a side note

Weirdly enough, after asking about my favorite thing in Israel, and then about the food, the next question is inevitably about my hair. How it figures into the story, I'm not quite sure, but I happily answer.

Yes, I am letting the natural color grow out. Yes, that white is my natural color. And really you want to know how long I've had grey hair? Well, the first streak was discovered on my first visit to a hairdresser (a friend of my Mom's) when I was in fourth grade. I could even show you about where it was, but I know no one is really that curious! Occasionally, there is a follow-up question of "why?" That answer is a little more complicated.

I started having my hair colored not long after becoming a mom. I always looked tired. Heck, I always was tired! A friend suggested that the few stray grey hairs may be exaggerating the overall effect of tired mom-ness. And, actually, she was right. I did feel better about myself when I could look in the mirror and see freshness. After a while, it just got to be fun to change my color with the seasons, with the cut, with fashion and for pure experimentation. I remember one day at the theater, sitting on the stage with the staff at lunchtime, and the statement made to me: "Admit it. When you change the color of your hair, you change -- your mood, your character, who you present to the world." It was true.

The hard fact is, though, it was easy to do because I really didn't know myself. Getting to know me was frightening, and letting anyone else know me even more so. As I've journeyed toward me, toward my place in my own life, I've come to appreciate me more. The me that's real and whole and genuine. I still liked getting my hair colored -- a little redder in the winter, a little blonder for the summer. But something began to change. Little by little people would mention my mood or my health at odd times, telling me I looked ill or angry when I felt distinctly the opposite. One day it occurred to me that for some, my roots showing indicated something unsaid. I would mention it from time to time "No, it's just my roots showing." I began to see who knew me and who didn't, because my friends could see the erroneous correlation; those who knew me less well insisted it couldn't possibly be true, because "I didn't know you even colored your hair!" (Seriously?? How could anyone miss it if they saw me more than a couple times a year?)

Slowly I realized that I was fighting with my roots more than was reasonable, and something that started out as a fun thing to make me feel more confident and healthy, more like myself, was doing just the opposite. I was heading toward being obsessive. Years earlier I had read an article by a woman who had decided to go natural. She said the process took quite a while. About a year, actually. I was intrigued, but knew my natural color was still not anywhere near even. It took me nearly two years to work up the courage to ask my husband and my hairdresser what they thought. I also sent an informal text poll to some friends. Overwhelmingly, the men I asked gave positive responses. Many of the women were leery of the idea. Some asked if the question was financially motivated. (At first, on the surface, yes; but on the most basic level, no.) Nevertheless, I decided I was going to go for it, but the question was, How?

So we made a plan, my hairdresser and I, and now people ask about my hair. Especially when we're talking about Israel. People are funny. And, in all honesty, I have never felt more free. A couple of people have mentioned that the color is flattering to my skin tone and my eyes. My response: "I figure since God put me together in the first place, the combination must be reasonably good." It's so much more than that. So much more.

avoiding myself

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

standing still

I've found myself at a standstill. Last week, I had this sense of.....what? I could only identify it as darkness, but that didn't seem quite right. Since I really didn't know what it was, I began to push against panic that darkness was going to descend, long before any darktime weather. I almost called a couple of friends to alert them; to have their warm thoughts shore me up. I resisted (and instead overdid social time, to the detriment of my psyche, and my belly). When I stopped to consider why this sense of something, I realized there was no darkness, only calm. The kind of calm and quiet that is palpable and strong enough to keep me in one place.

At one time, this kind of standstill would have pushed me to wonder why, or what I had done wrong, or not done, to be stuck when I had been moving right along (albeit slowly most of the time!). Today, though, seemed like an opportune time to turn around and look at where I've been, how far I've come. Each day on this journey, I've been reminded, in one way or another, how far I have yet to go. And how far I am behind where I could have been, had I made different turns and avoided some detours and unnecessary exits. (This latter part is always argued--without those fits and starts, I would not be who I am, and therefore could not be where I am now, which is right where I'm supposed to be. While I know this, the thought still creeps in on occasion, and must be pushed away or dealt with.) For the first time, looking back over the course, there is no feeling that I've missed something, or left something behind. I'm pleasantly surprised to see that I have actually covered quite a bit of ground! The place I left from is far in the distance, not just a step back, as I've sometimes feared.

