scare the world

Goofing off, avoiding what I really want to do (and need to be doing) now that I feel better after a few days of being sick, I came across this. It struck me, because of how much I still sometimes fear being me. Not because I don't know who I am (which used to be the reason), but because of the reaction that typically follows.

Unfortunately, I think the "scare people" part is spot on. I scare people. I've never intended to. To be honest, I don't think they are actually afraid; I think they think they are because they don't know how else to define it. I make people uncomfortable. I'm an introvert who doesn't like to pretend. I can; I just don't like it, and I'm not very good at it. I don't like to talk about nothing, and I don't like to talk about people, and I don't like to talk about personal things (my own or others') with people I hardly know.

Bottom line: I'm a mom. I always have been, and I always will be. I have a job, but it's just a job to me, it's not a career. I suppose there's a possibility that there is plenty of time for a career for me, but in all honesty, being available for my kids -- and now my mom -- is far more important to me. When all of them got old enough to be alone for extended amounts of time, I was told that I would feel more gratified, more satisfied, happier, even, if I started working full time. Actually, the opposite is true. I feel far less appreciated, needed, capable now than I ever did as a stay at home mom. Both at home and in an office. Don't get me wrong; I like my job as much as anyone else. I just feel less connected to my family, and less able to finish anything that I start.

One day, I will be replaced at my job. It's inevitable, whether it's two months, two years, or two decades in the future. I will be replaced, and that is a good thing. Nothing can ever replace my family. More often than not, that's where I am in my thoughts when you see me; I'm with my family. Always. Or I'm praying -- that they know that I am not trying to find fulfillment somewhere else.

apart or a part

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

a tad sad

"Do you suffer from SAD?"

The question was asked by my oldest son after I told him that I had some Saturday chores to do, but wanted to get them all done before dark on a cold January weekend. An almost tongue in cheek question, but a subject he said had been discussed to some extent in one of his classes. As a matter of fact, a dear, dear friend of mine (who I have never seen nearly often enough!!) and I had talked quite a bit about SAD and its effects last winter. She is quite prone to it, and we often weighed the relative benefits of food, exercise, lights and the like in relieving the associated withering of the soul in winter--or at least what sometimes felt like that!

I told him, though, that I have come to believe that I suffer more from TAD--temperature affective disorder. [Not a real thing, as far as I know!] Although I bemoan the Darktime, I actually, in many ways, have always relished the introspection it promotes: time to curl up on the couch with a quilt and a good book, or learn and work on a new craft, bake to heat up the kitchen. What I really don't enjoy is the still constant pull of life on my Darktime. If I could just "hibernate," ball up and forget the outside world except for the occasional darktime walk to look at stars or Christmas lights, winter would still be my favorite season, as it had once been.

Instead, I have to get groceries, pick up and drop off for practices, rehearsals, matches, meets and games, attend volunteer meetings, and whatever else shows up on my calendar. Don't get me wrong; these are all things I normally enjoy (yes, even grocery shopping), but in the winter, they pose much more of a burden for me. For a long time, it was easiest to understand that this was due to the lack of light in the evenings, but, at that moment that he asked the question, I realized it's not just light. [The seed for this whole musing was planted on the first Sunday of Advent, with a homily about bringing light, and the Advent wreath, and the winter solstice. Quite a beautiful set of thoughts and explanations.....]

What gets me is the cold. The drafts in our old, old house. The tips of my toes being icy from the moment the sun sets until sometime in the night, in my sleep. The chill on my elbows as I type, no matter how many layers I wear, or where I situate myself in the house. I told my son that day that every winter, about this time, I start to think about moving to a nice, tight, draftless condo nearby, where we wouldn't have to worry about the yard or the outside maintenance any longer; but, more specifically, I would be warm in the winter. At least that's what I try to tell myself, until the thought of even considering packing and moving starts to get me depressed and overwhelmed!

Then I kind of laughed to myself, remembering a statement made at our family reunion when it was held in Arizona (a place I loved, and would, possibly, someday, be thrilled to live!): "It's a dry heat: like an oven!" You see, I don't think the cold I feel is entirely related to the draftiness or the outside temperature. I think, bottom line, the cold is related to the dark. It's a big, wide spiral, and as long as I can share my quilt--and my icicle toes--with someone I love, keep a sense of humor, and seek the joy on the edges of the longer and longer days with my family and friends, I'll be fine in the long run.

