cookie dough philosophy

Yesterday I made cookies. I was somewhere through the creaming and adding when I was filled with something that made me stop and wonder just what I was feeling. Looking into the bowl of thick, gloppy stuff, I realized it was some combination of peace and hope and memory. Gratitude.

Not long ago it was fairly frequent that I figured a bowl of cookie dough and a glass of whiskey made a really tasty and reasonable supper. They were nights I hadn't fully prepared for, nights that were regular and predictable, but would still sneak up on me every week. Every week, I judged myself. Some weeks I made cookie dough. I was very blessed in that time to have two people in particular who would simply sit with me, without judgment of any kind, and share cookie dough. One would also share whiskey. Both would let me talk if I needed to, or sit quietly and eat. Or we would watch something on Netflix to make us laugh or cry.

The gratitude I felt yesterday was related to all of those things. And because that time is behind me. And for the memory itself. I'm grateful that I have dear friends who know my heart - not simply because they do, but also because they are willing to listen to me, to look at me and into me. To play "worst case" with me, and also to talk about far-fetched dreams that really mean something else I'm truly aiming for.

Once upon a time, I thought I had hope, that I knew what hope was, is. The other day, emailing a friend, I said that I felt something I couldn't quite define, but it was small, deep, and good. I liked it. In the course of describing it, I realized what I was feeling was real, honest to goodness hope. It's smaller than I pictured it, but stronger, in a nebulous and changing kind of way. Where I'd thought hope was supposed to be something grand and visible to everyone around me, I discovered this hope is mine and mine alone. This hope is attached to the dreams I have that develop into goals - goals that are changeable, malleable, flexible, and even discardable. This hope feeds my soul, rather than my judgment. I spent a whole lot of my life thinking that a goal was permanent; once it was set, it had to be attained, or failure was the result. I never knew there were other options - modifying goals, maybe (but only to make them harder to reach), but scrapping them? Never. Hope, I'm discovering, is related to true humility - seeing yourself for who and what you really are. Knowing, acknowledging gifts and flaws, and working to improve both. I think hope is what feeds that growth.

this hope is what came from those cookie dough and whiskey nights. It's what had me washing those dishes the next morning, and making it through another week. It's what's pulled me away from that self-judgment zone; or rather, is pulling me away, as I still run into it more often than I'd like. It's what brings me peace when the unavoidable "unpleasantries" crop up, as they do almost daily. Because it's always there. The Big Hope I thought was so definitive seemed easier to lose, to have to look for and work for. That hope left me feeling hopeless, and therefore like a failure in some ways for having lost it or let it go. This new hope, this small nugget of reality, is with me regardless of what I see in front of me. Quite often it peeks around my shoulder and looks at me without saying a word until I realize its presence and smile. Like the best of friends, like a lover. This hope stands by me in the pain and hurt, and in the good times, too. This hope says, "yep, that'll be fun, if we get there" without ever saying "that's impossible." Sometimes it does ask "is that really what you want?" And sometimes my response is "yes, it is what I want, even though I am fully aware that it's not what I need, or maybe even not what's best for me, but for today, it's what I want to dream about and wish for." And there's no guilt in the wishing. This hope laughs with me and cries with me, and showed me how far I've come - with a bowl of cookie dough.

I have miles to go. And I'm looking forward to every one of them: steep and rocky, rough and uncharted, smooth and freshly paved, fast, slow, and in between. I have hope as a companion.

open doors

Many times in life we find ourselves in a place we didn't expect to be. Sometimes the surprise is quite pleasant; other times, especially painful. Unfortunately, some of us, many of us, perhaps even all of us at one point or another, see others in their places and try to imagine ourselves there, saying "I could never..." "I wouldn't want to...." "How does one survive...." The thing is, could and will, want to and have to, are so closely related they are indistinguishable in real life. Survive is a misnomer. Much relies on mindset, and support. I never would have imagined myself a single mother with no job at the age of 47, and if I had, I certainly wouldn't have considered using words like "free," "happy," "loved" to describe myself. And yet, that's where I am. My household is preparing for all possibilities, which means being open and honest with each other - something new to all of us. For the first time in my life I'm not hiding some part of my feelings, some chamber of my heart. We're sharing appropriately, which is also new (and sounds really, really odd in writing!) and so very refreshing!

