free my heart

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

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

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

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

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

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

no platitudes, please

"Meet them where they are" is a cardinal rule in ministry of any kind. Truthfully, I believe it is a rule in just about any relationship. For a while, I thought that might mean knowing the other's likes and dislikes, interests, hobbies, taste in music. As I grew in youth ministry, with the help and guidance of some really amazing and down to earth youth ministers, I began to realize there was more to it than that, more to meeting someone than the externals. Knowing where someone IS is only part of the equation.

I'm in the process of extricating myself from a painful and difficult relationship. Generally speaking, I have never been in a better place - for the first time in my life I have confidence in my abilities, my choices, my future. I can make decisions without second guessing every single aspect of the choices, the outcomes, the effects on others, judgement from others. I can laugh. My therapist asked me once when we were talking about holding in some painful emotion, "Would you try to contain joy?" I know him well enough that there is likely a biblical reference there, and yet my honest response to him was, "Yes, I do have to contain my joy at times." I went home sad that day, with the realization that joy and sorrow are equally important to feel, to acknowledge, to express, to share. I've come a long way since then.

There are times, often days in a row, when I am inexplicably irritable. Perfectly normal, I know, and yet in this process I find my analytical mind looking for connections to the 'stuff.' Sometimes there is one, and it's abundantly clear. Other times there probably isn't one, but I find myself determined to find one - not to blame someone else for my mood, but to better define my feelings and, more specifically, my responses to them. Somewhere in my most recent cranky days, I realized how frustrating it is to me, how much it feeds the mood, when the people I turn to offer nothing but advice. It occurred to me that I needed someone - anyone - to meet me where I am; to minister to me.

Over the days prior to "the mood" I had seen a few memes and posts related to compassion. It took longer than I'd like to admit to make the connection. Meeting someone where they are means to have compassion for them. The kind of compassion that is based on knowledge that we all are travelling the same road, each at their own pace, with obstacles and assistance that cannot be equated with another person's experience. I can't measure my suffering, or my joy, against what another person feels or experiences - that's fair to neither of us. Continuous well meaning advice begins to rankle me because it often comes from an angle that I am not yet ready to work with, or from a direction I've already gone, or - especially grating - in the form of platitudes and extensive definitions of faith and love (the two things that in all of this I have had very little trouble embracing).

A few days after a particularly trying exchange with a well meaning person in my life, I received a text apologizing for offering clear shibboleth instead of compassion. In part, she said, "..I know how platitudes and rational explanations of faith are really not helpful or consoling. It only hurts more." It was the first time I was grateful that I had spoken honestly to someone outside of my initial tight circle. For the first time, I could breathe with someone of my own faith background.

If you want to help me, if you want to walk with me, you will need to meet me where I am. You will need to be compassionate to be consoling. You will need to understand that I don't want or need reassurance that my Father loves me, and always has, and always will. I have that reassurance from Him every minute of every day. What I need from you is understanding that I am hurting sometimes, and a majority of the time, I'm not hurting. And that even if I am hurting, there are lots of other causes (which is something I, too, am working on understanding!) related to my job, my house, the state of the world, and maybe even the phases of the moon. Those who have been walking with me all along know that it's been a really long while since I've been in "a mood" - a longer span than ever in my life - so they are rejoicing that I am experiencing a new-to-me emotion. Walk with me instead of deciding what direction I should take. If my direction goes where you don't want to go, move on.

I'm good with that.

thinking it through

"You must be so proud!"

Actually, I'm proud, yes, but no more proud than I was yesterday, or the day before, or when he was 2, for that matter. My sons do what they do and are who they are because they were raised that way. They were raised with the expectation that they would become fine young men, and they are. Each and every one of them. I've always been proud of them. I've always loved them. I've always known they would be uniquely and truly them. Who else could they possibly be? 

Nor can I take credit for them taking to heart all that they were raised hearing. If I could, the dishes would always be done and the laundry put away on laundry day. In truth, I'm quite humbled when I think about the men they are becoming. The young women my two oldest are dating are beautiful, inside and out; self-assured, kind, warm -- exactly the kind of woman I would want in my sons' lives. But again, I'm not at all surprised. Their friends have always been the sort that I was happy to have around. All of the boys' friends have been solid people. I've loved them all, and still do, with all my heart. 

"You must be so proud!" The intonation is often tinged with surprise, or something like it. Proud, yes, but not at all surprised. We've been talking about this for a long time, whichever this this is. And we're probably more aware of any possible pitfalls than you can imagine, because devil's advocate is a fun game sometimes, and sarcasm is not always veiled anger -- it can also be just plain funny when used properly. 

