weed and seed

Yesterday, as I weeded one of the flowerbeds, I realized the similarity to my life lately. In all aspects of my life, I have been doing lots of weeding: at work, in my closets and drawers, in my circles, everywhere. And it's an amazing feeling!

At work, we've been tasked with weeding the collection, and I've wandered the stacks frequently looking for falling-apart and outdated materials, as well as securing the help of others who are more learned in categories than I am, or ever will be. Additionally, we've been weeding out cards, magazines, and soon, decorations. I have some apprehension about this weeding in some ways, as I don't quite know what the ultimate goal is, but there is still that certain satisfaction that comes with getting rid of something that's old, broken and unused.

My closets and drawers are getting a much-needed -- and long overdue!-- combing, too. There are still things I can't bear to part with, but many stained and outdated clothing has made its way out, along with games and puzzles missing pieces, toys that no longer have any appeal, expired medicines, and the other plain, old junk that makes its way into storage areas instead of the trash for various reasons, and then is forgotten about.

Similarly, I've been weeding the gardens and flowerbeds. Again, a long overdue project. At times, I marvel that I had time and energy to create the beds in the first place; painstakingly digging out, turning over, and bordering each of them with bricks. I remember that I worked each morning at 5:30am, until our oldest son would come out and let me know he was awake. Planting was the easy part, but I also remember that the weeding and deadheading happened in the evening, when my husband came home from work and could occupy the boys for a while, giving me a break -- literally and figuratively. Each year, as the boys got older, they got busier, and Guy coached more, leaving me less time to get at those pesky weeds. For the past three years, I've worked full-time in the summer, into the evening, giving me even less time to get out into the yard. So spring and fall have become my weeding the beds times. In between, I just hope not too many people notice how sloppy they start to look.

My personal life has needed major weeding, too. Some of it takes care of itself, like seeing a dandelion and pulling it out by the roots. But most of it requires careful extrication, much like untangling and unwinding the wild morning glory choking the lilies and the clematis. I will persevere, though, because the results in my heart and soul will be, ultimately, very similar to the results in my yard, my closets, and the shelves: clean, neat, open and tidy.

Occasionally, pulling a weed results in losing one of the pretty plants intended to be in the garden. I see the same thing happen in my life: my boys will lose some playmates, some babysitting jobs. I have no problem being open and honest with them. It's important for them to know that some people need to drop out of our lives in order to move forward. Never will I say mean, nasty or slanderous things about any of these formerly "important" people in my life, but I will certainly not pretend that "maybe one of these days" the relationship will be what it once was. Or, more truthfully, what I mistakenly thought it would be forever.

I'd prefer for my life to be less sloppy, and more what I choose it to be. For too long, I went along adding some color here and there, just to fill in the blanks. Not everything I ended up seeing was what I liked, or wanted to see; but I let them go, not realizing how much they would be able to take over, given just a little space. I'm learning to mulch and fertilize. And examining the shoots and seedlings more carefully.

And I feel much freer for it.

me, myself and that's it

So many of my posts are born of a need to release some sort of pent up emotional energy. There are times when I wonder if, in snippets, I appear to be a coiled up spring, ready to explode. At one time, I was. Too much of my energy was focused on looking like I was playing a part: the part of mother, coach's wife, homeowner, friend--a grown-up. Oddly, the people I most admired had no concerns about what a grown-up looked like, acted like. With them, I could be myself (and at home, with my family), and I would come away from my time with them rejuvinated, refreshed and renewed. And with a promise to myself that I would continue the feeling of being "real" by being myself instead of who I was "supposed to" be.

It wasn't until a crisis that I was able to make the break. Repeatedly, I've been told that my ability to be true to myself was the inspiration needed to move forward.