This part of my journey has been moving toward, not away, and I can almost see the change in my stride at that transition. My steps may be slower, but they are surer, stronger and steadier. This view is breathtaking and humbling and uplifting, all at the same time. And I find myself grateful for the standstill; for the time to allow this all to sink in, to take root, to sprout wings. For the first time, I do not find myself resisting the inertia. And I wonder if past resistance has brought on the listlessness and dejection that I find in the darktime (which is still a long way off!); if perhaps there was more looking out I should have done, when the tendency was for me to look inward when the spinning of the world slows......

Should have done matters little. Outward I shall look, and use this glance behind as incentive to move ahead. If I can come this far, I can go this far again plus one step more, and then yet again this doubled distance plus one. And when it's time to move forward again--tonight, tomorrow, next week--I will be ready, willing, with eagerness anew. Into a sunrise.



"The price of anything is the amount of life you exchange for it."
~Henry David Thoreau
(thanks, Lee!)

know no know

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

You know more than you know.

You no more than you know.

You know more than you no.

Each is equally uncomfortable.

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

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

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

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

You know more than you know.

Tell me what it is.

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.

gentle reminders

My Miraculous Medal is missing. Again. I don't know when or where I was when I lost it. The medal was a gift--in so many more ways than one--and I feel a little lost without it now. The medal came on a bracelet (an unorthodox way to wear it, I know) and I remember sitting on the couch on Thursday evening thinking that I should tighten up the rings again. But I didn't. I figured I would do it over the weekend; Saturday after the swim meet, to be precise. I know the bracelet was intact on Friday morning when I put it on and at lunch when I took a walk to get my lunch from the fridge. Somehow I didn't notice the medal was missing until I was getting ready for bed.

To be perfectly honest, when I got the bracelet, I didn't know a whole lot about the Miraculous Medal. I knew it was beautiful, and I started wearing it. As I read 33 Days to Morning Glory, I began to understand the significance of the medal, and at one point, wondered if I was really getting anywhere in my faith journey, or if I was just going around in circles. That's the day I looked down and saw that the medal was missing the first time. I was at work, and nearly broke down in tears then and there. I was not positive I would be able to function for the rest of the day, retraced my steps, told a couple of coworkers that I had lost my Miraculous Medal, and was assured they would be on the lookout. Then I looked down and saw it, lying face up, at my feet, under my desk. I'm sure it was an answer, and I have moved forward with far less trepidation since.

Friday night, though, I did not panic. In fact, I felt a sense of calm--sadness, too, but not the debilitating pain I felt before. I'm looking for my medal, and have revisited the spots I went after work, will check around at the office tomorrow, but I have a very different feeling about it. My prayer to St. Anthony, the patron of Lost Things, is that it will be found, but my prayer to Mary is that it is found by someone who appreciates it, whether that be me or someone else. My life has been enriched through prayer--so much more than I thought possible--and that medal on my wrist has been a gentle reminder to me to pray. The habit is a bit more ingrained now than when I first started this phase of my journey, and the gentle reminders are all around me. If it's time for Miracles to happen, they will.

hang in there

I was told today -- twice -- that I am "probably intimidating." I found that to be very interesting, as that word did not come to mind when I was trying to quickly come up with a word that others would use to describe me; although it should have. I've been told many times that I am intimidating, but this was different.

To be honest, when I heard it the first time today, it bothered me a little. I felt like I'd been attacked. Okay, it bothered me a lot, and I had to repeatedly tell myself not to think about it. Which, of course, led me to think about it quite a bit this morning! By the time I was told the second time, by someone else, I was pretty amused by the 'coincidence.' And I also wondered if perhaps I had stumbled upon the source of the first instance.