Here's the thing, I'm recovering from long-term external definition of my emotions: someone else telling me (or trying to tell me) how and what I'm feeling. So, frankly, when you say "You must be..." my hackles get raised. Immediately. My problem, I know. And I know I don't always handle it as well as I'd like, so I've been working out how to improve the interaction. Clearly I can't tell every you all of this every time. I will tell you now, though, it lands on me as you telling me what I feel. Even when you are someone who doesn't know me well. Which is exactly who you are, because the people who do know me don't say things like that, although there are precious few of them with whom I've talked about this. They just know to express their own feelings. When you tell me how I feel, my instant reaction is a desire to say, "No, I'm actually rather nonplussed," because I'd like to see how many people know what that even means. But that is misplaced sarcasm, the sort that is veiled anger. 

"Drew, I want you to know that I am proud of you, but no more proud of you for this than I was proud of you when you were 2. Is that okay?"
"Actually, I think that makes sense coming from you. I mean, you're my mom. If someone else were to say that, it might be weird."
"Then that's what I might say: 'I've always been proud of him!'"
"Sounds good to me."

And pray for him. And for me. And for all of them. I do, every single day. 

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.

no more onions

I have nothing against onions. In fact, I love onions. They are a key ingredient in so many of my favorite dishes. Well made, batter dipped onion rings, Vidalias in a salad with tomatoes and cucumbers, grilled on a burger, raw on a dog -- what's not to love about onions?!

I, however, am not an onion. Like so many things, this has been tumbling around in my mind for a while now. The first time I heard that something, or someone, was "like an onion: you have to go layer by layer," I thought it a clever analogy. Perhaps I've heard it one too many times. Here's the thing, when my therapist and I are working on developing a strategy for dealing with a patterned behavioral response, I get that the situation is, indeed, like an onion. We do peel back layer after layer of the problem: the trigger, the emotional response, the physical response (if there is one), the different perspectives of a memory or a recent event. In the end, though the response may be modified, the situation is still what it is. It is still an onion.

No matter how many layers one peels off an onion, at the center, one will find nothing but an onion.

One day at work, an office mate mentioned how much she hates going to conferences and having a facilitator ask, "Please introduce yourself with your name, your favorite flower, and how it describes you." We agreed it's the on the spot thinking about how a flower describes a person that annoyed us. [I knew then that I loved this woman especially because of her dislike of stupid ice breakers.] A few days later, I was thinking about that discussion while I spent ten hours in the car travelling to Georgia. I wondered what flower I would say was my favorite. I know full well what flower is my favorite. but what would I say when put on the spot? Lilacs are my favorite, simply because I like the way they smell, but that certainly has nothing to do with me as a person! I don't always like the way I smell, know what I mean?

As I drove, I thought that I would likely say something like "Azalea -- or better, rhododendron -- (because it was the first one I thought of) because  I'm not sure how to spell it," and then feel like an idiot for the rest of the conference, missing much of the content of what I went there to hear or learn.* Then I wondered why. Why would I feel like an idiot? Why does the reason have to make sense if the question doesn't in the first place? What would have happened had I answered honestly all those times in school, instead of giving the response I thought I was supposed to? Who would I be today?

Somewhere along the line, it occurred to me that an artichoke is a flower. Most people think of it as a vegetable, but it's really a flower. And not an onion. Being prepared to answer a question that makes no sense in the first place is a really important skill, right? If nothing else, it gave me something to think about on my drive.

I am not an onion, I am an artichoke. When you take the time to patiently and painstakingly peel off the layers of spiny bracts of the artichoke, you come to something else: the heart. If you take the time to peel back the layers of me, the prickly, stiff, protective layers of me, you will find a soft and very sensitive heart. But even the heart of the artichoke has some bristles on the top when you first get there - the choke. My heart is the same -- unless you work for it, you may never get past that one last protective layer on my heart, my choke. I am not an onion. Past all those layers, you will not find a smaller version of what you started with. Instead, you will find compassion, generosity, unbridled joy, and a fierce loyalty - the real me. If you find that, and then behave badly, though, I will bloom into the thistle of which the artichoke is a bud.