Perhaps you see me as a bit socially awkward. Good! I am! I have no desire to make small talk, as I've said before. Sooner or later, if I see that you are someone I can let in, I will join the conversation. It may take minutes, hours, days, years. The point is, if you feel uncomfortable with my quiet nature at first, you probably will be later. And in the long run, I've found that the people that are most uncomfortable with those who don't jump in immediately, people like me, are frequently pretty uncomfortable with themselves. I have a number of very outgoing friends -- people who will talk to anyone, anywhere; people who could probably make friends with a stone statue, and no one would think anything of it. But they are quite comfortable with the differences in people, and can not only tolerate those who reserve their spirit for times when they are more comfortable.

Where I've gone wrong is in believing I "should" make friends with the people who strike up conversations with me repeatedly. In going against my nature, and trying to follow someone else's lead.

an almost open letter

For the past couple of days, an apology has been rolling around in my head, but I haven't been able to let it out because something just hasn't seemed right. I couldn't put my finger on it, but then I realized what it was: what I thought I needed to apologize for is not what feel sorry about. And "sorry" isn't even the right word. "Guilty" is probably closer. Yes, closer. Not exact yet, but closer.

But what I'm guilty of is not what you are thinking, I'd wager. For the first time since I met him, I believed the words of a bully. One of many Insignificant Distractions of late. [see a previous blog post, if you'd like] Anyway, I am embarrassed that I believed what he said about you and your questions. Although, as I recall, you did not deny the questions, just the actions that would/could have followed. And yet, I still could not bring myself to apologize to you for that embarrassing lapse of reason. Why? I kept asking myself.....

And then I realized. I believed it because it sounded just like something you would say, and something you would do. My brain was in overdrive, piecing together many emotions and memories; like an old VCR tape when you could rewind while watching, and see the whole story in reverse.* That's when I saw it: the scenes when all of this happened before.

Do you remember? That first trip I didn't get invited on because you decided to pass judgment on me based on something someone else said. We stood in the creek, and you apologized profusely; saying that you couldn't believe that you had let someone else's words change your mind about inviting me--and my whole family. By then, it was too late for us to go, with my schedule, and everyone else's, except for one of my sons, who went to help you. With my blessing, remember? I looked forward to going the following year.

I didn't go, because my schedule again conflicted; but this year, I scheduled it off--well in advance. There's the rub. The thing I really wanted to talk to you about that day; the thing that really was bothering me. I thought I needed to apologize because I'd lied about why I couldn't go. It was a good lie, too--the really believable kind! Unless you look at the rest of my summer, that is, and what was in my head. I said I couldn't go because I'd be out of reach on my cell phone, and that work needed to be able to get in touch with me. While that's true enough, it's not why I didn't go. Also true is the fact that neither my sunglasses nor my glasses fit well with my bike helmet. Not being able to see well is a pretty good justification for not going. But that was not why I didn't go.

I didn't go because, in all honesty, two of the men on the trip give me the creeps, three of the men on the trip treat some of the kids in a way that I don't like--verbally (and there I go, not being completely honest--my kid and one other kid, who also was not sure about going on the trip, but did.), one of the men on the trip was far more insistent that I go than I felt comfortable with, one of the men was too much of a stranger to be any issue at all, and one of the men was my husband--the only one I really wanted to be on vacation with! (Yes, if you are doing the math, there are more men listed than were there--at least two of the men overlap categories.) Worst of all, I knew that, once again, I would not speak up and tell them to knock it off. Why? For fear of hurting your feelings. Yes, your feelings. I did not go on the trip because I was ashamed that your feelings meant more to me than those of children that I love.

Yet I realized that when I answered the phone, you had already decided that you were angry. You tried to tell me that I made you angry by "accusing" you. I passed on what had been told to me. You told me you were angry that I sounded happy when I answered the phone. Why shouldn't I?

I am happier than I have ever been in my life.

I'm sorry for thinking what we had was a 'friendship.' There's the apology. Over the past few days, I have thought about all the time we spent together, and realized it wasn't what it seemed. I won't go into that. Your anger at me is displaced. I did nothing. I was as surprised as anyone, and as confused. But I have moved on. Forward. I am living again, and rebuilding myself.

