an interesting combination

Over the weekend, I painted my bedroom. It was a long, three day weekend -- three glorious days in a row that I didn't have to work, plus the usual Friday afternoon I have off to almost make up for my usual 6-day workweek. I used every spare moment last week to prep the room, moving furniture away from walls, moving furniture out of the room, taping cracks, filling holes. Friday into the evening I sanded. The ladder and I circled the perimeter, getting intimately close with the walls that hold stories of all kinds. I love prepping a room for painting. I was already sore when the boys and I sat down to relax a bit at dinner time. Reaching and the consistent gentle pressure for sanding affecting my shoulders, my upper back, my hands. And I was delighted.

Saturday morning brought wall washing; another aspect to experience rather than simply get through. Changing the water halfway through, I considered the illusion of surfaces. Nothing could have indicated to me how just plain dirty the walls were when I was using nothing but my eyes to judge. There was no mistaking the black water I poured down the drain, the grit that remained in the bottom of the bucket until I rinsed and re-rinsed, filling it with fresh water and detergent. "I am that wall," I thought, happily, joyfully, I might add! Prepping, sanding, washing, painting, it's all like getting to know a friend, acknowledging the rough places, helping to smooth them over, but never meaning to eliminate or completely forget them. Making the cracks and holes bearable is a friend's responsibility, isn't it? Or at least helping them to be.

While I worked, I did talk to some friends; most via text, but one on the phone. As I relayed my plans for the room, beyond painting (I have some projects involving power tools in mind!), I was told, "You have talents. You should use them; show them off. I can see you on your own somewhere beautiful prepping, painting, and building beautiful things for people. It'd be great." It would be great. (My friend also mentioned being near water, which was interesting as there was no reason for this new friend to know this about me; that I am drawn to water, sand, islands.) That call made me smile for a good while. Some of the conversations led to tearful thinking; some to out and out sobbing. All of it was cleansing, refreshing, as much a renewal for my heart as my work was to the room.

Last week, during a break in prepping, I was asked about the color of the trim. "I never worry about that unless I have to," I said, which in reality is not entirely true. My bedroom has 5 doors and 3 windows, meaning there is a ridiculous amount of trim to consider. Truth be told, I had turned a blind eye to the trim, hoping against hope that the world could, too. It only took about three feet of painted wall to show me how imperative the trim work would be. Again I thought of the parallels: what we see and what we wish we see can only run next too each other for so long. Reality bites sometimes, and requires that we do the careful detail work, on our knees, sometimes holding our breath to be sure to get the bead just right. I trekked back to the paint store to get a nice glossy white. The friend who asked about the trim was right, of course, the trim makes the color pop even more, it pulls the room together, finishes the overall effect. Painting the baseboard requires the use of two brushes: both 1" and 1 1/2" sash brushes. My well-being requires the use of two types of prayer: speaking (1") and listening (1 1/2"). When I try to rush through with only one, the results are less than satisfying. There's more area that requires the larger brush. The edge, where the smaller brush is used, is more difficult, more painful and frightening to navigate. The way they work together to unify, though, is more than worth the effort. And in reality, it's not that hard -- and doesn't take that long. I have two walls of baseboard done, so I could move the larger pieces of furniture back in, and will work on the rest of the trim throughout the next week or so. It'll be a longer process than the walls, but that is as it should be.

Next, I will create plans for the bookcases and radiator cover, and figure out the best timing for purchasing and assembling. I have the paint, and I'm ready (and willing) to use it. The most exciting project I have planned is for the door, the details of which I must review a few more times. A sliding barn door made of wood and canvas, painted with some as yet unknown design....part of the reasoning behind this description of me, observed by my friend on the phone: "artsy, funny, pretty, detailed - an interesting combination." I'm looking forward to seeing where this life will take me; where God has me going. I'm finding more of myself, along with even more joy in sharing, although that can be so very painful. Spending time with the walls in my room, I was many times struck by the power of memories, and the force with which they will present themselves when necessary. Many of them, related to the time of year, were unpleasant, ugly, and had been hidden far below my seemingly clean surface. Some surprised me, others made me think "you again," but presented some different side or view to consider. All of them brought intense emotion; some a strong desire to act out. Instead I reached out, again and again. That's something new to me, and I was strangely surprised at how helpful it was. Even when the reaching out was repeated, in the same words, to the same person, more than once. Mercy is a beautiful thing.