My name is Stephanie, and I would say I'm an artichoke because I have many layers. I am not an onion, although I love them.




http://www.gardenbetty.com/2013/06/anatomy-of-an-artichoke/


*It occurs to me just now that perhaps such distraction is the reason for this kind of question in the first place. Maybe everyone spends the rest of the time second-guessing their choice and reason, so the content needn't be quite up to snuff. hmmmmm.....

dig in

So, here's the thing -- I've been needing depth. Depth in conversation, depth in faith, depth in learning. I feel stuck. Questions come to mind about all kinds of things, and I want to dig in. Trouble is, I don't know where to go, I can't afford to go back to school at the moment, and I can't do it alone. I need some fellow diggers. People with questions of their own. People who want to talk about their questions; not just to find the answers, but the explore the possibilities. To laugh at the ridiculous, while also realizing there's no such thing if the heart is pure. This need for depth, this need for exploration and inquisition, has me off-kilter. When I'm off-kilter, I fixate on things, and lately that fixation is the questions.

Who's in?

write, read, feel

On my shelf, on my floor, in my bag for work, I have an abundance of notebooks (including this electronic version). I'd love to say a "plethora," simply because it's a fun word, but abundance suffices. Each notebook has its own purpose, so I haven't filled one before starting another. In fact, I don't think any of them are full, per se. I would say that in the mix are notebooks I am finished with.
One bittersweet pile is filled with barre exercises, center floor combinations, tap rhythms and music selections. I happen upon them now and then, stashed in odd spots and bags around the house. They bring back memories of days spent near the CD player in the kitchen, testing, repeating and experimenting with how to move and create, imagining the spacial aspect. I flip through them when they turn up and see a side of myself that I really liked, that I miss sometimes, but that I'm also happy to be free of. Free from. But....
Others are the books that I read. I never marked a single book that wasn't a college text book until fairly recently. And now I'm a bit addicted. Ever since Thomas Merton found his way onto my reading list, I've had to avoid the library like the plague. I use highlighters, flags and pens in my books, marking passages, writing references to other books I've read, and even to movies, music, current events. I love the interaction with the words on the page, and the imagined conversations I'm having with the authors and with my friends reading the same books. Some I feel comfortable sharing, and others I keep to myself, but they, too, tell a story of who I am in a moment in time. This moment.
I have notebooks that are journals. When I was in junior high and high school, Dad used to give me diaries as gifts. With or without little locks, his intention was that I would write down my feelings, my perceptions, my highs and lows. I never really did. These days, journaling as I do, I realize that the thing is, I had very few feelings to write down. Very few highs and lows. I felt a lot of nothing that felt like something. Which is pretty much what I journal about now. Today, in the past couple of years, I've begun to feel, to identify my feelings, to grasp their relevance in my life, and in the lives of those around me. These journals also have specific purposes; trains of thought and threads of me that trace my journey. The lines between them get fuzzier the more I write in them; the deeper I go.
I also write in my devotional book, but not every day. Sometimes I need to write to make the prayer "work," but other days I just talk or listen. These notes range from short messages - just a word or two - to sections where I have completely obliterated the printed passage. I wonder on occasion what my spiritual advisor would see if he were to read it. Then I realize how silly that thought is. They are my prayers, my thoughts, my conversations with God. They can ramble as much as they need to.
There are times when, as I write, I chuckle at the thought of someone trying to put it all in order. I currently have - counting this blog and my daily devotional - 6 active journals. I date each entry and sometimes wonder what on earth is wrong with me. In all honesty, I'm working on breaking down the walls in my mind and heart. It's slow going, and will take many more notebooks, I think.
But I'm on my way.

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.

elusive expression

Yesterday, Christmas morning, I awoke with some thoughts in my heart and in my bones that made me want to write. They weren't exactly words, though, and I decided to think on them a bit first. By late morning I thought what I really wanted to write was a letter to a friend; along the lines of a thank you, but a little more related to one of those Christmas letters that get included in cards (of which I am not very fond). Still. Considering the points to include, the realization came that I could reasonably include a number of friends, but realizing that I had no idea how to create a list of "undisclosed recipients," I started to consider a blog post, and just hope that the right people saw it. 

Then it got loud, we went to the beach, I had to start dinner, and my fingers did not find the keyboard; the thoughts did not crystalize into words on a page. 

At long last I sat with the keyboard on my lap, and all of it was gone. 

Not the intent, or the feeling of thankfulness, or the desire to share it all. Not the slight feeling that I had more than one person I wanted to address. What was gone was the tangible feeling of words flowing through my fingertips. Normally, now for instance, I can quite perceptibly feel the words moving through my head, behind my eyes, going directly to my fingertips as they touch the keys. The hardest to write, to release, are the words that make their way to my heart from that space behind my eyes. Those are the words that I fear will take a piece of me with them, leaving my far too vulnerable to the reader. Those are the words that mean the most to me, and that I am usually fairly certain sound like gibberish to anyone but me. Those are the type of words I had playing around inside yesterday.