Last week my therapist and I talked about the surprises that have come along, like the support of those around me - even people I didn't know 6 months ago. Some of it is luck; I happened into them, and they are who they are. But some of that luck was made, too, in that I have learned about opening up, blossoming, and the proper conditions for it. In blossoming, the surrounding beauty becomes clearer. I have an inner circle, a core group of friends who have stood by me through what I thought was insurmountable, and now share in my hopefulness, because this latest place also is only the mountain I make it. This group of friends is no longer a surprise to me, although they once were. I'm blessed by the fact that they have never been anything but real, themselves, thereby teaching me ever so gently to be me. Truly me. Being wholly me allows the surprises to be waves to ride, rather than tidal forces that overwhelm. Together, in many different ways, we look at each other and say, "That was a good one!" or "What a dud." It's marvelous.

One day, not long ago (and yet a lifetime of experience ago) I was chatting with someone about karma, and that it always does catch up. It was a painful day, and I was bumping up against less than charitable thoughts. "The trouble with karma being eventual is that then I don't get to see it in action and today I just want to know that it'll suck." We laughed, because we both knew I didn't really mean it that way, and I was then able to let the pain of the day go; to release it to God and His timing. A week or so ago while at the gym, I was struck that there may be those who wish me ill will, see my 'current situation' and think "Karma." I smiled - may have even laughed out loud - and thought, "I hope so!" Why? Because I am a sum of all I've done and experienced. I am not a difference, but I can - and have - make one, and will continue to do so. Perhaps in a different way or place, but I am not done yet. I may not be here by my own accord, but I am able to be here because I have grown, learned, loved, prayed, cried, pushed, fought, rejoiced, taught, failed, and succeeded.

Where is 'here'? In the very middle of hope. My anchor is secure - in fact, more secure now than a month ago, or a year. "Let him in the damn boat," my spiritual director told me many months ago. Pull up anchor. Let go. Be content. Know your worth (more than many sparrows). Toot your own horn. Home is where the heart is. Home. A home filled with hope. A home that is Love.

free my heart

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

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

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

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

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

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

untitled

I've avoided writing anything for a while, the biggest reason being it's often my favorite way to pray. Those who know me well know that God and I have been having a bit of a tiff. Or a standoff. He keeps reaching out to me, as He does always, while I've been trying to avoid noticing. In some important aspects of my life I've been discouraged from sharing that fact. But the fact is, the more I hide it, the stronger the resistance gets. That's not what God intends, from what I was beginning to understand. God intended for us to live in community, not in isolation. Keeping this to myself isolates me, increasing my doubt, my feelings of inadequacy, my fear. Be not afraid, He tells us in the bible 365 times (or so I'm told) - once for every day of the year.

I won't be afraid.

This afternoon I listened to some very compelling words about the importance of two parents, a strong marriage between parents, being a very determining factor in faith. There was a lot more to it than that -- a LOT -- but that's the part that stung, A few weeks ago I heard a homily along a similar line, and it hit me so hard I actually looked up bishops and saints who had single or divorced mothers. I discovered that day that St Helen is the patron Saint of divorced women. That was shortly before or after the day I had to get up and leave Mass because of a reading directing not to feel fear after I'd spent weeks coming to the understanding that 'BE not afraid' could very reasonably mean not to LIVE in fear -- feel it when it comes, acknowledge it, and let it go. I digress....

Today's words stirred a similar flight response, but not as strong, and I consciously made the decision to stay put and see where this ride would take me. To say that staying was difficult is an understatement. Sheer determination kept me there. And a need to understand. As I listened, I felt the resentment that has tried to take root tickle at the edge of my faith. I got angry, really angry, and prayed a simple "speak to me." The truth is, not talking, being isolated from my pain, frustration, confusion, anger, all of it has been wearing at my faith more than the actual events related to the end of my marriage. By allowing the direction of "don't talk about it" to be 'true' (for want of a better word) I'm left to deal on my own with not only the straightforward legal aspects, but I've also been forced to ignore how my faith might be affected. Has been eroded. Quite frankly down to nearly nothing. The fact is, I needed prayer. Still do. I needed sympathy. Still do. I needed to be able to say I was having a difficult day. I needed to be able to say that I was feeling good for the moment, but that could change with a word, a look, a tick of the clock. No one can understand what any of that means unless they've been through it, and honestly, that's the reason I was discouraged from sharing, I'd wager.