My bedroom is painted, and like any good project (including myself), the work has just begun, and will continue for quite a while. I'm excited about the challenges and successes to come -- and even the bumps along the way. I know, without a doubt, that I am not alone, and never will be, even when I work in solitude.

vision of me

There are times in life when the varied pieces of experience and interest seem to be spread wide and messy, and completely unrelated. Looking at them, one wonders how they could truly be part of one creation, one whole. Without direction or diagram, focusing on only one piece at a time, trying to make sense of it on its own merit becomes habit. However, without the broader, fuller view, justice is not done to the parts cast aside and ignored, even temporarily.
There are many reasons one might sit back, take a deep breath, and shuffle things up to get a new perspective on what's already there, what may need to be added, enhanced, or really doesn't belong. Many of those reasons relate to a life change of some sort; a loss, a gain, a move, death of a loved one. In those cases, the reassessment has the danger of becoming frantic, impulsive, even compulsive.
Other reasons are more continuous; related to a legitimate desire to refine, to learn, to try to see the bigger picture. Occasions of clarity may give quick glimpses of the way A relates to Q, while leaving J, K and L a mysterious pile of unknown.
There comes a time when the romanticism of piecing things together fades away. The unfinished picture, the jumble of disjointed parts, begin to resemble nothing more than an abandoned canvas, a pile of glass shards; a half-hearted attempt at fine art. With the blessing of the right support, the relentless love of heart family, that pained vision's falsehood is revealed. Seeing truth is not necessarily less painful, but every burden shared is divided, lightened, and ultimately strengthens.
The truth of the pieces left over, scattered around, is difficult, if not impossible , to see alone, And while the help of dear friends, even professionals, is helpful, without God, what is revealed is incomplete. His vision of me is what matters most.

my favorite pants

Yesterday I sat down for lunch, crossed my ankle over my knee, and discovered that the lower edge of my pants was frayed. Not just frayed, but threads hanging frayed. My favorite pants. My. Favorite, Pants. I'd known they were not long for the Okay to Wear To Work category, as they were fading some, but with all the snow we'd had, and an appointment and a meeting after work, I needed something that would float between work and not work. Seeing the frayed edge made me a little sad, but I still had most of my day in them to go. I reminded myself they were my favorite pants, and pressed on.

Arriving home, I decided to peruse Amazon for the style and brand, hoping against hope that I could find them based on the mysterious numerical codes on the tag, since the original tag with the familiar name was long gone. Finding the tag, I noticed that the waistband was also a bit worn. In fact, all the seams were less than new looking. They looked like broken in, well-worn, very loved favorite pants. That I could wear on a weekend when I was feeling particularly casual.

And I realized I was looking at a metaphor.

Until I took a close look at them, my favorite pants looked fine. Not great, because they were clearly beginning to fade, but they looked fine. Fine enough to wear to work once a week (usually on Friday, my own personal business casual twist). But once I'd seen the truth - the frayed edge of the back of the left hem - I began to see the signs of something more going on. Each telltale spot of wear tugged at my heart in a very different way than some other areas of my life I've been seeing with new eyes. In the biblical context my therapist sometimes like to use, once the scales began to fall away, I've been seeing more than the simple cracks and bumps in my life. I've begun to see the true wear and tear, the dangerously close to breaking parts, the more than a little frayed. My favorite pants fit me. They function. The zipper and the button and hooks are all solidly in place and functional.

But I have to be honest and admit they do not work as dress clothes any longer.

I bought a new pair of pants today. They are similar, but not the same. (They do happen to be the same color, but that was a function of supply, not a matter of true choice.) They may or may not become my next favorite pair of pants. Slowly I will begin to disentangle myself from my attachment to these old pants, until eventually they sit in the bottom of my drawer, even more threadbare than I can imagine at the moment. And I will gratefully say goodbye. Until I looked at - really looked at - the seams and edges yesterday, I had no idea that I could have a 'relationship' with a pair of pants. In reality, that's not what this is; rather serving as a metaphor for a good and true relationship's life cycle. There are neat memories associated with these pants, from work things to personal things, from family events to meeting new friends. I felt good wearing them in part because nearly every time I wore them someone told me I looked nice - someone different just about every time; strangers sometimes. Saying goodbye to a friend is hard. Ending a relationship is painful. These are pants; it'll be much easier. But knowing that all of that wear was happening without my notice for the simple reason that I wasn't even considering looking is a reality check. I find myself in a bit of a life predicament, wondering why no one told me they were getting a bit tired. I've asked enough people that I trust to explain that to me as a life lesson. The response varies, but what it really comes down to is that with scales on my eyes, I couldn't have seen anyway; would not have accepted the idea.

I'm learning to trust more - to trust my instincts, to trust those who love me day after day. to trust the people to whom I choose to open my heart. I'm more selective than I've ever been before, and also more open. More me. My relationships and friendships are now what I want to see in my future, who I want to see there. More honest - like the new relationship I will have with my favorite pants, except the people I'm talking about may spend more time with m public than these old pants.