Until the keyboard sat in front of me. 

There were plenty of other distractions. I knew I was not in the space I needed to be in to write. Truthfully, although I sort of hoped I could lose myself in the blank screen in front of me, I knew there was no way I'd be able to express myself well 'on paper' in the middle of a living room full of people with the television on. In some ways, by then, I wondered if it was too late to share the words. If it would come across as an afterthought, or worse--an obligation. 

Instead, I read old posts: advice I'd been given, but had avoided, and then circumvented. Turns out I may not have seen what I needed to see. Either that, or what I saw with thankfulness in my heart is different from what I may have needed to see at the time. It's funny, because I know that what is taken from the written word is intrinsically related to the reader, and at times I wonder if perhaps that is even stronger than the relationship to the author. I think of my brother who says he used to ask his English teachers if they had spoken to the poet; if they really could say "this is what he meant" without that personal discourse. 

An then I realize that there are times when I finish one of those heart-word posts, and it looks like gibberish to me, but I post it anyway, and someone comes back and says they saw something they needed, or a memory was triggered. Sometimes the words just need to get out. And it doesn't always make sense to me. Yesterday the words decided to stay in to make me think and feel just a little bit more. Indeed, the thankfulness, and the desire to share it is as strong today, as real. 

the elusive three

For the past week, I've been trying to compose the short version of my life, my journey. The 3 minute version. While the challenge was at first invigorating, it has become its own difficult obstacle. I start with a short idea in my head, but somehow in the transfer to paper, my commercial becomes a feature presentation.  Funny--that does not discourage me. Persistence will pay off in the end. But I find myself trying not to wonder when and where that end could be.

During the course of this week, I have been approached by two strangers, each of whom offered me a word; one wisdom, and the other love. Their intersections with my road are stories unto themselves, but regardless of the strangers' intentions, those two words have calmed me. Directly between these two strangers, I was introduced to a third person who somehow is a bridge. More to ponder.

Early last week, a friend of mine had a presentation to do. Silly me, thinking it had been prepared in advance, asked the night before about how practicing was going. As I shook my head and mock-reprimanded against procrastination and the all-too-familiar argument that best work is born at the last minute, I saw myself. I often find myself, as I did tonight, finding odd things to do--very important things!--rather than do "homework." We now have clean railings up both sets of stairs. And the walls look better, too. All in an effort to order my thoughts. 

Despite my words avoiding paper, I am prepared, to a certain extent--it is a story of me I'm delivering, after all.  Who knows it better than I? Just One, and from there will come guidance, should I follow. I'm subtly backleading in my efforts so far. The dance will be oh, so much more delightful if I just follow the lead, since I know the steps already. The words will come. When I let go and let them.

wondering why

On Thursday, my husband wore a pink polo to work. Pink looks good on him--he has the right skin tone for it--and this particular polo is cut well, and flatters him. (I am not a fan of polo shirts in general , but that is another topic for another time, perhaps. This one looks good on him, and that's what matters to this story.) Whenever he wears this shirt, his eyes and smile have an extra light.

Why mention it? Because at the end of the day, he mentioned that when he wears that shirt, he gets many comments. All of them questioning his motivation. "Why are you wearing pink today?" "Feeling exceptionally secure in your masculinity today?" "Did your wife buy that for you?" And the ever popular, "Why would you want to wear that?" For the sake of clarification, and because now you may also be wondering, I rarely buy clothing for my husband. Heck, I rarely buy clothing for myself! I do not like shopping for clothes, and both of us are particularly hard to fit. I was, however, with him when he bought this particular shirt, and I believe all I had to say about the purchase was a reminder about my aforementioned dislike of polos in general. Also, if you take a look at my husband, and have a conversation with him, you will discover that not much affects his masculinity. (His name, Guy, fits him like no one else I've ever met!)

Why did he wear the pink shirt? He likes it, plain and simple. It's also comfortable, well made, and fits and suits him. It does happen to have a breast cancer ribbon embroidered on it, but that isn't even why he bought it. It was on the sale rack, and fit the criteria in the last sentence. (That was one of the comments he heard, "Well, it is for breast cancer, so I guess it's okay.") My question is, why do people feel the compulsion to comment on it in so personal a way? He's a New England sports fan in Central PA--Steelers country--and will get questions and good-natured jabs when he wears shirts and caps representing "his" teams, but none are personal, questioning his very being. Those questions are general and global, with the most personal being along the lines of "How come you like New England/Boston?" (His accent is now mostly imperceptible to most of his friends and co-workers.)