In the meantime, I think it's time for some baking.

truer words

Yesterday, I awoke with a pain in my soul, caused, in part, by a random and unusual outburst the night before. The pain took the form of doubt and fear, snaking through the recesses of my mind like Eden's serpent. As a result, I was more than just cranky from less sleep than I would have liked; I was downright bearlike, growling and snapping at everything. Not my finest day. The upside is that in trying to steer clear of everyone around me, I got quite a bit accomplished (turkey chili, turkey noodle soup, laundry, dishes), but, as I am never very good at steering clear, I also exploded occasionally at the boys.

When I got a text -- "My children serve tonight. Interested in Jojos or somethin'?" -- I cried. They were tears of ultimate frustration. Our children serve on different teams at Mass, and when either have Saturday night, we try to plan a get-together afterwards. These times are always refreshing, lighthearted, and fun. I was feeling none of these things, and couldn't even envision any kind of improvement in my mood for a very long time. Which I knew could only be the worst kind of self-fulfilling. At first, I simply ignored the message. I didn't even want to leave the house until I would be forced to, but I finally texted back that I was in the foulest of foul moods. I couldn't see myself being any kind of good company. But we had planned on going to Mass at 5:30, and I couldn't see depriving everyone of the multi-leveled refreshment. That would be far too selfish of me. If I couldn't shake it, I could always hide in the bathroom or something.

Twelve people (seven of them the kids and our niece), two bottles of wine, four pizzas (especially tasty last night!), Twitter, Facebook, a "gift jar/hat" and about two hours of conversation later, I felt like a new woman. Alive, loving, loved, renewed. Well worth the risk, as friendship usually is. We are truly blessed to consider each other family, as well as friends. Days like yesterday are when I realize how important that is.

I have a tendency, as many people do, I'm sure, to close myself in when I'm in a bad mood. I knew I should probably call someone, just to chat, but when I have that kind of ugliness behind my eyes, I figure I will likely say something ugly or regrettable. In the end, will my friends judge me for that? Probably not. And when I feel that way, like I don't even want to know myself, I always think later of who would have helped me through -- by chatting with me on the phone, or insisting that I drop everything and do something for my soul. Why do I close in so much? Why do I resist the very things that will help me to feel better, to melt the icy rock of acerbity? I wanted to do yoga: the general stretching, if nothing else, would have forced a little bit of balance. I kept finding excuses that I couldn't -- this floor still needed to be cleaned, the chili needed to be stirred, the laundry needed to be folded -- so I felt more and more off-kilter. I didn't even eat, really; a half a slice of pumpkin pie for breakfast, a banana after the grocery store, some turkey skin and some bits of bell pepper while preparing the chili. But there was so much irascibility in my belly that I didn't even notice an emptiness, until I taste-tested the turkey noodle soup. And then had another spoonful. And another.

By then, I had already had Jonathan call to let our friends know we would be joining them (I didn't trust myself even to text a positive response), and had changed (finally) out of the clothes I had slept in. As the soup nourished my body, it also fed my spirit, which began to reopen, to reawaken, to be relieved. Why hadn't I thought to eat earlier? The boys had invited me to lunch, and I refused, but now I realize joining them would likely have broken the mood. Then again, had I gone, I would not have been able to justify the evening out. In the end, it worked out for the best. I just wish the mood had not been there in the first place.

On the way home, I received another text: "I hope we cheered you up!" I was overwhelmed with thankfulness, and texted back simply: "Far more than I thought possible! Thank you! :)"

"...What wonders wine, pizza, and nonsense will do for a soul." My thoughts exactly.

on a dime

I just got a text from a friend asking about lunch this week. A wonderfully bright little moment in my day, and it reminded me of one more thing that's about to change. I'm going to be starting a new job soon that will be an exciting change in our lives, and our lifestyle. Since the call came, I have been alternately bouncing and deflating, culminating in quite a blowup last night. Change management is usually one of my specialties, but most of the time, I am focusing my energy on guiding someone else through the stressors associated with "new" stuff. As a result, I didn't even really recognize what was running around up there in the attic space of my head. (You know that space; where ideas, fears, memories, and the name of that person you just saw at the grocery store hide like mice and spiders so that you can't quite find them until all of a sudden, BAM!! In your face!!)

My current position has been "home" for a year and a half, but prior to that, I worked in much the same capacity, in almost the same chair, for four years. That's a bunch of roots. I love what I do, and if it had been a full-time position, or even half again the hours I have, I would never leave. The faculty and staff are amazing to work with, to chat with, and to grow around, and the kids, though they would balk at the idea, are equally great to be around. The thought no longer working with them is more than just sad; it's frightening, and in some cases, gut-wrenching. Overall, I try not to think about the "stuff" that I do (many a monkey could do most of it, just not with my style and finesse!); it's the faces, the smiles, the friendships that I keep seeing in my mind's eye.