I just realized the metaphor in having a shopping buddy, like I did tonight. I have a group of friends that have informed me that they are the interview panel for certain levels of friendship. And they are a tough crew - individually and as a group. For that I am so very grateful. When taken at its very basic level, it's kind of like shopping for new pants. At one point, trying on the pants I ultimately bought, my shopping buddy simply said, "Let me see the waistband at the front?" At that moment, I realized that the hard question, the scrutiny that made me feel the most vulnerable, really was the key factor. I needed a shopping buddy to help with the decision I may not have even considered facing. I need my heart family to do the same.

behind the glass

This morning I woke wondering if there really is a point to my prayer, yet knowing there is. I said so in my prayer; mentioned both thoughts. Tried to wait for a response, but really felt a need to sit, quietly, pray and listen. Pulling into the parking lot, I found myself wishing I could find some silence inside, but I know there is no silence at that time of day in our church. Mass and construction at the same time. I sat behind glass, watching mass, fully aware that there was more than a metaphor in the moment.

Last week, sitting with my spiritual director, I talked about the edges of my soul feeling frayed, blurry. Bottom line, we were talking about a weakness, a slub in the fabric of my faith -- something that on another day might look beautiful; accidental, perhaps, but a natural part of the landscape of me. On that day, however, to me it looked and felt like a fault, like something I was missing, had broken, or worse, something I had shoved in haphazardly to hold up the rest temporarily and then forgotten about fixing.

I walked the classroom wing, forgetting there would be people there. My desire to be alone with God was being thwarted by the very One I was seeking. Yes, I know He was likely telling me to be with others; that community is the cure for this ache in my soul. But there is a keen feeling of distrust, unease -- related completely and totally to my own desire to focus at work. The fact is, I feel uncared for in some moments. Yet I have a network of those who do care -- deeply. I so rarely see them face to face. They are words on a screen, voices in my phone. They have no arms to wrap around me, no shoulders to lean on, no breath to feel on my hair, no fabric to catch my tears, no eyes to light up when we laugh or smile, no gaze to fall under as we pray together. As I thought all these things, I heard someone call to me, felt swept into a hug, no words were necessary; I realized I was fighting despair and had been sent an angel -- a friend who often surprises me by the very friendship.

After a very brief conversation, I took my coffee and stood outside the door, again looking at the Lord through glass, and wondered: If we had a chapel, could I take my coffee there and visit? Could I sit alone with God while sipping my coffee and really talking like I would with a friend in the early morning hours? Or can I only do that at home, or in the office at my desk in the dark? With my friends, I can go to public places and sit with coffee for hours. In these years of learning and growing in faith, I've come to know that I spent many years keeping God separate from my world. I've worked at breaking down that wall, that barrier to unity in my mind, heart and soul. When I hit publish on this post, I will have a few minutes and I'll go lay on the floor in front of Jesus. I have learned to find comfort there, to be comfortable (an imperfect word) in that place - the actual place of the floor in the church. But there are constraints that I still don't know -- are they actual, or contrived? Are they real, or my own hangups? I ask -- beg -- for answers because there is an emptiness that only God can fill, but if I can't pry the lid off, how will He ever get in?

limitless possibilities

The air in the room was thick with chocolate; as the door opened, the aroma emerged as a presence. Standing amid the display cases filled with delectable treats, she inhaled the atmosphere. "What do you want?" he asked her. Gazing through the glass, she was surprised by the question. Who had ever asked her this before? Had she ever heard the question?

Could she answer?

"What do you want? Pick something."

Her eyes lingered on the confections, deeply inhaling and imagining the flavor, the texture of each. "I can't bite this. I can't chew that." Aware of her aching jaw; the numbness in her gum and lip.

"I didn't ask what you can't have. I asked what you want to have. Choose something. Whatever you like." His insistence surprised her; brought to life something previously dormant. She looked around, narrowing her choices, almost watching herself from outside. Her mind's eye saw pieces fitting together: smell, sight, desire -- and a realization that she was about to be treated, "spoiled," indulged. Unused to the mix of feelings, she was about to, out of habit, allow the moment to pass with a murmured, "Nothing, thank you," when another voice interrupted her reverie. "Which are you getting?" the second voice asked.

"That one looks good," she said, sounding rather vague even to herself. He spoke again, "So one of those, and what else. Pick another." Suddenly she realized she quite literally was a kid in a candy store, and for a moment, all of it was hers. She could choose anything. She needed only to believe it possible. More definitively she said, "I'd like that, too." She watched in amazement as the treats were bagged and paid for, still unsure of their final destination. Her belief from a moment before flagged....but remembered; imprinted on her heart and nurtured when later she found the bag at her place at the table, the contents undisturbed, unadulterated.

And she began to feel alive.

dreambank

I had a dream I keep thinking about, wondering about. I keep wanting to ask, but I don't know who to ask. It's a very strong desire to understand -- much more so than the usual when I dream, so I wonder if the desire to understand is related to the meaning of the dream itself.