The fact that you've passed judgment on me based on something you heard -- twice -- does not make it okay for me to pass judgment based on something I heard. I'm not trying to justify my actions. For a day or two, I mourned the death of a friendship; until I realized it was all in my imagination, anyway.

Two recent pins have made me think of you: "Go ahead. Judge me. Just remember to be perfect the rest of your life." (qsprn.com) and "You become like the 5 people you spend the most time with. Choose carefully." (www.takethelidoff.blogspot.com) Think about that. I wish I'd seen the latter far sooner. I would have spent far less time and energy telling myself that our friendship was separate from your friendship with people who had nothing but unkind things to say about me, despite not having spent any time getting to know me. I won't make the same mistake again. I hope you don't, either.

Goodbye.


*If you are scratching your head about that, it's probably because you've only ever been able to "skip" backwards on a DVD. Your loss. Watching one's favorite shows in reverse once in a while, though bad for the tape, was great fun!

a great teacher

This morning, I woke to find news that a teacher of mine from High School had been murdered, outside his home. While I was shocked, I continued on with my morning as usual. At work, I told a co-worker, and after finding a news article online, emailed it to her, along with my thoughts at the moment.

I remember, I had space in my schedule, and decided to take some business classes, so I took accounting to fulfill a math requirement, and I took Intro to Marketing as an elective. How hard could it be? I thought, and I figured I would be circulating in a slightly different crowd than usual. Both thoughts were not entirely correct! The marketing information was fascinating to me--none of it was particularly difficult for me, but I ate it up: shrink wrap vs. clam shell packaging; the ratio of soda straw diameter to soda cup as figured by fast food chains; the relative hardness of seating in regard to turnover in a dining room.....all information that ultimately helped me in some of my college classes, though I remember sitting in that back corner of the room whining along with everyone else that it was fairly useless information. (I had a mad desire to fit in when I started that class.) As for the "new crowd," well, some of my friends must have had the same idea, as I don't remember meeting too many I didn't already know there. The teacher was Mr. Poet, and I loved class with him. He was not murdered.

He did, however, encourage any of us that were enjoying his class to join the school's Distributive Education Clubs of America (DECA), which he co-advised with a fairly new teacher, Mr. Keith Reed. Mr. Reed was, I discovered today, reading the news articles, only 6 years older than me. Yet he had the confident professionalism that made him both much older than that and ageless at the same time. And, yes, we all thought he was "cute." I remember even Mr. Poet mentioning it from time to time. I believe he was newly married at the time, and impressively aloof to our admiration. We didn't know anything about DECA, or what we were supposed to do as part of the club, but we would get to spend time with a fun, youthful teacher--and get out of school once in a while! What more could high school seniors ask for? Turns out, there was so much to learn--about business, about competition, and about life.

In DECA competition, Mr. Reed put me in the Supervisory Level competitions, even though I was terrified at the idea of playacting as a Manager. He said he knew that I had more brains than most of the judges, and that all I had to do was be myself and I'd do well. Nothing ever made me feel more confident in high school than his assurance, along with darn good scores at my first attempt at competition! I don't remember how many competitions we went to, although I do remember a hotel stay that was one of the best experiences of my Senior year. Sharing a room with three friends, all nervous about performing well and looking good in our business suits, was good prep for college dorm living! At competition, we would wait in chilly hallways for each other, and at awards, we'd eagerly await each other's scores, and graciously thank "Keith" (or "Keithage," as Jackie referred to him!) for his guidance, to which he would shake his head and say, "You can't call me that, you know." Eventually, it evolved into KEEEEEith! Since graduation, I have always thought of him as "KeithReed;" all one word.