Telling me about his day, he said that it seemed that everyone had an opinion on his shirt, and the opinions were quite polarized. Everyone either loved it or hated it; no comments in between. I found myself wondering--are there any colors that a woman might wear that would cause that kind of response? Is there any other color that would elicit that kind of strong response? And why would the fact that "I would never wear that color" make it okay to judge someone else wearing it?

I have, for myself, a rule about wearing colors that are close to my skin tone. I avoid it when going out in public. No nude to tan shirts for me, or certain shades of yellow, cream, grey, and even pink, but I would never consider saying "Why on earth are you wearing that shirt that blend in with your skin and makes you look like you're not wearing anything? You must be feeling very secure in your skin tone." Nor would I say, "Why are you wearing a polo? You look like everyone else." Mostly because I recognize these aversions as my own personal quirks, not anything I feel compelled, or even able to express vocally. That said, I have offered fashion advice to our sons to avoid colors that blend into their skin, particularly on bathing suits. And I have been known to mention to my family, out of earshot of the wearer, and when the wearer is someone I do not know, that I could not wear that [shirt or dress] that blends into my skin. I don't mention anything at all about polos. They all seem to like them.

Why is pink -- or rose, salmon, shrimp, coral, or any other variation -- on a man so controversial that people, both male and female, find it necessary to point it out? "You're wearing a pink shirt." I just don't get it.

pen and paper

Often, lately, I find myself faced with a blank sheet of paper. I know what question has led me to it, but I keep wondering what answer it holds. I found myself actively seeking the answer, pushing myself to understand its meaning, questioning my ability to understand or even recognize the answer when it comes. When I realized what I was doing, I made the decision to stop trying so hard, and to just look at the paper when it appeared in my mind's eye. Passive thinking--Pondering (which I have found to be a far more effective tool of faith for me!)--led me to the conclusion that the paper was waiting for dictation. [Which made perfect sense, as that was a reminder of the question in the first place! Why am I surprised by that? Why am I surprised by anything?]

Then I realized there is no pen.

This caused a fleeting panic, but fortunately I caught it before it ran away with my mind and heart. Then I laughed! There is no pen! Why? Because I don't need it yet. Things need to happen first, events need to unfold, hearts need to listen, and souls to speak.

None of these realizations came quickly, and yet they did. There was a late night "conversation" or two that reminded me of the importance of waiting. Not just patience, but waiting. Waiting and the relative passage of time. God's time is transcendent, while ours is relative. In my prayer life, I have been experiencing the joys of that transcendence, but--yet again!--have been having a difficult time translating it to my secular life. In actuality, I should be working on not separating the two; conditioning that will take [relative] time, patience and practice, the likes of which I have not yet seen, I'd bet! I keep telling myself that I believe that I am prepared, but I also know (now) that telling myself amounts to stalling [I'm getting to know myself, day by day] and that I should admit that I either need to jump forward, or get pushed.

With regard to the missing pen: I find peace in my mind when I write. At times, words bump and rush through my head, and I find myself frustrated that I have no time to write them down, or that I don't have access to my keyboard to let them flow out. However, at times when I have questions, I recognize the danger that I might try to make answers as I write, rather than allow them to come in their own time (in God's time, in this case). I'm guessing that has something to do with the missing pen. So many words have bustled around my brain, but instead of trying to get them onto 'paper,' I have let them run freely. Some have continued to spin and swirl, but others have made themselves known, then run through the rocks that filter my skull. What has remained is a calming beauty; an atmosphere more conducive to further pondering.

And a feeling of being beside, neither in front nor behind. I've run from myself for a long time. It's only recently that I have had faith enough in myself to lose myself in my Faith. I have work to do, and steps to take, and things come to terms with, and so very much to learn. But the learning!! There is such beauty in the learning! When I look behind me, I see such a long road I have traveled, and when I look before me, I see even more. And although I keep trying to run that road, I must remind myself that I am, in fact, taking baby steps: wonderfully slow and steady baby steps, and I have never been alone.

from above

Confidence of man in man is the fundamental sanction that upholds every secure title to wealth.

I saw this while walking downtown today; it is carved along the top of the Finance building across from my building. A few minutes before, I read some comments from a couple of friends, and a couple of people I didn't even know, regarding Kermit Gosnell, his patients, his victims......These friends and I have been having a very difficult time processing the information, the news, the pain associated with the story.