I was at an event. Something with many people, some of whom I knew casually, and some of whom I did not know at all. But there were also some people I knew very well -- a handful -- and each of them had asked specifically if I would be there, saying they wanted to talk with me, either to catch up after an absence, or to cover specific information. I was happy to be there (if you know me well, you know that alone is a tad odd), and looking forward to socializing, catching up, and discussing with my friends -- those who had asked for my presence. Consistently and repeatedly, these people were avoiding conversation with me in various ways. Sometimes they would approach me, stand with me, even hug me in greeting, but as soon as I spoke, they would walk away. Sometimes there was a direct, "Not now," spoken in lieu of greeting. I found myself confused, bewildered, hurt. 

I awoke profoundly affected, with a feeling of strong reality. I spent the day yesterday trying to convince myself that a dream is simply an unconscious way to let go of daytime woes, rather than a method of explaining problems that need to be addressed. Half the difficulty for me is the specific people involved. Most of the time when these people -- or any people -- appear in my dreams, I may see faces, but really they don't look into my eyes to speak to me. This time each one did just before they walked away from me, pointedly turning away from me to walk away.

There are some strong frustrations in my waking life at the moment. Working my way through them is not going as smoothly as I'd like, and in fact, I am actively avoiding speaking about some of them, because I don't know where to turn. Or maybe I don't want to. Maybe these people are the ones I need to address. Or perhaps they are the ones I'm trying to engage, but I shouldn't be. That last possibility is what has me most perplexed -- it keeps coming back to me, almost as if it's written on paper in front of me. (The blank paper from so long ago? I've been waiting for something to be written upon it...) Perplexing and a bit painful. These are people I've counted on, shared with, cried for.

Can a season end for an entire group at one time? Where else do I turn?

cut it out

Three weeks ago, I had oral surgery to remove wisdom teeth, an osteoma in my gum, and tori. I'm glad I was anesthetized. I am also incredibly grateful to my family and friends who have been so supportive and loving as I recover. Their prayers, laughter (especially at my expense from time to time!), quest for soft foods that taste good, and other acts of love, big and small, have touched me deeply. The occasional slurred speech and lisp, the continued numbness, the never-ending smoothies, the stitches still flopping around all get frustrating at times. I just want to eat something! And yet, I find myself grateful, too, for the entire experience.

This was my first surgery, ever; although it was my third experience with anesthesia. It was my second experience with strong pain meds, and the first time I prayed in thanksgiving consistently with each wave of pain. Seriously.

For reasons I can't get into right now because of the firestorm that would result, I had walled myself up and stopped feeling for a while. The pain in my mouth and jaw mirrored the feeling I have begun to allow my heart and soul lately. Sometimes a dull ache, and other times out and out pain; the burning of a nerve irritated by a clot and swelling, the mushy feeling of a lip, all are reminders that I am, indeed, alive and well, through and through. There are plenty of times I don't like it -- feeling, I mean. It's far easier to feel nothing, to ignore pain, anger, frustration. But to feel nothing is to not live fully. Without feeling there is also no room for love, forgiveness, joy, compassion. The numbness in my lip and chin makes for some crazy images in my own mind of how I must look: misshapen, unattractive, unlovable. Similar are the aural images I perceive. And yet, I look in the mirror, and listen again, or talk with those who have been with me over the past three weeks, and we agree: If you didn't know, you wouldn't know. It's my own perception, and what I allow myself to believe, to see, to hear.

Each day I thank God for the newness of the day, be it one more millimeter of feeling returned to my skin, gums, tongue, or the fact that everything feels just a little worse. I'm feeling. Whether I like it or not is not the point at all -- I asked to be able to feel again, in my heart and soul, but He knows I like metaphors. I picture Him smiling as He sits beside me, listening to my slurred and lispy prayer, trying not to touch the nerve that screams (softer now than a week ago, but still) at the slightest provocation. He smiles not because He's happy that it hurts, but because I am sitting with Him. I am asking Him to be with me, to feel with me, to be in my heart and in my jaw.

The irritation of the nerve is temporary, as is the soft diet: nine and about two months, respectively. Before the surgery, the doctor warned me about the nerve thing, saying that if it happened, it could be anywhere from a few weeks to permanent. There are times when I think that permanent is an easier thing to deal with, because then it is what it is, rather than frequent assessment (still there? Yep. gah.) Other times I can only think about the here and now -- namely the stitches that are loosening up and taking their own sweet time to fall out. Either way I am living and praying the moment.

And very grateful.

meant to be

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

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

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

Maybe. 

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

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

backleading....again

Today, while working on learning and getting comfortable with a tricky Foxtrot combination (though not beyond our skill level, we were repeatedly assured!), there were times when the steps, the motion, the fluidity just wasn't there. "I think that was me," I told my husband. "I'm not sure what I'm doing, but I think I'm off." Our instructor took my hand to lead me down the floor, and almost immediately told me (and everyone) that I was backleading; depending more on myself to get down the floor than on my partner. It's not a new problem or habit for me. In fact, it's rather familiar. Letting go a little made the combination flow better -- more fun and fluid for both of us.