One consequence of that 'advice' is that I was made to feel unworthy of love. Irony: I knew I was worthy of love, that I am worth more than many sparrows -- to God. That stuck. I was made to feel unworthy of the love of my family in Christ -- unworthy of the love of my peers in the church I was supposed to feel most attached to, the place I teach teens doggedly that they can always turn. All the while feeling, seeing, that I was being turned away, held at arm's length, unembraceable. I'm eternally grateful to the Father who Loves me for the break in programming we've had. And also for the realization in the midst of today's words that despite the fact that I feel shut out, my home is eternal and more far reaching than one community, one building, one group. I have a home in the Universal Church, and therefore am never homeless.

This is not the first time this sort of thing has happened. When I lost a baby that would have turned 22 last February, I was discouraged from talking about my grief because 'not everyone understands.' Perhaps part of any grief cannot truly be understood by others. But perhaps not enough credit is being given to the power of compassion. Because truly, in the end, it's not understanding but compassion that has healing power. Some of the most helpful people in my circle (most of whom are not Catholic) have never been through a separation and divorce, and therefore cannot truly understand the depth and breadth of the emotions (high and low). However, their compassion comforts me far more than they will ever begin to comprehend. One day I lamented that I was never offered a prayer shawl in the days that I was so lost, hurt, and broken that I wanted nothing more than to be wrapped in love and to have the physical comfort of something - anything - around my body offering warmth. That memory came to mind today, along with the stuffed lion my friends gave me to be my strength when i feel weak, and it occurred to me that he's my prayer shawl. My community is beyond where I thought its boundaries existed.

I'm still searching. But I know I am home in His arms. Always.

on my way

Last week in small group, we started talking about those things we always wanted to do, to learn, to try, and whether 'now' is a time to consider them again. Our small group leader talked about getting his motorcycle license a few years ago, after many, many years of thinking about it. Since I've always wanted one, too, we talked a little about the process here. Someone else in the group pointed out that I'd been painting - choosing colors, prepping, enjoying the entire process. And it gave me the courage to think about old dreams; dreams I'd thought were lost, or at the very least, relegated to the darkest corners of my memory, only to be brought out in that 'someday' time when my grandchildren are thinking about what to do with their lives, and I am there to offer the advice that would make my own children crazy.

Growing up, I always knew I wanted to be a mom; that's no secret. No one, and I mean no one, considered it a career option I should dedicate myself to. After a while, I tried keeping it to myself so I could explore options, at least on paper, and I found myself truly interested in a variety of fields. I wanted to be a dancer. I wanted to study international law. I wanted to continue with my French and Spanish studies, and work at the UN as a translator. I wanted a job that had me traveling the world, but also gave me the opportunity to be available, always, to my children. I wanted an office with my name on the door and an assistant who would show people in, because I wanted to be able to say, "No, I don't know that person. Send him away." I wanted to be a photographer. I wanted to live out of a suitcase because the world was my home. I wanted to make things, paint things, envision things and see them come to life. I wanted to work for an organization like Make-A-Wish, Habitat for Humanity, Ronald McDonald House. I remember once, to my mother's horror, saying that my dream job would have me wearing a cap and carrying a clipboard. [at the time I was watching one of the first FedEx commercials] I wanted to be a helicopter pilot. I wanted to ride horses, to live near the water. I wanted to study psychology, and be a social worker.

Sitting in that small group, all of my dreams washed over me, gently, soothingly, and I admitted what was most on my heart. I was discouraged from all of my biggest dreams; not always directly, and not always logically, but I was a kid. And a kid bent on pleasing somebody - anybody. Unfortunately, no one had ever encouraged me to be me, to understand that I have worth, that my dreams matter. No one told me that I matter. I don't even know if anyone 'in authority' knew that I was terrified of auditioning - so much so that when I came to the realization about a year ago that an audition is very similar to a job interview, I nearly fainted. Instead, I was reminded that I "hated school" (a half-truth; I hated not being myself, and being a teenager, it was safe to blame school); UN appointments were relatively short-term; work travel and family don't mix; I wasn't taking a science; non-profits don't have paid employees; "none of these options are appropriate for an intelligent and attractive young woman like you." None of my dreams were appropriate for me.