When I'd have boyfriend troubles, he'd tell me to behave "professionally" and "with dignity" so that it wouldn't evolve into drama in my life. I learned so many life lessons from him. From him, I learned the value and importance of discretion, transparency, discernment. At the same time, I learned about teamwork in a work setting, and how it differs from, and is similar to, the teamwork necessary in sports. When Tanya and Jackie made it to National Competition, he encouraged us to be supportive of them, rather than jealous, promising to cheer for them on our behalf, which I have no doubt he did. At that same competition, I was being awarded a DEX scholarship from Johnson & Wales, where I would be going to college. Keith, my parents, and I (reluctantly! I wanted to go to NOLA!!) agreed that it made no sense for me to go on the trip just to accept the scholarship. Instead, Keith walked the stage to accept it for me while Jackie and Tanya cheered him on. Before I even knew what one was, he was my mentor.

I lost touch with him after graduation. (I left that September with the intent of never looking back. Another story for another time.) And with Mr. Poet. Though I have thought about the lessons, and the random information about marketing and merchandising floating in my head, and I frequently thank God that they were part of my development. Keith Reed will be missed by the students he was serving as Superintendent, those for whom he had been Principal, and by us, his early students, as well as by his family and friends. My prayers, and my tears, are for you today. I never could say it in the public school setting in which we knew each other: God bless you. Thank you for all you were, and for continuing to utilize the extraordinary gifts you had!

under a rock

"Plants and birds and rocks and things" (Dewey Bunnell)....these are the things that give life to my days. Waking in the early morning, before the sun rises, and hearing the birds wake and start to chirp. Sitting on the porch with my morning coffee, hearing the leaves scuttle across the road. Smelling the heady aroma of a Japanese iris while strolling through a beautifully landscaped garden. And rocks.

So many rocks are beautiful to look at--quartz and marble, diamonds and emeralds--but those are not the rocks we often find in our day to day. Oftentimes, the rocks we come across are in our way, or are deeply embedded in our path. Others tumble away when we stumble upon them. Worst of all, though, are the rocks with rot and decay hidden under them.

When I think of what is under a rock--worms, bugs, ants, wet, death and decay--I turn away. Although sometimes the view is fascinating, I usually resist the urge to lift a rock. Instead, I consider the beauty of the rock. The strength and support of the size and shape. And, more often than not, I stand on the rock.

That's where you'll find me--standing high on a rock, arms outstretched, the sun on my face and the wind in my hair, smiling and praising the universe, God, and nature. Feeling unabashed joy.

Me? Under a rock? Never.

princess

Once upon a time, there was a girl who was afraid of her own shadow. She kept to herself, escaping her own seclusion through books and playacting. Sometimes the characters were only shadows of herself, but more often, they were outlandish visions of what she hoped to one day be.

All along, she was picked on and bullied for being different, independent, alone. What she really was, was lonely, foreign, even in her own home. For a time, when she got older, she would pretend to have a boyfriend to snuggle with while watching television. She would never make up actual names for them, but would simply refer to them as "my guy." She even occasionally had arguments with her imaginary friends, in order to have some quality time alone. All in all, though, she dreamed of being swept off her feet and living happily ever after.

By and by, a man came along and tried to sweep her off her feet. He said all the right things....most of the time. He did all the right things, presented the right gifts, paid her the right compliments.....when he was in the mood to. In short, he broke her heart. And yet, deep down, she knew that he was not "her guy" at all; just a cheap imitation.

With a broken heart, but a new outlook--including a renewed interest in being outside of herself--she set off on a journey to discover what lie both inside her, and outside her world. What she discovered opened her eyes in more ways than she could count. First, broken hearts, when pieced back together, can be much stronger than they started. Friends could have substance--both physical and cerebral--that intrigued and interested her. The world is a frightening and exciting place, and should be embraced fully. Faith really can move mountains, and keep together the smallest of particles. Faith matters.

She discovered that people could let her down; but also that she was certainly capable of letting as many others down in her lifetime. No one is perfect. No one. No one. Everyone has secrets, pains, scars--even joys!--that they resist sharing for fear of judgement, recrimination, hatred, most of all, for fear of misunderstanding.

While still a girl on a quest of learning, she did meet "her guy" and was caught quite unawares by him. By his very existence. He was kind, sweet, loving. He had flaws, fears, scars. But he was more than just worthy, he was real. Real in the sense that he did more than simply exist; he lived his life, he laughed, he cried, he yelled. He loved, with all his heart, everything and everyone dear to him. In him, she saw what she hoped to see in 10...20...in 99 years. Every day.

