with which I have been showered. For a time, I couldn't even breathe, and didn't know where to turn, but with each word I spoke to a friend, I was reassured, calmed, uplifted.

I'm not publishing these thoughts because I want or need to be inundated with inquiries. If I want or need to tell you, I will, in good time. Rather, I needed to share these thoughts because you need to know there is someone who will listen. Someone who will understand. Probably multiple someones--but unless the words are spoken aloud, the darkness could consume you. It almost did me, until I reached out, hard as it was, to someone I was afraid to lose.

Thank you to my friends, many of whom really do not know what I've been going through, but that I know are there, because I know I would be there for them. In a heartbeat.

nature's music

I have felt like a cannon ball for some time. Thick and heavy, unyielding, and yet pushed to do, act, be. I haven't been writing, running, dancing, sewing because I have felt crammed into the barrel of the cannon. Stuck in a long dark tunnel, with occasional noises around me, a circle of light ahead, and waiting for the big boom.

Now I'm left with a headache.

Recently, little by little, I have given up myself. I stopped dancing. I sewed less and less. With those things, I told myself it was because I was now running and doing yoga, and something had to give. But I realize I have not even played music in the background of my life. My CD collection, while not huge, is pretty diverse, and there has always been something on as the soundtrack for my day. Again, I told myself it was because my job did not allow me to play music--or even muzak--so I just got out of the habit.

Turns out, all of it was just falling away. For no real reason.

This morning, I woke to the low rumbling of thunder. Not the crashing, crazy storm kind, but the refreshing summer storm kind. Both the thunder and the rain were so gentle, the windows could stay open. The lightening more a glimmer than a flash. I let the sounds wash my mind clean.

I still have the headache. I still hope today is better than yesterday. But today starts my search for the old me. The me I like the best. I don't know if I will go back to the things I used to do, or if I will find something new, but I'm not rolling to the back of the cannon, waiting for the fuse. I'm going to be the confetti that comes out of the circus cannon.

Yes, that's me. Confetti.

beach

fresh tears from heaven
mingle gently with my own
sand surrounds my feet

speed post

Life's been crazy, with no time to sit, and now there are cookies in the oven. The words need to get out somehow, so a stream of consciousness list is what we get. Here goes.....

This kind of cool weather has me in heaven, although it is kind of a drag when working at a pool.

Don't do something stupid because others do. It only makes you look stupid.

I'm proud when I find out my kid did not do something stupid.

A bully is a bully, no matter how popular s/he happens to be.

Don't get on the good side of the bullies just to stay out of their way. They will still feed on you.

Weren't we just pregnant together???

I can't believe it's over!/Thank God it's over!!

Oh, how I miss those days when I could do something stupid and say it was because someone else was going to do it, too. So I looked stupid once in a while.....at least it was never something STUPID!!

I am your mother.

Bullies exist in every age group. I was bullied as a kid. I was bullied in college. I have been bullied as an adult. I've stood up to bullies more as I've gotten older, but they still make me cry. (should probably go on a Post Secret postcard, but there you have it.)

I am not your mother. Leave me out of it.

My boys make me so proud. Each and every day, and I wish I could make them really understand that.

Time's up.

standing up

I have a confession to make: when I was a kid, I was bullied. Funny it should be that I feel like saying so is a "confession," and I don't mean the ha-ha kind of funny. Why should I feel as though being bullied is something that should be hidden? Why do I feel as though it diminishes the strength I have now? Today's headstrong woman is not related much to that beaten down girl. Not really.

What happened back then? Specifics, I cannot tell you. I have simply chosen for so long not to remember the details, that I really, truly don't know them. What I can tell you is that for at least one school year, "J" called me fat. On a regular basis. The fact is, I was fat. Not babyfat chubby, but more on the round side. The thing is, though, that was around 2nd or 3rd grade, and by the time she started saying it, I was dancing twice a week, and had thinned out quite a bit. I do remember that when I saw a picture of myself wearing my new green knit dress, I was horrified at the little girl I had been. And between that and "J" saying it over and over, I was convinced.

Somehow, though, I think there must have been more to the story, though maybe not. Our neighborhood was a circle, and my sister and I would usually walk to the corner to catch the bus before it went around picking up kids; when we first started school, we were ostracized because we went to a parochial school and wore uniforms--the only ones on the morning bus. It was hell. There were never any seats for kids "like us." Finally, the bus driver got fed up and assigned seats to the other kids so there would be an empty seat when we got on. Soon after that, we started walking to the corner, although the route had changed slightly by then, the bus less crowded, and things started to look up.