At one time, I would have thought that those most affected by news of late term abortions could be pigeonholed: militantly religious, mostly. At one time, not even bothering to learn anything about any abortion procedures, let alone late term, I truly believed in the need for abortion to be legal, but only because I knew that women would have them--legal or not--and I foolishly believed that if they were legal, they would at least be done in a safe environment.

That was before I lost a baby of my own. That was after the two times I feared I was pregnant, but wasn't. For the most part, I simply avoided the topic at all costs. I put my head in the sand, and then busied myself with the family we later started. I've been having second thoughts about my younger idealistic fantasies about the ways of the world. Then I heard about this man in Philadelphia. Originally, I heard about him a few years ago: a short little something about a guy performing partial-birth abortions--delivering the head, severing the spinal cord, then removing (rather than delivering) the rest of the baby. Apparently, since most of the body was still inside the mother, he was not murdering the babies, he was simply performing a variation on a perfectly legal and acceptable procedure. I was discomfited, but naively believed that his was an isolated case. Further, since I never heard anything else about it, I allowed myself to believe that it was over; that everyone knew that it was awful, and that it wouldn't happen again.

About a week or so ago, a friend posted a story. For a couple of reasons, I decided I needed more proof, or for certain friends to verify.....for the news to pick up the story. I had forgotten about hearing it all before. Until those things happened, I wasn't even going to read the story. Could be about anything. Turns out, more than just the friends I hoped would clarify started posting. Then I not only read the story, but watched a documentary-in-progress, and realized that I had been fooled for so long about the clinical cleanliness of abortions. My world has been turned upside down, my soul cries, and there is a strange feeling in the pit of my being. I couldn't explain it, or find words to express the anguish--the first steps in healing and moving forward.

Then I read the comments, and saw the words (literally!) above, and I realized what I feel. I've lost confidence in my fellow man. Not the people near and dear to me that I can share this with, but the people who could have addressed this more clearly, made more noise. I live in the state of Pennsylvania, for Pete's sake, and never heard anything about the hearings happening just a couple of miles from my home. Nothing in the news, on 20/20, on the cover of some magazine at the grocery store. The mainstream media has instead been concerned with trivia.

As for the comments......my prayers are for the mothers, the patients, the families. I pray that the babies comfort those here suffering a loss, of any kind; that they have found peace in Heaven; that their presence there can somehow work toward restoring faith for someone. As a nation, as a world, I wonder if wealth is even a possible descriptor in the future. I am small; I am but one. I see a wealth of faith in my close friends, my family of the heart. I pray that each and every one of us can spread just one spark of faith, of confidence, to restore the wealth of human spirit.

The rest of the quote carved on the building:

The foundations of general prosperity are laid in the industry and integrity of the people.

 I hope so.

a lovely lady

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

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

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

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

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

skin off my nose

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm okay with that.

thinking caps

I have words inside that I cannot express aloud. Some are angry, frustrated; others taste acidic at the moment. Most will not understand them, even if I do express them, and too many will judge based upon them. When the words themselves are not cutting my soul so much, I am confident that I will be able to present them in a way that will bring illumination, clarity, vision. Until then, if you speak to me, and are met with silence, disapproval, or even a slight stare followed by a view of my back, do not think that I am giving up, by any means, or that I will ever stop fighting your small-minded simpleness.

Suffice it to say that if you are going to focus on something other than the pertinent facts, I'm going to lose some respect for you. You don't even know that you are hitting close to home here, and you likely never will. Think about your words, your views, your judgements, and consider: where would I be? The answer will probably surprise you. It did me. And yet, where I am, I am more proud of myself than I have ever been in my life. I have, because I stayed focused on the facts, come out on top.

Think before you judge. Think before you laugh. And when you step outside yourself, you might just notice that someone else has something valid and valuable to share.


*I wrote this a few weeks ago, after hearing a news story that really ticked me off. (the contenet of the story is really not important) Thinking it too harsh or ugly to publish, I dropped it into my Drafts folder. Opening it tonight, I realize that all it is, is true. Take it as you will; but take something from it.

wordsmithing

I've worked with lots of words today. Lots and LOTS of words. I listened to the words in my own head when starting the computers for the day, and used context clues to decipher an email sent to me by an English teacher. I passed on some words stuffed full with my unspoken opinion. I suppressed some choice words when the L O N G stream of words I was entering into our database was suddenly interrupted with an "administrative error" message. (If I were a conspiracy theorist, I'd have some rather interesting words to share about the timing of that particular error, but I don't really want to get into that here, now!)