I got back to the corner where we were starting our passes down the floor, and a classmate said, "It's all rather biblical." I agreed (it really, truly is) and took a quick stock of where I am, and why lately I've been feeling so 'independent' when we dance.

The truth is, how well I follow at dance class very closely corresponds to where I am in my heart and in my mind. And lately I've been working hard at mending, healing, becoming. And the road has not been smooth or easy. There's lots of skidding and jack-rabbit starts, lots of riding the brake, and wishing I could coast. I'm resisting, and although it seems to me that I'm the only one who could notice, it's glaringly obvious when I have a dance partner. This internal struggle, the fears related to it, and even the progress that I do see all combine to bind up some of the creativity that we are trying to unveil. Independence and resistance are more comfortable to me that I would like.

A couple of weeks ago, I was presented with an idea that is still radical to me: "You don't have to do this alone. You can, but it will take longer and will be harder. It's up to you." This was my therapist, encouraging me to seek out and trust further the people in my life that can help me to apply what I'm learning. Not only the skills, but the truth of who I am, in the eyes of others, and in the eyes of God. Almost immediately I shared the idea with a friend, and mulled it over. I don't have to do it alone. I can, but I don't have to. Realizing he was also talking about allowing God to work in my life didn't take long. Within hours of asking Him in, asking for continued guidance, support, help, little things began to happen that showed me who I could begin to lean on, to share with, the become with. Unexpected visits, encounters, messages each showed me the generous nature of God's love in my healing.

And yet I still resist some. A fearful, tearful meltdown on my kitchen floor. An emotional morning at work. A question of where I am on my journey. All related to resistance. "Just trust Him," I was told one night this week. I want to. I don't like to backlead. It takes the fun out of it, really, and removes a bit of the beauty and quite a bit of the magic. This week, when I did let go and trust, relaxing into the love of my Father, I was so truly blessed beyond my hopes and prayers. One would think that would be incentive enough to make leaning into that Love a habit, but fear and nerves prevail. Again. And I find myself dependent on me more than I intend.

The good thing is, I can feel that the dependence is ever so slightly less. I'm beginning, slowly, to see and feel a difference. In the meantime, I seem to wear my level of surrender in my dancing shoes, giving a barometer of my progress to my partner. Fortunately, he, too, is patient and kind.

three minutes

Opening my notebook tonight, planning to jot some things down for book club (Mere Christianity, by CS Lewis), I came across some other words I'd worked on a while ago. I remembered at the time being frustrated and disappointed with them, but could not recall whether I had ever shared them. At a meeting, an 'assignment' was given to write up a 3-minute version of our own faith story. I know I never delivered it at the next meeting, but thought I might have posted it. Poking around my blog posts to see, I learned quite a bit about myself. Earlier this evening, I had asked for some clarity in pinpointing a question or two I need to ask. The posts helped a bit.

Anyway, the words. The request was for three minutes on my faith journey, a conversion story. I found a post about my frustration with it (the elusive three). Here is what I finished with. (You could say, where I gave up.) Today, I find it to be spot on in describing where I'd been!

At one time, I thought faith was something we "got," probably at birth. Either we had it or we didn't. And if that was the case, I was very blessed, inheriting faithful attitudes from my parents and grandparents, and attending Catholic school for 8 years.

In reality, I was a faith trust fund brat, never learning about or internalizing what I was exposed to. Never learning how things worked--mostly because I was afraid asking questions would make me sound dumb. I squandered my faith by petitioning all the time, thanking occasionally, and rarely making any real effort.

One day, in the middle of a personal crisis, I realized I was down to my last faith dollar--and I really needed help. I took that last dollar, and told God I was giving it to him. I had nothing to lose. Thy will be done. His will. And I breathed and I laughed, and he told me to keep the dollar and invest it.

I prayed; for the first time I really prayed. I spoke, I listened. I laughed, and I began to ask questions; to look for answers. I started to get personal with God, to think of Jesus as a friend, to remember that the Holy Spirit was in me.

It's not always easy. I'm not always the most attentive friend.* But every day I start fresh, looking toward God, knowing that Jesus is the best kind of friend: the kind that is always looking out for me, always ready to listen, always offering a hand to guide me. Prayer and learning are my best investments in faith. I still have tons of questions, and some of them have answers someone else can give me. Quite a few, the ones that offer the most in return, are the ones that require deeper searching--in my heart, walking with the Lord. And I've never felt so rich.

*I forget. I get stuck. I get scared.

unmuddling my mind

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

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

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

Scared that I would find what I was looking for.

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

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

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

rocks and hard places

Looking out over the vista, grateful for the gifts of memory and review, I found myself excited to move forward, when the time was right. Not long after that post, there was a phone call, some earnest questions, the beginnings of some new life phases, and when I opened my eyes, I was surprised to see a pile of rocks and boulders in front of me. "Yep," I thought, "after that rest, it's time to climb. Thanks for the prep!" and up I scrambled.