Being a mom has been the most rewarding and challenging career choice. It's not been without its sacrifices, and I would not change any of the choices I've made. Are there things I wish had turned out differently? Some. However, the truth is, They are fine young men, amazing to watch in everything they do, and I'm honored to know them. They've taught me more than they will ever realize, and because of them, I will be able to finally, somehow, follow some of my dreams. Because of them, when I look at all the dreams I had (when I was right where they are now), I realize that my real ideal - what I shared with my small group - is somewhere in the family of project management for an organization like Habitat. I was afraid to share the realization with them, but suddenly the air was alive with ideas, suggestions, affirmations. I was surprised, and taken aback. I don't recall ever having been in so supportive a spot. These new people in my life, with whom I share rather tenuous connection, told me where where they saw the connections in my life to this newborn dream. And they made me feel loved. In the space of minutes, they had me working internationally, on a schedule that fit my entire family, as well as all the fun things I like to do: dance, sew, write, paint. In those moments, they gave me a clipboard, a cap, a passport full of stamps, and a couple of new languages. A sense of being, and gave my wildest dreams life. More than even encouraging me, they supported me. My heart and I are on our way.

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?

talking to myself

"That's the problem with me: I assume you'll understand things better the way I put them, but maybe I'm only making sense to myself."
~Teresa of Avila, Interior Castle, trans. Mirabai Starr

Here, on these pages, I don't set out to be understood. In fact, most of the time when I put my fingers to the keys of my laptop, it's because there is something I truly don't understand and words on a page are all that I can hope will bring clarity. I have a devotional book that I use often (not as often as I used to. I'm in a hard place right now) and when I have something to say to the Lord, I write in it. At one time, I used the margins, but these days I use the reading for the day as my canvas. Occasionally Guy will see me writing and ask if I can still read what was originally on the page. I smile and assure him I can (because I can), but that really I don't need to read what was there because tomorrow it won't matter (because I don't think it will). 

Teresa of Avila was "ordered" to write Interior Castle. According to this translator, the order was more suggestion than anything else, but since it came from her spiritual director, a man, and it was the time of great inquisitions and persecutions of anyone with extraordinary ideas, she "obeyed." The book is lovely, and fun to read -- Teresa offers many asides and tangents along the way, making it seem as though she's sitting with an old friend, the reader. 

Sometimes when I sit to write, I am intentionally unclear. One reason is related to privacy. (Truly a funny concept in a blogged journal!) I don't want anyone to know the details of what I'm thinking, feeling, working through, but I do want to, need to, share the associated feelings. Other times I'm experimenting with metaphor or some such nonsense. Still other times I just wonder if anyone is reading, hoping, perhaps, that there will be some question or comment that can offer me some hope that clarity is out there. I've been accused of being obtuse at times. I prefer to think I'm being recondite. Either way, it's usually a call to action, a request for company, a need for fellowship that I can't pinpoint or specifically ask for. 

I'm in an odd place: my life is happy -- my job, my family, my home -- frustrating at times, but happy. My soul is sad. I have lost something, and I don't know what it is, or where to look for it. So I wait, and hope that someone understands enough to help guide me, to nurture me, to simply sit with me. 

Maybe I'm only making sense to myself.

perhaps one day

I have a pain in my shoulder. I call it my shoulder, but if I were to point to it, you might say it's in my back. I know it's my shoulder because when I lift my arm one way, there is a clicking feeling in my shoulder, and if I lift it another way, the pain is less. We're not talking super evident pain: if you didn't watch me or know me, you might not notice, because I rarely mention it. For the most part, it doesn't bother me; I can still do things I need to do. On occasion, it interrupts my sleep or makes me feel especially tired. I know of something I can do to alleviate the pain, but it requires a partner, and sometimes the need to explain to someone is just not worth the energy to me. I can live with it, so I do. Every once in a while I do wonder why it hurts in the first place, since it comes and goes with no rhyme or reason, no obvious causes. When I do mention it, I get the usual questions: What happened? Did you do something to it? Have you been or do you need to see a doctor/chiropractor? How long has it been like that? Perhaps one day I'll find out what it is that makes the same spot hurt again and again. 

I have a pain in my heart. I call it my heart, because it's easier to explain that way, but in reality, I feel like it's a pain in my soul, because sometimes it affects my ability to pray, to give, to receive. And where it hurts is not a physical place, but a place I can feel, nonetheless. Sometimes this pain makes it impossible or difficult to eat, to sleep, to get out of bed. Other times, it is almost impossible to notice. But it's always there. For the most part, it doesn't bother me; I can still do things I need to do. I know some things I can do to alleviate the pain, and I am in the process. When I mention it, I get a variety of questions: What makes you think that's okay? Do you really think praying/therapy/talking/sharing can help? Can't you just get over it and move on? 