Yet I remember clearly the day I stood at our front door, straining to see the bus lights around the circle, hoping against hope that my mother would wave the bus on when it got to our driveway. I, the kid who loved school, books, classes, even homework, did not want to go to school. I didn't want to face "J" or the other kids who would stare, or worse, laugh, when "J" would call me fat names. I wanted to stay home, curl up in a corner, and hide forever. When I told my mother that morning, through tears of fear and frustration, all she said to me was, "She's just jealous. Now stop crying, don't let her get to you, and go to school." Even now I'm stunned. Jealous of what?

"J's" bullying affected me for a very, very long time. Through the rest of Junior High, High School, and into college, I was unable to handle (read: trust) more than one or two friends at a time. Every time I left the room, I was sure someone was talking about me. I never knew what to do or say to fit in. Until I bought my Senior Ball gown, with my own money, and heard the saleswoman tell me that it "fit like a glove," I honestly thought I was fat. (I still fight that self-image, and have a very hard time accepting when people tell me I "look great.") My first boyfriend dragged my heart through the mud--repeatedly--because I had no idea that it wasn't right. More than once, I berated myself for not having the guts to run away from home.

A few months ago, while visiting with one of my oldest friends, I learned that she, too, had been bullied by "J," as well as another dear friend of ours. In fact, she told me that just about everyone she had mentioned it to in our class had been. I was amazed. And wondered what the deal was.

When my son, who enjoyed school as much for the social aspect as the educational, refused to get out of bed one morning, and told me he'd rather die than go to school again, I panicked. He told me about a classmate verbally jabbing at him, daily. I felt like a failure for not picking up on it, for not nipping it in the bud. He was in elementary school--younger than I had been. I stormed into school, and demanded to see the principal and the guidance counselor, both of whom proceeded to tell me they just couldn't see that boy doing something like that. They reassured me that they did not think my son was lying, but again said that it couldn't have been that bad, because someone would have seen or heard something. I felt like a helpless 13-year-old again: no one had seen or heard anything "J" said, except me--and her other victims, or potential victims. Nothing of significance was done, and between that incident and what I now think was bullying by the teacher he had that year, it took a good three years before he really wanted to go to school again.

The other day, someone asked a friend why bullying is considered a crisis now, after all, it's been around forever. After quite a bit of what I think was really good discussion, someone pointed out that it's not that there is more prevalence today; rather, our tolerance has reached its limit, as it had with other social "norms" that are now considered other than normal. I think that's a very good way to concisely say what so many of us who deal with kids are feeling. The causes, in my opinion, are very involved, but he was exactly right: I, for one, am fed up.



College saved me. I finally learned to be someone I could be proud of, ironically related to an incident of a teacher bullying a classmate, and she stood up to the teacher. When I later took a class in which the instructor tried to intimidate me, I proudly stood up to him, and came out with both my pride and an A.

Shortly before I left for college, looking through my old pictures, I realized that all that time when "J" was telling me how fat I was, she was always much heavier than I was. If only that realization could have erased the damage done, perhaps having been a victim wouldn't feel so dirty. Maybe it's because I know people who have been through much worse at the hands of someone else; I don't feel worthy or something. All I know is that a part of me did run away, I just didn't know it.

personal connections

Lately I've been wondering why things have been getting to me as much as they have. It's frustrating to me to be frustrated--I prefer to take life one day at a time, and look at the bright side. Instead, I've been feeling rather cold and prickly every day. I've come to the conclusion that in addition to needing more warm fuzzies, I have become seriously deprived of adult interaction. I guess a few minutes here and there at work, and contact via email and/or text message is NOT ENOUGH!!

People who know me, or have looked at my profile, know that I am not one to go out of my way to be with people. For reasons I don't understand in the least, the thought of being around people fills me with some emotion related to dread, but nowhere near as strong--and yet, once I am in the company of people, I feel so much better. Parties, games, gatherings of all kinds are a bit of an effort to attend. In all honesty, I've wondered if I'm alone in feeling that way, or if everyone thinks they'd rather just stay home, despite enjoying the outcome of social interaction.

There are points, though, when I realize I have been avoiding social situations longer than is good for me. I start to feel the world closing in on me, and my thoughts start to crowd together. I do sleep well, though, and start every day refreshed and ready to go, so please don't worry about me! :) From experience, I know that I can survive quite happily for a month or more at a time as a solitary entity, surrounded by no more than my wonderful family. Mixed into my latest need for a 'hit' is having to really absorb the fact that the dynamic of my family is about to face its biggest shake-up. When our oldest goes off to college, nothing about our family will be the same. Being happy about that does not change the fact that it stresses my psyche--whether I'm thinking about it or not.