First I picked my way around, hopping over the smaller rocks, and looking for footholds and handholds to make my way higher. Then I scrambled up the sloping rocks, and the boulders with flat spots, wondering just how high I would ultimately have to climb. Without warning, I've found myself in a crevice, and (having ignored some sage advice: "And when you want to go explore / The number you should have is 4) without a hand or a rope to pull me out.

It's given me time to think. (No need to panic. I'll find my way out; I'm sure of it.) What I realized is that despite how far I've come, something has not changed. Once again, the first thing I did was decide what I needed to do. In and of itself, this is not entirely bad. However, when courses of action are not even considered--let alone tossed aside as infeasible--things may not turn out as intended. I'm pretty sure, now that I'm heading on toward frustrated, that there were other very reasonable options.

It's entirely possible that I was supposed to choose a rock to carry, or that I was to move some of the rocks out of the way. It's also quite possible that I was looking at a rock waiting to be chiseled and molded into something else, some beautiful figure that only my eyes could have seen under the smooth, round surface. Or that someone else may have been stuck in the rocks, and I should have listened for their cries for help.

It's possible I was being invited to sit and watch more of the view developing.

I need to work on moving past my dependence on myself and myself alone. I thought I had. I forgot that moving forward does not mean forgetting what was behind; leaving missteps off the map. The good is in the journey. I have always believed that, but have often, in my full-steam ahead, missed the forest for the trees.

To dig or to jump or to wait. Something to think about.

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!)

paper and pencil

I find myself looking at blank piece of paper. When I realized it, I almost laughed out loud, but had to contain myself in that moment. Instead, I laughed right out loud in my soul, expanding the very walls of my being. The laughter, and the paper, cleared some cobwebs from my mind, and pushed away some anxiety that has been lurking in the corners of my heart, constricting it and keeping me from opening the windows of my self wide to allow the gentle breezes of joy and mercy to blow freely in.

This paper may or may not be the one that haunted me as I asked for answers a few months ago. It's quite possible that it is the answer I was seeking; but it is equally possible that this is one more challenge to face, embrace, and ultimately use as a stepping stone on my journey. This paper is literal, where the other was a vision in my periphery: a frustration borne of trying a wee bit too hard to see what I should wait patiently to discover. This paper honestly paralyzed me for a moment when I saw it, lying on the table in front of me where I had dropped it. How can a piece of paper have this effect? Essay questions. Short answers. About me. About my journey, my hopes, my self.

The thought of answering them was almost a deal-breaker. For about 20 seconds. Then I recognized the anxiety--the No--that had stopped me from taking so many steps that should have been easy when taken with trust. I realized in that moment--well, after the 20 seconds, anyway--that trust is what had been missing so many times when all I needed to do was say Yes.

Tonight, I changed the question, and only just realized it. Once again, that seems to be the key. (I believe Merton said as much somewhere in No Man Is an Island!) Where I had been asking, "What is the answer?" I today asked, "Please, help me with the answers. Guide my hand in writing the words. I am just your little pencil.*" That's when I realized, when my soul laughed, when I saw smiles in front of me, and a nodding head.

I have come to a new place. And recognized it for the beauty, and for the miracle that discovery is.

*Mother Theresa described herself as "God's little pencil." I fell in love with the metaphor!

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.

quo vadis

I'm lost. Rather, I am stalled. I am sitting on the shoulder, map open, windows down, radio off, wondering why.

And yet there is nothing distressing or upsetting about it. I'm okay with waiting here for the traffic to clear, for the skies to brighten, for the moment to be right.

Although the map is open on my lap, I find  myself looking back at where I've been more than looking ahead. And I suspect that is part of the reason for the standstill. It's a simple rule of safety: watch where you're going. Clearly, my looking backward is indicative of a need to find something I've left behind--or to realize where I should have left something.

I'm sure there's something to this, and I'm sure I'll be on my way again before too long. I've no need to seek a detour this time. I know the wheels will turn again, or my legs will take up the journey. Either way, I'll get there.

In the meantime, I'll enjoy the view, the weather, the fleeting thoughts, the breeze in my hair. Fortunately, I'm not on my own; never on my own.

from one hermit to another

Frequently, my Minute Meditation is just that: minute, and by that I mean that I know I am not associating enough significance to it. I read, I nod, I blink twice, and I move on. More and more often lately, I've been going back to read it again after lunch. The second time through seems to sink in just a bit more. Today I had a different experience. By lunchtime today, I had completely forgotten what the meditation had been. I remembered reading it, but (perhaps because I was a little off-kilter from weird sleep last night) I could not recall anything about it when I returned from lunch.