On the flip side, in my new position, across the river, I'll be working with grown-ups, doing grown-up things and wearing grown-up clothes. And I know that without a doubt, I can still be my silly, goofball self, since that is exactly who they met in the interviews. I already enjoy the company of the team I'll be working with, having seen them "in action" one morning, and sharing emails and a couple of phone calls working out logistics. I'm excited about getting to know them while learning the details and intricacies of a three-inch training binder (an estimated six months to a year of training alone). Learning is one of the things that makes me thrive, and I am chomping at the bit to learn, learn, learn every day! I like being the resident expert, but it's just not a challenge. I like mountains, rocks, twists and turns. And it's a busy place! Sitting still, stagnating, is also very difficult for me. Gotta have something to do. When I think of all that, I get so excited and happy. Almost giddy. All this and a grown-up paycheck, to boot! Holy wow!

We've faced quite a bit of change in our family lately: a new school (and home!) for Jonathan, a new swim team for Guy and the boys, a new sport for Joseph, band and high school for Drew, a job for Henry, the list goes on and on, as these are just the biggies. Then there are the changes Guy and I have made in how we run the house, and how we relate to each other and the boys--all changes that were a long time coming, well thought out, and that have made a huge difference in our lives (WAY for the good, btw!). By the time we got to see Jonathan at Family Weekend this past weekend, I think I was pretty much changed out. I had prepared myself for the house without him, and had truly enjoyed his time home during fall break, but I had completely forgotten how quickly a place can become "home" and how strange it can be to share that with someone else; how glad I was, secretly, that Parents Weekend was over and I could get back to my life. Because I had allowed myself to overlook that (pertinent) little possibility of college life, when I saw it, I got slammed with all the other emotional stress I was able to completely put aside while we ate together, watched football, and at night visited and played cards with our friends while he had his own fun with his.

It bothered me, more than it should have, and more than I ordinarily would have let it, that sudden awareness that our visit was pretty much done. Probably I just hoped that the weekend would last longer so I wouldn't have to think about real-life things, like my resignation letter, the bus schedule, saying good bye, saying hello [Sometimes the fact that saying good bye means that there will be hellos is so stressful for me that I want to hide in a closet. I think that may have been a factor here.], moving along, moving forward, growing just a little bit more. I overreacted, which I knew immediately, so I was embarrassed about it, and tried to force myself not to cry. God only knows why; crying is one of those things I do, whether I want to or not, all. the. time. I think I tried to keep it in because, of all my boys, Jonathan is the only one who has ever told me that it makes him uncomfortable. The others just shake their heads at me, give me a quick hug, or, in Henry's case, out and out taunt me (makes me feel like one of the guys). Even though he wasn't in the car with us, looking back, I think that's part of it. At any rate, I was not being myself, which led, in a circuitous manner, and in conjunction with the other stuff shoved unceremoniously to the back of my mind, to a nasty flat tire on the road of relationship health, complete with tears, frustration, and a very late night.

A common occurrence? No, although not unheard of in our neck of the woods. Normal? Heck, yes. We are human, and living together in close quarters, with different pasts, combined with our shared life experiences, and a boatload of everything to think about! A lot of factors came together and made some fireworks. Show's over; move along.

So an invitation to lunch is another of the bittersweet....I love this friend with all my heart, but a job across the river will make the option of lunch together pretty tricky. Then again, I also know that the effort in making arrangements to purposefully spend time with someone dear to my heart makes life worthwhile. See you Thursday, sweetie!

toe the line

The other day, after changing my Facebook status, I got an IM that made me chuckle afterwards. The status was rather innocuous, and the exchange that followed, though it meant something to the two of us, would have meant very little to many others. What tickled my funny bone was the fact that it happened.

Before I started blogging, I would play with the words in my status very carefully in order to sum up my thoughts of the day succinctly, completely and, oftentimes, somewhat obscurely. Those who know me, and know me well, would probably either pick up on the "code" I was using, or realize there was something they'd "get" if they asked. (These days, I just blog it right out--still choosing my words carefully most of the time, but without the need to be succinct. Those who want to know, do.) I have dear, wonderful friends who would text me, email me, call, or even comment on my status. Many times, the association made would be off-base, by a little or a lot, but, to be perfectly honest, that doesn't matter to me. What matters is when my words touch someone.