I shook my head at words that amounted to crazy talk from an otherwise sane person, then later shared said words with someone else, who found them to be equally inane. I listened to words that I found to be frustratingly judgemental, holier than thou, even, and could not, myself, find the words to say that would ultimately only have an affect on me. I didn't want to bring more personalities into the discussion -- although, any personality in it may have alleviated some of my distress! These were words that were hitting a little too close to home, and yet were quite off base. Stick to the facts; the ones that matter, not the ones that are shiny and intended to distract. (Life is a word problem.....)

I shared words that were uplifting: about my dad, shared interests, and widows' pence, questions and answers and how to find them both. [Yes, we shared Bible talk in the public school library. Words are pretty cool.] Words I sang from the two CDs I listened to this evening alternately uplifted and drained me; wonderfully emotional words expressing deep, heart-felt thoughts, dreams, fears.

I came home from work and spilled some words on a page, somewhere here in a draft, that may never see the light of day again, but needed to get out of my head, out of my heart, before they spoiled the landscape of my soul. Words of contempt for those who have never walked in those shoes -- not for any reason other than they think they wouldn't. 'Contempt' is too strong a word for what I really felt, but the words burned like acid in my mind, stirring up stronger feelings than necessary. Spreading them across a page diluted them, gave them less power, less control of my head, so I could get back to myself, to the realness, the facts. I played Words with Friends.

I read words that confused the heck out of me, simply because there was no proofreading done. (Giving the benefit of the doubt there--could just be the guy still has no idea how to put together a newsletter. Or has never cross-referenced anything.) I checked, and double-checked, then re-checked those words, and still came up a few cents short on meaning. Oh, well, some words are just not worth as much.

But....

Most importantly, I wrote words that meant something to me. Words that cleansed me and warmed my heart, while wetting my cheeks. Words meant for one set of eyes alone. Of all the words I used and encountered and shared today, those words are the most dear, and most important of all. And with them, the dark-time will be less daunting. I am enlightened.

simple pleasures

Ahhhh, this feels so good! I promised myself that if I attacked the dining room, I could sit down and play with some words. It took quite a while, as I allowed myself to indulge a few pleasant distractions and to make dinner, but it's cleaned, neatened, and minus another 3 square feet of carpet (thankfully!!). Of course, I hadn't factored in the cleaning up after dinner, so there is someone home, rather than my planned solitude. No matter: he likes to read, and when I'm finished here, we'll read together and snuggle for a while. Everyone else is at some practice or other, and even the dogs have decided to stop wrestling for the time being. Radio on, candles lit, smile on lips.....what more could I ask for?

Today was one of those days when I realize just how blessed I am. Despite our visit from Sandy, we had no real issues here, other than being home bound for two (rather pleasant!) days--our power stayed on, no water in the basement, nothing larger than twigs off the trees. We are exceptionally grateful, and have said so, again and again. Our friends and relatives all came through the storm with similar stories, although one dear friend had to evacuate his mother, and still doesn't quite know how her house fared. His car suffered a direct tree hit, but they are safe. I continue to pray for those who didn't fare as well.

At work, I was exceptionally productive--whether because of the extended weekend break, or just the knowledge that we'll be lucky if we can finish our projects by the end of the school year, I don't know. What I do know is that it felt great to get so much accomplished in my half day. So much that I am really looking forward to tomorrow. Another blessing. [smile]

Chatting with a couple of friends topped off my afternoon. Through the magic of Facebook, I was able to "visit" with a friend in Maine, a friend in Harrisburg, and another in Tennessee, as well as my husband; all while making the dining room pretty and presentable! Gotta love it! Just another blessing (as if "just" could ever describe a blessing), showing me the amazing power of bona fide friendship, truth and honesty. I really do have some of the best friends I could ever hope or ask for: they are as much family as friends, and fall into that special category of people that could be mixed together in a room without me, and still get along like they've known each other forever, simply because they are the cream of the crop, the real deal, the best.