During my lunch, I was reading a bit of my Thomas Merton book* about signs (or lack thereof), intention, and will. I've been having quite a yo-yo experience in this section on Pure Intention, and have been wondering about direction and discernment. The first part of what I read at noontime was about seeing the signs, recognizing them as signs, and the fact that the sign is not the end; merely an indicator of a direction. A suggestion, in some cases, rather than a conclusion. I had mixed feelings about this, but it was clear to me that this was an essay I could ponder deeply. Merton was speaking directly to me, and clarifying, somewhat, the complicated topic of God's will versus man's will--my will, in particular. What really got me, after being drawn in by analogies I could relate to, were the gems that followed. "He does not need our sacrifices, He asks for our selves." "...what God wants of me is myself." "And that is why the will of God so often manifests itself in demands that I sacrifice myself. Why? Because in order to find my true self in Christ, I must go beyond the limits of my own narrow egoism." and most moving for me:

"God's will for us is not only that we should be the persons He means us to be, but that we should share in His work of creation and help Him to make us into the persons He means us to be. Always, and in all things, God's will for me is that I should shape my own destiny, work out my own salvation, forge my own eternal happiness, in the way He has planned it for me. And since no man is an island, since we all depend on one another, I cannot work out God's will in my own life unless I also consciously help other men to work out His will in theirs." (p. 63-64)

While reading (crying) and contemplating these words, my phone dinged a message. I waited while everything sank in and settled in my mind and heart, then took a look at the message. It was from Daily Catholic Quotes, and read, "God gave Himself to you; give yourself to God" (Blessed Robert Southwell). I couldn't help but connect the quote (and the timing of the pushed email) to Merton's words. Then something made me stop and wonder how many threads were weaving through my day. I went back to my meditation from this morning and re-read this: "...there is only one way to go to the father: the fulfillment of His holy will!"

Merton has cautioned me against putting too much interpretation of signs, but has also taught me to recognize them when they appear. I've stopped asking to be hit over the head with signs and signals, because I have come to realize that doesn't fit me--the me I was made to be. But this seemed pretty clear to me. See, yesterday I spent the afternoon with some fellow parishioners on a pilgrimage to the oldest stone church in North America. I knew or recognized most everyone there, either from Mass or from other social events, though many I had never spoken with. Together we marvelled at the splendor of this beautiful place dedicated to the Sacred Heart, in the middle of farmland. We admired artwork and builders' skill; laughed at some corny jokes; and learned quite a bit about a particular church, the Church, and American history. We took pictures, chatted, become a little more united in our shared faith.

Later, recalling the day, I laughed right out loud. There's a bit of irony that reveals a bit about how far I have come on my journey. Twice at the chapel I used the metaphor of a milkweed pod, growing and about to burst forth. Both times I was referring to the parish family. It wasn't until my laugh out loud moment that I realized I was really talking about myself. Here's the thing: when we joined the parish, I was happy to be smiled and nodded at, but to be a face in the crowd; one of many. When we bought a house outside the parish boundaries, we stayed on as members because we didn't want to belong to a church in the neighborhood, where the kids' classmates would attend, the neighbors; we didn't want to see the same people day in and day out. Almost twenty years later, I can't get enough of the people I've met at our church out of town. Where I once felt that I just needed a building to go to where I could listen and choose my own level of participation, I now find myself participating in ways I never thought I would consider. I am the seed pod. I feel myself ready to split at the seams, waiting for just the right moment, the right conditions, the perfect breeze to carry my joy farther than I can even imagine. I no longer consider myself a face in the crowd; rather, I am one of many making up one body of faith.

Both the pod, and a single seed.


*No Man Is an Island--Book Club at church on June 25!

water water everywhere

In the shower this morning, while washing my hair, I was thinking about how sometimes I feel as though I am drifting on this journey. My very next thought was that I have many of my best thoughts in the shower; it's a good thinking place, and I've had a number of friends tell me the same, so it's likely that you, too, have had this experience. (Some of my niftiest tap combinations were born in the shower, although by necessity, were tested elsewhere!) Knowing that these are the thoughts that often mean something important, I went back to the feeling of drifting. And then I thought, "Wait a minute! How can I feel like I'm drifting?"

Here's the odd thing: when I consider my journey (previously, my life journey, and more recently my faith life journey), I always see it as a road or a path. Something to be travelled on foot, and occasionally in a car, though how the car gets from where I leave it to where I need it again, I have no idea whatsoever! From time to time, the path is actually a rocky hill or mountain that I have to pick through carefully, or scale with tenacity. Now and then, there is a nice diversion--a hot air balloon from which to get a nice overall view of where I've been and where it looks like I might be headed (mostly looking back, though. Usually there is mist in the forward, and that is quite alright.), or a tree to rest under or perch in to see what and who might pass by.