Anyway, I have a friend I don't see often when it's not summer swimming time, and she will text or call to talk after seeing blogs that touch her in one way or another. To me, it always seems out of the blue, and that is, quite possibly, the best part. Her contact always serves to remind me that I need to push past my isolationism a bit more now and then, and reach out to my friends, too. The other day, another friend, who I've known for so long I really don't remember not knowing her, is the one who IM'd me. Not only did she know something was up, she knew exactly what was up, and we chatted. Both of these ladies are examples of just how friendship works.

Why did this make me chuckle? Because there have been people in my past (my recent past, unfortunately) that have had this mistaken idea that they know who I am based on my status updates, my Tweets, or even my blogs. Or think they should. These people inevitably had asked my husband just what my updates meant; what, exactly, was I trying to say, and why didn't I just say it? My husband, to his credit, would usually tell them that if they wanted to know, they should ask me. That is what a friend would do.

That is precisely what my friends do.

Over the summer, a very perceptive friend texted me in the middle of the night when I posted a status at a time of night that I don't usually post, one that made her wonder if I needed to talk. I did need to, and she was precisely the right person at the moment. Another friend emailed me from far away, just 'checking in' because of a word in my status. Others have laughed with me about the inside jokes hidden in the updates, knowing that the words will look completely different to anyone else who sees them. But the connection is the thing.

I pour my heart out on my blog, but really only the part of my heart that I am willing to pour. My friends, my household, and my dogs are the only ones who know the rest. Someday I may pour the rest out, but only when and because I want to. If there is something you think is missing; something that you don't understand, you have a choice: ask me, or make your own assumptions. Either one is fine with me, BUT choosing the latter does not give you any true knowledge of me. Perhaps the gaps are there intentionally -- because I need to talk, or because I just don't want to share -- and perhaps you've just missed the point.

What I've found, in a lifetime of reading, is that when words touch me, they are telling me something about me, not about the author, necessarily, and when I want to know if I have something in common with the author, I dig to find out. Most of the time, quite frankly, I'm more gratified by what I've learned about myself. I love the comments that I get on my blog (though they are few, and not all get published) because they show that I'm making a connection, and helping others to learn, or admit, what's in their own hearts -- the sorrow, the pain, the love, the joy, the promise. The ones that don't get published are only marginally related to the posts, perhaps by sharing just a word; they are not carefully worded or thought out in any way. Nor are they edited for spelling, punctuation, syntax. In actuality, they are posted spitefully, and with a sense of entitlement, and they are being viewed as evidence of harassment. I will not be bullied, in person or 'on paper,' today, or ever. Another sweet friend called this anonymous commenter a "dimwit" and asked how I liked that word. I think it fits. Hiding behind anonymity is cowardly -- especially when the veil is so thin.

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.

take your mark

I have the best life these days. I love it! For the first time since I can remember, I went to a swim meet, and not only enjoyed it, but looked forward to it! Since we are with a new team, I was not anticipating having anyone to sit with, which, in and of itself, would have been a treat. (I have mentioned how much I enjoy being alone, even in groups and crowds.) I go to the meets to see my kids swim, not so much to socialize. All I need is a clear view of my progeny, a book and a bottle of water. I double lucked out, though, because my dear, sweet husband directed me to a dad from our new team, who not only introduced me to his wife and another set of parents, but none of them minded that I talked a little, and read a lot. (Interestingly, the book I was reading is Quiet : The power of introverts in a world that can't stop talking, by Susan Cain -- my new hero!) I got to see my Joseph swim, and I watched their kids swim, too, without the need to critique everything, or make comments on who looked like what. I got to go to the meet and be a mom AND be myself -- the best combination ever!!

As a bonus, I get to see my husband in action. He shines when he talks to the kids before and after their events. His love of the sport is evident in the way he interacts with his fellow coaches, especially the ones he now works with. For the first time, in a very long time, he looks like himself on deck, and I couldn't be more proud.

There's another side to my joyful anticipation today: I am not working at a pool. Summer meets for the past few years have been trying for me, as I still felt like I was at work, even though it was someone else's pool. In the wintertime, I didn't quite have the same feeling, but I did find myself keeping a close eye on how the meets were running, since we hosted a major meet at the pool where I worked this summer; I knew what I was doing, and how I envisioned the meet, but I kept looking for that one thing that goes wrong that could have been avoided "if only." For the first time, I did not need to worry about that meet (the next time that meet will happen at that pool will be in seven years. No way will I still be there then!)

So, for the first time in a long time, I was quite relaxed going to a swim meet. No duties, no responsibilities, no worries. And on the way home, we stopped for fro-yo, chatted, laughed and rehashed. Just like the "old days" before swimming got stressful -- the days when we first met. I'm glad our boys are getting to know that man: the man that I married.

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.