Both sources of pain have forced me to take a good look at who I surround myself with. I'm learning what a safe place is. I'm learning that I don't have to rely on myself. I'm learning that the important thing is how I will get through, moving forward; how I will use what I learn. I am blessed with spirited and strong children who challenge me, a loving and generous husband, and friends I can easily call family, as well as family members who have shared experiences, and are willing to listen. Most of all, I am blessed with a desire to pray and open my heart, even when it hurts, when it feels like it's crumbling, cracking, and falling apart. I look forward to the day I can step back from the mosaic that is my heart pieced together and see the beauty as others see it. Right now I'm too close to see anything but the details, and the work is too new to truly appreciate progress. 

avoiding myself

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!)

goals and expectations

Earlier this summer, I went for the weekend to a friend's for the weekend. She was having a party, and it was pretty neat to meet so many of her similarly "uncool" friends. There was a whole lot of laughter, good food (especially peanut butter cookies!), good wine, and even party favors for some of us. I felt very at home with my friend's friends, and along with all the other good stuff, and a few stray raindrops, there was great conversation. After all these weeks, there are still a couple of comments and questions that have stuck with me.

Two people, at separate times, when talking about family life, expressed surprise at how long I've been married. In fact, I actually was asked by one man, "You've been married since 1991? To the same person? For real?" I smiled and thanked him. I didn't even bother mentioning that it was early in 1991. It occurs to me that perhaps it's interesting to note that this comment and the other ("You've really been married for over 20 years?") were presented by men. I have no idea what that might mean, but I do know that for most of my life, I've been far more comfortable and relaxed talking with men or boys.

The other question that has stuck with me, making me think more than almost anything else this summer, was asked by another dear friend of mine who was there. She asked how we managed to get our teenage boys, four of them, to go to church with us regularly. The simple answer is that we just take them; we wake them in the morning, make sure they get dressed, and load them in the car. Afterwards, we pick up doughnuts or muffins, if we go in the morning, and sometimes go out for pizza, if we go on Saturday night. The simple answer regarding being married, to the same guy, for over half my life, is similar: there's not really been a choice in the matter.

Reality, however, is not always so easy. There have been plenty of mornings that we've all wondered what the point is in getting so frustrated herding the six of us out the door to pray and find peace. And a good many times when I have not really felt like I was going to get any message out of Mass because of being stressed. And despite the fact that I do make a choice each day, at some point, that I am still, and will remain, a happily married woman, there are times when I have to think a little longer about that question before I arrive at the same conclusion. Occasionally, being happy and/or pleasant is a difficult choice; throwing in the towel would be easier. You know that feeling, when you just want to say, "Why does it matter?"

The fact is, in my mind, there isn't really a "choice." I ask myself the question without ever expecting that the answer will be no. I wake up in the morning, and we wake the boys, without ever considering that there is an option about going together as a family. The interesting thing is, frequently when the morning push is particularly trying, and I figure there will be no room for anything to enter my heart, I end up being especially touched by the music, the readings, the homily, seeing a friend.....It's possible that on those occasions, I let my guard down so that I unknowingly let myself hear more in my heart. I certainly wouldn't recommend this as a "method," but I'm grateful for the persistence. (And not just mine.) Likewise, in our marriage, the stressful, cranky, or just plain frustrating times have often turned out to be the times when we've found the most strength. By choice. My point is, marriage and parenting are not easy, or simply defined, or predictable. Marriage and parenting require having a goal, and working toward that goal, consistently and constantly.

I've been married for over half my life, and been a parent for close to half my life. In that time, we've been to Church nearly every weekend, and had dinner together nearly every day. We've been to more concerts, shows, games, meets and matches than I can count. I've also broken up or gotten into the middle of more disagreements, arguments and fights than I care to remember. The goals, though, have always been the same: to raise these boys to be good men, and to love, honor and cherish each other as husband and wife. Each day dawns new, and our lives are our own; no one else can, or should, expect the life we live. Honestly, when I think about how many years, or days, or decades we've been married, I am just as surprised as those guys early in this story. But at the same time, I am proud of our perseverance. (And, truth be told, our competitiveness!) And quite thankful for those who have been our examples.

Goals and expectations.