I took myself back to the drifting feeling, wondering why I chose that word, and recognized the gently rock and sway of a boat or kayak with no direction or propulsion. The word was accurately describing the moment (it's a good drifting, the kind that feels peaceful, restful, a respite) and I welcomed the awareness. Next thing I knew, I was shaking my head because I was seeing a road, a path--a riverbank! I was really in the same place, going in a direction, with the current. A river is a road in many respects. I knew this from history classes, but had never applied it (like too many things) to my own life.

Last weekend, gazing out at the Atlantic and at the Bay, I felt an amazing sense of freedom, as I always do at wide expanses of sea. I wondered why. What the magnetism comes from. I've heard many theories, ranging from the pull of the moon that makes the tides, to the salt to water ratio in the sea being similar to that of our bodies. This morning, I realized in my quick succession of thoughts, that for me, the attraction is the lack of forced direction. There are no sides, no defining edges, as a road has, a path, or even a stream. (Now that I think about it, I'm attracted to mud puddles for the same reason, so it's not just the salt water, as I often thought!) On my way into work, I saw a quote that made me think about last weekend. I'd seen it before, and when I read it, I thought it was an answer to my question about the attraction: "The cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears or the sea." (Isak Dinesen)

Throughout the day, as I pondered the connections, the threads that would tie all these thoughts together, I realized the beginning of my real answer lies in the borders, or limits, I put on myself, keeping to the path. Even in my contented drifting, I am fearful of straying from what I know. It's not that I don't take chances, or try new things; it's just that I like to know that there is a safety net. If I am really going to reconcile the two sides of my life into one 'real' life, I need to be true to myself in all things, including my journey. I have to be willing--eager even!--to see the wide open possibilities of faith. Trust that the path I follow doesn't just end at the shoreline, or follow its edge, but may--no, will go directly across the ocean from time to time. I need to look directly into the eyes of Love and take one step, and then another. I need to feel in my soul what I feel when I stand on the shore.

Faith, hope and love, and I'm working on all three.

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.

face, embrace, release

I stained a door today. More precisely, I stained half a door today. We bought the door (a bi-fold) a few months ago (before Easter) to replace the closet door in our bathroom. Since we brought it home, it has stood in our dining room, where I (we, and anyone else who came in the house!) could see it. I knew that if we put it out of sight, it would never get stained. Never get installed. Then swim team practice started up again, and I had nearly given up hope of ever getting it done.

Weeks ago, I had gone to get the stain and other materials needed, intending to--or rather, determined to--get the staining portion done while my husband was out of town college visiting with our son. Something got in the way--likely weather, possibly time, probably something else entirely--and here the door stood, waiting. Last week, texting with a dear friend, I finally came to the bottom of my hesitation. Her husband is the ultimate Mr. Fixit-DoItHimselfer. She told me that every family needs someone like him, and I told her, "That was my dad."

That's what it came down to: Dad would have had it done in no time, and I would have been amazed and impressed. After seeing how quickly I finished what I did today, even with the drying time between coats, I can see why he was always so modest about that kind of stuff. After I finished the second coat on the first side of the door, I found myself thinking, "Well, that was easy enough!"

Truth be told, I was hoping I wouldn't be the one staining the door. I took Mom this morning to meet up with my sister, who then took Mom up to her house for the weekend. Guy had swim team and lessons. Both of us were scheduled to be back home at nearly the same time this afternoon. The deal was, whoever got home first would work on the door. It wasn't until I pulled in the driveway that I realized that taking my lunch to go at Subway was my mistake! I had no choice but to get changed, and get started. Why it all seemed so daunting is difficult to explain; mostly because the reasons are not what most people see in me. I had read the directions again and again--at least four times in the store alone! And this was not even the first time I'd stained something. Grammy and Grampy's kitchen table and chairs had come out pretty well, but that had been about fifteen years ago. And somewhere in the intervening years, I had been reintroduced to some serious feelings of inadequacy and sadness. That's what I realized in the conversation with my friend: I needed to face those feelings once and for all.

Last summer, on a particularly bad day, I asked another friend a question about dealing with a problem. He told me to Face it, Embrace it, and Let It Go. I will never forget that. It was a real turning point for me, and has become quite a motto in almost everything I do. It'll take more than just a door to expel the demons from my past, but one small step is all it takes to begin a journey--or to continue on. In the Faith Matters group at church, we've been working through a personal retreat on Consoling the Heart of Jesus, and talking quite a bit about Mercy, and Love. I've learned that loving others is not enough; I need to face and embrace everything about myself, too; the good, the bad, and everything in between. The stuff from my adult life, I've been able to look at (fairly) clearly. It's the stuff from long ago that sometimes bubbles up, and then gets pressed back down by the parts of me that have not been ready to face them. Nothing is major, really, in the grand scheme of things, but I'm positive that at least some of it would help the boys tremendously if I could reveal it to myself enough to share with them.

Tomorrow I will finish staining the door, and hopefully by Monday night, we'll have a beautiful new door for the bathroom closet. And I will have vanquished at least one of the dark shadows in my mind.