Let's see, what else shone through as a blessing today? Texting with my sister on her lunch break...homemade applesauce, and rice that didn't burn a grain...green tea with honey....the last of the pudding with lunch...this adorable picture of Guy that I put in my coaster last night...some of my favorite songs on the radio....the word "impeccable"....joyful greetings as everyone arrived home....a phone call wherein I was asked if I am proud of my son ("Oh, YES! So proud of him!")....a smile on my face all day long....wearing my new pants...simply everything about today. My life is just where it should be. From time to time, I've tried to pull the tiller--HARD--in one direction or another, but following the current without fighting it has led me to a wonderful, blessed place. Thanks, God, for a beautifully simple day.

sparkle and shine

Yesterday, I was asked how others would describe me--in one word. Let me tell you, SO MANY words flew through my head--all accompanied by the faces of the people who would use them (and even some of their expressions)! In that nanosecond, the words were categorized in my mind, and I'm sure I smirked as I replied, "That depends, a whole lot, on who is describing me!" The question was then amended to "What word would Kimi use?" To which I replied, "Positive."

At home, a good amount of discussion (and laughter) ensued. Drew interjected that it was an unfair question; how could anyone know what word someone else would use to describe oneself? I told him probably the best way would be to ask. What word would he use to describe me? "Well-rounded." Truly one of the sweetest things I could have imagined a 14-year-old saying to his momma. When I then asked Guy, he replied, "Complex, or complicated." Amused, I asked if that was in a good way, or a bad way. He then wanted to amend his answer to "Wife," but after a lesson from Drew regarding which kinds of nouns can be used as adjectives (Thanks, Ms. H-B!), Guy finally settled on "Coffee" as his descriptor: bold, strong, warm, lively, soothing.....it still makes me shake my head, but, in a funny way, I'm quite flattered. Would anyone besides my SSJ Coffeehouse mates understand? Does it matter much?

At dinner, Henry decided, with lightning speed, that the word he would use is "Unbalanced." In the best way possible, of course! I can always count on Henry to confound and bemuse me--and to try to tell me it's a compliment. He insisted, though, and may even explain himself someday. Weird kid. Wonder where he gets that from?

Later, I presented the case in my Facebook status. The responses I got warmed my heart, and, interestingly, were not any that had floated (floated?? No, rocketed!!!) through my mind in that conference room. Most of those that I tried to mentally sift through were related to the people I have recently decided I don't need in my life anymore: "negative" was one of them. Not too long ago, someone told me, "You really are quite negative, you know." I was puzzled: this was the only person I have ever heard that from. "Sarcastic," "Cranky," even "Bossy" I'd heard before from time to time, but only ever in reference to a mood, not my basic make-up. (Maybe the Bossy from time to time....but I've grown up a lot since then!) It shook me, especially since it was at a very shaky time for me. I went to work the next day still wondering what, exactly, was meant by it. Lo and behold, one of my co-workers said, out of the blue, "Stephanie, you are one of the most positive people I've ever met! I love working with you!" Ironically, she said this as I was trying to spin a complaint I had, because I didn't know her very well! Between that day and the next, three people mentioned something about my positive attitude, bringing me back to my center--and at a tenuous time for my own balance, mind you! Sometimes the 'one word' giver needs to be disregarded.

Anyway, those who responded with their "one word" for me are people that I hold so dear in my heart. Many were along the same vein: Linda's "Multi-talented, or Multi-faceted" was similar to Drew's response, as well as Allison's and Shawna's choices: "Brilliance" and "Effervescent," respectively. Before that whole Twilight movie thing, "Sparkle" used to be a very nice little descriptor in our house! My other Linda wondered if "A+++" counts as a word--she is a nut! (That's the word I think I would use for her, but with the warmest smile and a great big hug, too!) "Steadfast," from Amy, warmed my heart; especially since just before I saw it, I had been thinking that "Resilient" or "Loyal" would have been good responses. Steadfast is about right.

I worried momentarily as I considered what to say if some of the words I might use would sound arrogant. And would they really be words that someone else would use, or were they words that I would wish others would use to describe me? It was the hardest part: "Intelligent," "Organized," "Managerial," "Amazing," "Unusual"--how many of them are words I've actually heard others use when talking to me, and how many are words that I'd like them to use? I was glad when the question was modified. Another word Kim would have used: "Sympathetic."

Then I saw the word "Real," and it made me cry. A really, really good cry, with the warm heart, full-face smile, and laughter. "Real" is what I've always wanted to be. "Real" is what I work for, pray for, live for. Real. Connie considers me to be Real.

I do, too, although I haven't always, and that makes it all the more touching. I've been praying for the strength to be myself, to continue to be me, to be as real as I can be. Thank you, God, for answering prayers; for guiding me to the people who fill my life with light. Thank you, friends, for the words you share with me, giving me the energy and fortitude to share my words with you. Thank you for being the sparkle in my life.