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.

yes, it counts

This week I attended a training that felt like a turning point in my life. The funny thing is, within moments of the class beginning, I was annoyed. The training was on Project Management; an area of management theory with which I had about zero exposure to. Practical application, however, is another story, and that's where my annoyance came into play. There were interns in the room, and the statement was made that since they were "only students" they obviously had little to no PM experience, and any of us who were not management level likely had a fairly small amount of experience. Mom that I am, I immediately felt defensive for the interns--as far as I could tell, from my fairly recent college classes and watching and guiding my own kids, students use a ton of Project Management skills. Oh, and did I mention I felt particularly Mom-like? I also took the comment a little personally. Isn't raising a family of four children a major Project?

The first day of the class slowly proved me wrong. There are few times when I have dealt with deliverables or work breakdown structures. Unless getting everyone to games/practice/performances/church in one piece, and relatively in a reasonable state of mind counts as a deliverable! The first day also involved group work--not one of my favorite activities!

The second day was more my speed. Scheduling and finding critical paths, slack and float, all added up to the way I have always organized my work, my play, my life. I sent my husband a text: "I. Love. This." And he responded that he was not surprised. He has often told me that he sees me as a business analyst, and in his experience, the two go hand in hand. Quite a few years ago, we had an addition put on the house. The contractor told me one day about the next phase of the project, and the research he would be doing at home prior to getting my input. His wife had recently had a baby, and I knew what it was like to have a newborn, and a husband who had to work after work. I sat at our computer and did the research while he continued to work, and by the end of the day had taken care of the decisions that would have to be made, and had made up a loose schedule of dates that would work, based on what he had told me. At his daily wrap-up, he told us that I would make a fantastic project manager. I've always wondered just what that meant.

While I'd love to get certified, or get a degree in project management, it's likely a dream that will stay more nebulous than real. I'm satisfied--for now--knowing that I not only know the skills and have the tools for project management, but that I've been using them for ages without giving them a second thought. Hopefully, there will be other classes, and practical applications that relate to 'worker me.' In the meantime, here's one more reason why Momming is a valid section on my resume.

I'm not the one that needs convincing, though!

momma mia

Over the past few days, I have been getting gentle reminders of the importance of my Momma-ing. And the complexity of the job. All of these reminders are little bits of consolation related to wherever it is that I'm headed.

We've already had our discussion at Book Club about Thomas Merton, but I am still working my way through the book. Although I know I will never be "done" with this book, I have also not yet finished it. One of the very common threads I've run into (you might find something else, or I might the next time I read through it) is the gentle admonishment to be myself, to be the self I was created and intended to be. I know with certainty that a good part of that self is a mother, or mother figure. I also know that as Momma, I muddle through, partly relying on what I've learned from other mothers I admire, partly making it up as I go along, and often asking for guidance.

In the past, asking for guidance came more in the panicked moments when I felt at the end of my rope, stretched too thin, or terribly frightened. In the past year, I've put on a different spin. Nowadays, I ask daily--well, almost daily--for reminders that I am Momma for a reason, or at the very least, for help remembering that much of what I do is an example to my children. In the end, I'm probably asking for guidance, help and support just as much as I always did, but the end result is so much different! Whereas I used to find myself stressed, used up, tired, afraid--in reality, depressed--I now feel more strength to face the challenges, and actual joy that I have them to face. Being a mother is not easy; there are times when no one is happy with the outcome of making and following rules, or following through with consequences. But time and again, even my children have told me how important it is that we do just that.

There have been times when I've told myself there must be more to my life than being their mother. That when they are grown, I will need to find something else, and for that reason, I need to develop other aspects of me. I'm finding that the other aspects of "me" develop best in the context of my identity of "mother." Thomas Merton has helped me to realize just how far-reaching "vocation" is. In an essay on marriage [below], I found the most amazing joy that what I knew was another vocation of mine (marriage) was another shining facet of me. It sounds crazy, but I've lived with a misguided inclination to compartmentalize my roles in order to really show who I am, and, frankly, it's always made me quite uncomfortable in my skin! In actuality, the facets cannot be separated. A prism may separate the colors, but they are always united, touching and attached to each other. I am always, at once, mother, wife, daughter, sister, friend, employee, co-worker, student--all are me. Not simply pieces of me that I can pull out as I need them.

In this knowledge, I've found freedom. Freedom to choose growth and forward motion. Freedom to be the me I was created and intended to be. I still do not know precisely what that means beyond this moment, but I'm also free to follow the road where it leads. Building the road myself was getting me nowhere. Fast. Progress is still slow at times, but the view is far more spectacular when I can free myself of every last detail.