I do intimidate. Not consciously, unless I have a reason to -- and sometimes I have had very good reasons to! The comment reminded me of a thread I was involved in a few days ago, involving a theme of "smart is sexy." While I've heard this (male) friend make this comment before, the company was different, and ultimately led to a discussion of teenage girls finding the need to 'hide' their intelligence from the world (not just from men, as possible mates, but from other women, too, all of whom might become 'intimidated.') The trouble is, I know stuff. Stuff stays in my head, bounces around a bit, and sooner or later bumps into something else up there to make a lively new idea. When those ideas get a bit crowded, or when the topic comes up, they spill out. Sometimes they pop out when the timing is weird, and I end up babbling on for a good long time to my unsuspecting husband and/or children about something they either don't care about or don't really need to know. Last night, I found my thoughts bouncing around and into a former bundle of 'choreographer' thoughts, and literally said to myself, "I wish I still taught dance. I could so use this." The bundle and the associated thoughts may or may not have trickled out with a stray tear; I don't know because I was on to the next filament.

Knowing stuff is one thing; sharing it is what leads to that intimidation trap. Why is that? Why are people intimidated by people who know stuff? I, for one, am fascinated by people who know things that I don't know -- especially when they are willing to share their knowledge. I'm like a sponge with information and knowledge. Most of the time it matters little to me if it's even anything I can use! I like to learn. I like to listen. I like to talk, too, sometimes. All my life I've been aware that if I don't talk, I probably won't intimidate, stand out, offend. Most of the time, I manage to keep quiet in unknown company. I'm really not very good at keeping quiet, though, especially when someone is trying to intimidate me or someone else.

While I don't like to tip my hand often, I also don't like people who try to throw their weight around through random facts. I step in, ask a question, offer a bit of my own knowledge. I'd like to say that most of the time the result is a more civil conversation or argument. However, that is far from the case. Purposefully verbal intimidators (aka: bullies) do not take well to anyone noticing their tricks, or showing their own knowledge. They don't like smarts, and they tend to really not like bright women.

I am not afraid to show my intelligence. I was about to say that I'm not sure what the turning point was for me, shifting from hiding my mind to speaking it, but then I realized that's not entirely true. I distinctly remember making the decision to lay it all on the line, to say just what I was thinking and just what I know to be true, and to ask the questions that would help to fill in the blanks. It was, interestingly, the day before the first time my husband said, "I love you." What I remember most about that day, that moment, is the shock that I felt: I'd been sure my self-assurance, confidence, and intelligence would be a major turn-off to this guy that I found so appealing. It was my first encounter with the idea that "smart is sexy." From time to time, he's told me that my mind intimidates him, too, but he's found (or continues to work on) the balance between frustration and admiration that is the key to our relationship. I work on it, too, all the time. He knows things that I have tried so hard to understand, too! Best of all, our conversations never bore me because of the mental sharing we do, along with the emotional sharing and the mundane, daily details. All of it is fed by our shared intelligence.

Do I intimidate everyone? By no means. In fact, one of the people who told me that I might be intimidating to someone also said, "I don't find you to be at all intimidating. And I don't mean to offend you by that. You just don't have it in you." She is, by the way, an extraordinarily intelligent woman herself. Perhaps, the biggest factor in who is intimidated by me is the fact that I am not easily visibly intimidated. I get all kinds of quivery inside -- often! -- with confrontation or a display of peacock feathers, but I find no reason to show it if I have facts and "right" on my side.

An interesting conglomerate of thoughts for the day, to say the least.

left arm/right words

Today, I'm feeling it. I'd like to say I don't know why, but I actually have a very clear idea what brought this on. What is "this," you ask? This is the raw, pulsating pain of old grief. For me, new grief was different from what I feel now -- when it was new, it struck at everything: the ticking of a clock, the warm smile of a friend, the memories, the realization of dreams dashed. It was also sudden and uncontrollable pain that caused tears that were explainable. Explainable because anyone who asked would understand where it was coming from; they could relate.