So, for the first time in a long time, I'm faced with the decision to make a huge effort for me. The last time I had to do this so consciously was when our oldest was born and I joined a New Moms group. Too bad there is no "New College Family" support group where I can go and meet people who understand what no one else can. (read: what I don't really know how to talk about with the people I already know because I don't just want reassurances or to be told how great my kid is and that he'll do great. I want to talk to people who are also scared to death that the past 18 years have not worked, and that no matter how happy I am about his happiness, I'm still scared to death.) I love my friends dearly, and know that every single one of them would gladly listen to my fears, laugh and cry with me. I'm just plain scared to share some fears, hopes, even successes.

Tonight, we're having dinner with some great friends (ironically, friends we met when I was taking college classes!), and I know the visit will energize me, and bring me back to me. I also know that under normal circumstances, I would allow myself to think it would be enough to sustain me. Thankfully, I have the most wonderful friends, and have a grown-up evening planned with another amazingly warm friend on Sunday.

Taking care of me so I can take care of them is something I've always known is necessary. What I had forgotten, or maybe not even realized, is that what I need to do to take care of me is not a static thing. At times, exercise and diet are the keys to well-being. At others, as now, the extroverted part of myself needs nourishing so that the more comfortable introvert does not become a speck. Life is good. :)

looking back

Cold days. Long nights.

Darktime.

I don't remember it ever bothering me as much as it has the past two winters. Probably prior to that, I was better able to cocoon myself into ignoring the darkness--working, baking, reading, dancing--but now I have more running around I need to do. That's why I see the darkness so much. I used to see it as an old friend; one I could visit with as I enjoyed a mug of cocoa or a glass of wine while curled up on the couch under one of Grammy's afghans when I was living at home, or one of my quilts when we bought our own home. Watching TV, reading a book, snuggling with the kids, it was all so much easier to do during the darktime.

The boys are grown now. Not completely grown; after all, they are all still in school and living here and all that, but they are grown enough to not want to snuggle and cuddle anymore, although I do still read to Drew and Joseph when we can carve out the time. They are old enough to make more choices about what we see on TV, and when the majority rules me out, I find myself reading in my bed, all alone, which only adds to the effect darktime has.

I can't tell if the change happened suddenly, or over time; whether it was related to an event, or not. I do know that Dad's death in the winter made that winter harder, and that very well may have been the beginning, but I can't say that it was the turning point. The winter that Guy coached at a pool further away from home was also tough--he was gone more, it was a miserable winter, and I was truly lonely. Again, a possible contributing factor, but not the "one thing" that changed winter for me. There's also my theory that working outside at the pool for two summers has reset my personal rhythms (I'd never really been what one would call "outdoorsy" and the first summer was a real shock to my system!) making the darktime all the darker. This theory of mine has started to feed a sub-theory that we humans are fueled to a certain extent by solar energy--but that's another topic for another time.

What I do know is that I am really having a hard time. As I look out the window in front of me, I can still see a lightness to the sky at 4:57pm, but it's hard to be thankful for it some days. Perhaps if it were not so cold and dreary, the dark would be more bearable. The best thing about recognizing this pain (and it is painful--my heart aches at times) is that I can try things to make it manageable. I've thought often about what has carried me through before, and as a result, I've turned back to baking and cooking, using more intricate and challenging recipes; recipes that will, essentially, take longer to prepare. Focusing on what is right in front of me takes my eyes off the dark sky. I do feel better.

This winter has been a bit milder. Still cold, but no snow, really. Guy and I have been able to run outside more than last winter, and I think that may help a bit, although getting back at 5:40am, getting ready for work, and leaving around 6:40 when it's still dark may rewind some of the benefit. Whether it's the cold or the darktime feelings, running in the winter seems to be harder, and I struggle with distances that in the summer were easier.

At any rate, the days are getting longer, little by little. And I've also been talking more about how hard this has been, which has led me to the realization, or confirmation, that I am not alone at all. I no longer feel as though I am 'confiding;' rather, I am sharing, and of all things, I think this helps the most. The darktime had always been my thinking time, my alone time, my introspection/retrospection time. Somewhere in there a little pain got mixed in, and it needs to be expunged.

I'm working on it.

(loss of) clarity and vision

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instead, she expected others to reach out to her.

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

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

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

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

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

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