        We would be better able to understand the beauty of the religious vocation if we remembered that marriage too is a vocation. The religious life is a special way of sanctity, reserved for comparatively few. The ordinary way to holiness and to the fullness of Christian life is marriage. Most men and women will become saints in the married state. And yet so many Christians who are not called to religious life or to the priesthood say of themselves: "I have no vocation!" What a mistake! They have a wonderful vocation, all the more wonderful because of its relative freedom and lack of formality. For the "society" which is the family loves beautifully by its own spontaneous inner laws. It has no need of codified rule and custom. Love is its rule, and all its customs are the living expression of deep and sincere affection. In a certain sense, the vocation to the married state is more desirable than any other, becuase of the fact that this spontaneity, this spirit of freedom and union in charity is so easily accessible, for the ordinary man, in family life. The formalism and artificiality which creep into religious communities are with difficulty admitted into the circle of a family where powerful human values triumphantly resist the incursions of falsity.
        Married people, then, instead of lamenting their supposed "lack of vocation," should highly value the vocation they have actually received. They should thank God for the fact that this vocation, with all its responsibilites and hardships, is a safe and secure way to become holy without being warped or shriveled up by pious conventionalism. The married man and the mother of a Christian family, if they are faithful to their obligations, will fulfill a mission that is as great as it is consoling: that of bringing into the world and forming young souls capable of happiness and love, souls capable of sanctification and transformation in Christ. Living in close union with God the creator and source of life, they will understand better than others the mystery of His infinite fecundity, in which it is their privilege to share. Raising children in difficult social circumstances, they will enter perhaps more deeply into the mystery of divine Providence than others who, by their vow of poverty, ought ideally to be more directly dependent on God than they, but who in fact are never made to feel the anguish of insecurity.

No Man Is an Island, Thomas Merton, p. 152-153

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.

building blocks

Over the past couple of days, in my little bits of alone time, something has been coming together. This morning, I ran with the dogs (our usual fourth running mate is out of town), and realized that what I am in the midst of is more than just a change of habits, or way of thinking. What I'm working on is tearing down a basic aspect of who I have always been, and rebuilding it to be stronger and more stable. Although that may sound drastic when put that way, I'm sure you know plenty of people who have done just this, by going to a therapist, following a 12-step program, that sort of thing. My experience is in another area of my life, and so the methods and goals are different.

For reasons I don't yet understand, I have always felt a need to keep separate my 'faith life' and my 'real life.' When I can see why, I might be able to explain why I found them incompatible, these 'sides' of me. Long ago, I would "turn up" my faith when I did things at church--teaching Confirmation classes, singing in the choir, going to daily Mass (and coffee afterwards in the rectory), but at the time, I told myself it was because we lived in New England, far from places where religion was acceptable dinner conversation in mixed company. Interestingly, we lived in an area where there was literally a church on each of four corners of an intersection, and seemingly a church within a mile of wherever you stood. And in between, you were likely to find a synagogue. Looking back, I really missed an opportunity for growth.

But only because I wasn't ready.

Recently a friend of mine said she found herself with so much more to give with regard to her faith. I told her that I feel as though I have nothing left to lose. Today, I'm pretty sure that I was wrong. I have not yet lost myself to my faith; I have not yet broken through to be my faith. I set a better example to myself, I think, but I know that that old nagging feeling is still there. Weaker, but still present. What I know is that I can't just push it down, or turn my back on it. I need to think it through, determine the elements, and change them around. Writing moves me forward.

Last week, I was concerned that when I write, I might force answers, make them up myself, convince myself of something I want to believe. I even determined not to write, just in case. Then a few things happened: some words wouldn't seep through the cracks of my mind; asked politely to be let out. I wrote, and in so doing, remembered my purpose for having this blog. Clarity and Vision. This is my diary of sorts. Not as historically important as Ann Frank's, nor as grand as Faustina's, but it serves the same purpose: to capture some time in a bottle so it can be shaken up and poured back out, refreshing and cool.

"There are no coincidences," I hear often. These thoughts, this question and task crystallized just hours before I read my Minute Meditation this morning:

Observe everything they tell you. But do not follow their example. (Mt 23:3) ... It is not enough to teach the truth and fight for it; it is also necessary to live according to it. Doctrine and life must go together.... [emphasis added] (Naegele, 1982, Minute meditations for each day. p.77)

Confirmation that I am on the right track. Forward on my journey. One step, one day, one piece at a time.

pen and paper

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

Then I realized there is no pen.