Key points: "anyone who asked" "they could relate"

Days like today, I feel more a need to hide it because most people don't seem to understand -- or want to. Time, and how it heals, is relative, and unless someone is willing to listen with the goal of understanding, their listening will not be a comfort to me. (Perhaps to someone else, because grief and its associated pains are very personal. Very personal, indeed.) Days like today, I wish I could ask advice of someone who is no longer here to enjoy a cup of coffee with the conversation. Not that I don't ask the advice; I do, and I get responses, too, whether you, as the reader, want to (or can) believe that or not. I do get responses. Sometimes they are very clear and concise, and sometimes they are, not surprisingly, much more Socratic in nature, playing to my more natural, questioning nature.

All my life, I've spent a good amount of my time alone either replaying conversations I've had or imagining conversations that I think should be. Some would call the former "dwelling" and some would call the latter "visualization," but in all honesty, it plays from my introversion. So many times I later realize exactly what it was that I wanted or needed to say, but, taken by surprise, I didn't. Replaying doesn't change anything about that interaction, but it does make me feel like I've had my say. Yesterday, I envisioned a conversation I'm really thinking is inevitable, and, actually, very important. In that case, I do need to practice my feelings more than my words, as it tends to be my emotional state that negatively impacts my vocalizations. I have questions that need answers; as much for myself as for those who need to answer. No, that's not true: the answers are probably more important for them than for me.

What I wish I could ask is this: will they answer. At all. Answering honestly is not at issue (I don't think that's possible, as it would change the past and the future). Is there a point in setting the table if it's likely no one will attend? That's the discussion I imagine we would have had. And the reason this brought on today's raw pulsing is not anything more profound than that I'd like a left arm hug after getting nowhere with the discussion. I could really use that. It would be the reassurance that I am me, the sum of my own parts. That I am not overlooked and ignored by those who mean something in my life, just by those who are insignificant in the end. Insignificant because they cannot even bring themselves to rise above.

Fortunately, I have a husband who understands that he cannot replace that hug with his own, but he can supplement with his heart open wide, and his shoulder to lean on when there are days like this. And I have a house full of boys who know my heart, because I wear it on my sleeve here (though not necessarily in public -- that would be too extroverted of me!) at home. They all know me, my moods and my tears, my grief and my joy, and just what it takes to light the spark of joy when I need it most. Even in my most pained moments, I know that I am both blessed and loved.

So, the conversation may or may not occur, and I know that, really, it doesn't matter one bit. I've said what I needed to say -- here in the forum of my kitchen, and, more importantly, in my heart. The rest is what it is.

#lifeisgood

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

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

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

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

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

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

re cal' cu lat ing

Sometimes the hardest decisions to make are the ones that at one time would have taken no thought. There's just something about walking a mile that makes all the difference. And the funny thing is, sometimes that mile feels like six, and sometimes walking it feels like just looking at the route on a map.

At one time, I made snap decisions, and liked the results, regardless of where they led. Of course, I was really just a kid then, and had fewer responsibilities. And really, only myself to worry about. Now, though, my children, my husband, even my friends sometimes, weigh on choices I make. Not that I ask around when it comes to big, important decisions; but still. These days, I prefer to not make decisions based on emotional responses. It might make me a little boring, but I prefer to be rational; to consider my past, present and future, my mental and physical health, my children's wants and needs, my relationship with my husband, and, to a slightly lesser extent, my friendships. (Because I have learned that while friends are necessary to sanity, they don't always follow the same route or like the scenery!)

Today, I made a decision that may have been life-changing, in that my reasons for it will require me to follow through with another change in direction. I asked for guidance, and two words came to mind, repeatedly. My only option is to go with them. I've already started the ball rolling, now to chase it down.

One mile at a time.

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.

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!

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.