They wed.

Happily ever after is something that takes time. And work. Lots of work--physical, mental and emotional work. There is no training for it. There is no barometer to compare one relationship to another, because the comparisons are superficial. Not one couple she met as she became a woman was willing to share their flaws in a personal way. She grew to believe it normal to blame another for problems, issues, stresses, for pain. She grew to believe that others did this because it was the right thing to do, whether it felt right or not. And it did not.

She began once again to withdraw. At first, it was a defense: she realized, somehow, that pushing the blame away, instead of embracing it, getting to know it, and changing it, was unhealthy--and very contagious. Her initial withdrawal was from the negative energy, but she found she had so little positive energy left within herself, that she wanted, needed, to retreat to her childhood world of books and imaginary characters; of aloneness (though not loneliness, she was never going back there if she could help it!). She didn't fit there. She was a woman now, and the world of "girl" was too limiting; too unknowing and unknowable.

Instead, she found a strength she did not realize she had developed. She watched her guy do battle, do his work, find his way. She watched him get lost from time to time, and offered direction when she could. And she remembered one of the most important lessons she had learned on her journey. Occasionally, paths diverge, and continue. Occasionally, one must walk alone, or run ahead, or lag behind. Occasionally, one must sit and ponder.

She walked ahead for the wrong reasons: she was frustrated. She told herself she was simply determined, but really, she wanted to forge on, no matter what. When she relented, and turned around, she found that all those around her had the same thought, but chose another path. She had a choice once again: to become lost herself, or to continue on the path she believed in. Others may judge her decision, but she knew, from all that she had learned, that most of those who judge have something of their own to hide, scars they are afraid of reopening, pain (or joy) too great to share willingly. For them, it is far easier to lash out, to try and open wounds that are long healed and forgotten.

Her heart held fast. Somehow, the edges of the old pain had created strong and supple bonds with the joy and happiness of the new found love and livelihood. She felt younger than her girlish self, and yet knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she was not in that alone place. She now had her guy, and most importantly, her faith--in goodness, in forgiveness, in Truth, and in herself.

She had become.

water under the bridge

Today was one of those "I really just feel like I need to cry, but I don't even know why" kind of days. Maybe it was the little bit of frustration from work; or maybe it was hormones; or maybe it was related to the torrents of rain falling....Possibly a combination of all, along with the underlying tiredness of this weekend's trip, and the subsequent "I still miss you, and now I miss them." To be honest, it doesn't much matter, does it? When those days happen, there's the choice that has to be made: do I keep busy enough to hold it off, or do I just give in and get it out of my system? Today I chose the former, although plenty of times I've gone with the latter, only to have the same result in the end: it's gone.

Whatever it was that was getting under my skin today is gone, and I've moved forward once again. And I didn't even fritter away the time on the computer, or doing nonsense things. (That's my other "usual" thing.) I filed some papers and wrote a check that have been waiting, bagged up some old shirts we won't be wearing any more (two big garbage bags! Good riddance!), did laundry, cleared off my dresser, fixed up my resume -- some things I've been putting off, and some that I'd normally rather put off!

When I think about it, though, I realize there is an edge to today's mood that had never been there before. There once was a time when I was that girl that could walk down the street without a care in the world. Lately, I've found myself looking over my shoulder when I'm alone, and the stress of it is grating on me. Last week, I actually ran from someone in the dark. Yesterday, I spent the morning in a strange city, and in the daylight, found myself checking my surroundings -- even when, for blocks, I saw no one at all, let alone following me. Both times, a friendly word soothed and comforted me (at night, a friend; yesterday, a stranger), but it bothers me that I have the feeling at all. It's getting to me, and the worst part is, I know exactly why.

A friend of mine Pinned this the other day: "Sometimes you have to burn a few bridges to keep the crazies from following you." Precisely. And laughter and love will save the day. Always.