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

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

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

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

ramble a bit

Last week at a book club (Gone Girl, by Gillian Flynn--a book I found fascinating, but not particularly rewarding), a discussion question was presented:

At one point, Amy quotes the advice "Fake it until you make it." Later, Nick writes, "We pretend to be in love, and we do the things we like to do when we're in love, and it feels almost like love sometimes, because we are so perfectly putting ourselves through the paces" (404).

Generally speaking, do you think this is good marriage advice? Do Nick and Amy disprove this advice?

The decision around the table was that this is never good marriage advice. I don't remember anyone even touching on the second part of the question. Although in the case of Nick and Amy, I find it to be appalling advice [*****SPOILER ALERT!!!!!***** She's a murderess and he is her depressed and self-centered husband], in general, I don't think there's anything wrong with going through the motions once in a while.

Before you get annoyed and turn the page, hear me out. Everyone gets bored. Everyone gets cranky. Everyone goes through times when they just don't feel like issuing forth any extra effort whatsoever. How many times have I (you) gone ahead and taken that fitness class, or pulled on a pair of running/walking shoes even though the mood wasn't right? I know for a fact there were many nights (and Saturday mornings!) when I taught dance that I just didn't want to leave my house, fight traffic, and deal with my class, but I did. And each one of those times, I told myself to fake it; to make it look to the people who were paying for me to be there as though I was having the time of my life. And I can say, in all honesty, almost every single time I went there to fake it, I had a better class than usual.

Making a habit of faking, or faking without knowing the reasons behind it, or faking without being unwilling to talk about it at some point is a bad idea. Living a lie is different from faking it until you make it. Nick went through the motions of loving Amy because he was literally afraid for his life. That's just stupid. Amy went through the motions because if she could make Nick love her, she would be amazing. That's just wrong (on a whole LOT of levels!!). That is NOT what I'm talking about here. Nor am I talking about lying, having an unfulfilling sex life, or suffering in silence from any offense, or abusive/toxic relationships.

What I'm talking about are those times when you realize that there's a reason you fell in love, and even though today it doesn't seem like it's there, it is, because it's still in your heart, and in the memory of your soul. Or when you realize that laziness has set in for whatever reason, and the habit is taking control. Those are the times when you have to keep in mind that a relationship is a living, breathing thing, in need of nurturing and even exercise. Those are the times when you have to dig out a smile when you don't feel like it, search the cobwebbed corners of your mind for a favorite shared memory, open yourself to possibility.

I got a CD from church about prayer in marriage. On it, Fulton Sheen talks about the inevitable "dry spells" of anything we, as humans, do for life. Sometimes they cause us to stop what no longer holds our interest, and other times we get frustrated by the seemingly sudden lack of interest. The decision is ours. If we are writers, we might call it 'writer's block,' runners, 'hitting a plateau.' As a dancer, I would take a class in another technique or from another teacher in order to jumpstart my slagging enthusiasm from time to time. In marriage, for a myriad of reasons, many people have the impression that everything should come up roses all the time, and if a dry spell hits, the magic must be gone and the marriage is over. Fulton Sheen said that those are the times when it's up to the spouse who is still flying high to carry the other through prayer and love. It was beautiful! Shortly after listening to the CD (and laughing through tears!) I saw a little ditty that I had seen before, but not paid much attention. Celebrating some huge number of years of marriage, a couple was asked their secret. The response: We never fell out of love at the same time.

We never fell out of love at the same time.

Isn't that beautiful?? Even in those dry spells--those times when he was making her crazy forgetting to _____ (fill in the blank), or when she was constantly ___________ (fill in the blank), the one still managed to love the other. To be in love with the other. It's not always easy. When we mentor engaged couples, we encourage them to keep their workbooks for those days when they need a reminder of the planning the wedding days, the getting read for a long marriage days.

Like any journey, there are times when concessions must be made. My brother says, "Don't say you don't care where we stop if you really don't want Chinese," not because he plans to stop for Chinese, but because sometimes when we think that something doesn't matter to us, we realize pretty quickly that it does, and that can ignite into an argument, or it can become an opportunity to fake it for a bit in order to ensure that love can continue on its course.