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!

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.

something to work on

"Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends" John 15:13
~~How do you interpret this?
I've read this verse many, many times and, until friday, I had always interpreted it very literally. It's interesting how revelation comes as we need it to..

This was a friend's status update the other day, and it really got me thinking. My immediate thought, upon reading it, was that I had so many things to say in response, and therefore, a perfect prompt. Then a few hours later, another friend texted me with another question about how to handle the bullying her son is enduring at school; bullying that is so consistent that he comes home angry and/or in tears on a regular basis. He's 15. And not normally prone to being emotional.

Immediately, I saw the connection (because these kinds of things really do not happen coincidentally!) and realized my answer to Shawna's original post needed focus.

My first thoughts about interpretation of John's words involved stepping out of oneself for the sole benefit of another, and that things like giving up one's time or forgiving someone count. The text was a message that set me straight. While I still am pretty sure that I was on the right track, and I'm not supposed to only take this passage literally, I was a bit discomfited by the realization that came to me while conversing with this friend. And there's a possibility that it might just be easier to die for someone than to speak up about a wrong, to stand up and stand firm. Not when it's one's own child--that is part of the job, and instinctual, to a certain extent. (still not exactly easy, by any means!)

What I had realized is that there are times when it seems easier to go with the flow, or to sweep something under the rug, or to let someone else make the hard or scary decisions. Yet another friend says "No one has any right to make you feel less than." To those who try to make us feel less than, we do need to learn to stand up; but, further, when we see or know that anyone is being made to feel less than, we should lay down ourselves in order to stand up.

I sound like I'm talking in circles, but in my mind, it's simple to understand, and yet, very rarely, done well. If I stand up to a bully for the sake of a friend (friend here meaning anyone who needs defending) in order to feel good about myself--because I had once been through the same torment, for instance--or to impress or even repay another, then I am doing a good thing, but not necessarily a good deed. However, if I stand up with no thought to how it makes me look, or how it may come back at me, or how painful the memory might later be, then aren't I laying my own self aside, giving of my heart and soul, simply for the sake of another? While this makes sense to me, and seems a simple exercise, I cannot say that I have successfully completed it often. Mostly because I get distracted, I think, and start to fret about my own fears, memories, demons.

Something to work on. But not by myself. I realize that I likely cannot lay down my life without the support of faith and guidance, and knowledge of right versus wrong, love versus hate, good versus evil. Those distinctions are not measured by my own personal yardstick or experience; that is not my place. Laying aside my pride, my fears, my own priorities and needs will take--should take--a great act of more than just courage; likely an act of mercy.

a missing birthday

Today was Dad's birthday. In emailing with a couple of my siblings, and talking with Guy, I've discovered that this anniversary week has been a particularly tough one for the general "us." Most of the anniversary milestones I've experienced have been more joyful, amazing or awe-inspiring than sorrowful, so I was quite unprepared for this. The first anniversary of our wedding, and the boys' first birthdays were all amazing milestones that almost came as a surprise, as in, "How could this time have passed so quickly already?" Then at five years, we would look back at the major changes we had gone through as a couple, as parents, or as children. This week's retrospection is still painful, still sharper than I could have imagined, though not as constant or throbbing; still an ache like a pebble in my shoe that sometimes works its way into the tip of my shoe so I might almost forget it's there, then suddenly gets jarred loose by a certain step or change of direction. After five years, I would think I would feel different, although I really am not sure why: on my fifth wedding anniversary, I felt like myself, only the changes in my life were shared with someone; as each of the boys turned 5, I marvelled at their development from infancy, and rejoiced that they had some level of autonomy, of independence, their own personalities, but I didn't feel "different."

Why the expectation today? I wish I knew.

Lately, we've been talking about the future, about careers, and goals and such, partly as a result of an assignment at work, and partly because it's been a while since we reassessed and reevaluated together. It's been interesting, because I've been remembering long forgotten talks I had with Dad. While Guy knew that I had always wanted to be a helicopter pilot, he never knew that I had considered being a social worker or a psychologist. I'm not exactly sure where those ideas came from back when I was 17, as I had no experience with any of those occupations! But never once did Dad question the notions; rather, he and I would rationally discuss the pros and cons, the practical and the wild. He wanted what was best for me, but he also wanted me to be fulfilled--something that is a bit more elusive than happiness, I think.

I hope he knows how fulfilled I am today. I know he is in heaven watching over us, but I often wonder how much he can influence what happens, the "luck," the breaks, the doors and windows. Each time I look to the night sky and see Venus before any other star, I know his love is there, magnificent and shining through God's glory. And every time I see a streak of color in the sky, hear an unexpected bird call, or make that ridiculous hiccup noise he always made (and which I was never afflicted with until 4 years and 11 months ago!), I know he is ever present, and telling me something. Mostly "Slow down and enjoy. Chat and savor the coffee. See as many sides as you can." I remember him as dedicated, committed to whatever goal he set, and I find myself falling short at times. And yet, I do feel fulfilled--in the moment. I know there is more for me, and I plan to seek it out, to work toward my dreams, no matter how oddball they may seem. Somewhere out there is just the right spot for me; I know without a doubt because I have found one of those spots now. Like a cultivated flower, though, I will outgrow my current milieu, and need to be transplanted. Until then, I intend to soak up whatever nutrients I can, reach for the sun, stretch my very cells.

And occasionally water my roots with my own tears.

one step closer

Monday is the last day of a journey toward Marian consecration that I have been on. It's been quite an adventure, with emotional twists and turns along the way. Last night, in our small group, we talked about one of the questions we'd been given to help us ponder our reading. It was a question about sharing our homes with Mary, and was closely related, in my mind, to another question on another day about dedicating a corner of our homes or gardens to her. Small group, as you can well imagine if you've read many of my posts, is a tough time for me, and has been it's own weekly rumble strip, if you will. (Fr. Mike did point out in our first video session that the apostles were the first "small group," and made a whole lot happen!)

Anyway, I did have thoughts on these questions. About an hour before class, after a day that was out of my usual routine, I read the pages for the day. (Last minute homework has not been my usual thing with this class--it's only happened twice. I'm as surprised as anyone!) When I finished the pages, and read the questions, my first thought was that I have some Mary statues and things around the house already. But that felt like I was blowing off the question, so I took a breath, and considered where I would or could, or if I would or could, make them more visible. Then my heart shook, and I thought, "Stephanie, you are the house and garden." With the realization that the question very well could be taken figuratively, a few more elements of the retreat fell into place. (I really do picture a Tetris screen in my mind, only instead of the pentagrams falling and shifting to fill in, this kind of cognizance shakes it a little at the base, and the pieces just line themselves up. If only I was a cartoonist, you would see what I see!) I shared with the group. I almost felt as though all the questions and doubts in my own heart were gone.

Almost.

There was still a niggling concern that I'm not ready. Not immersed. Not understanding. Not really being asked to do this consecration. But something happened today that was more like a smack in the head. I have a Miraculous Medal that a very dear friend (one of my family of the heart!) gave me. It's on a bracelet, not on a chain, so I wear it on my wrist. Every day. I never really understood it as a sacramental until this retreat, but ever since I read up on it, and have paid more attention, I've seen the little miracles in my life that are, absolutely, prayers answered. (Some of them I prayed years ago, but I know that we do not know what is best for us. We just think we do!) Once, over the summer, at work, the medal fell off the bracelet, but I didn't notice until I saw it on the table as a lost and found item. Guy had it put back on, but I just stopped wearing it unless I was getting "dressed up." When the pool season ended, and I started working indoors again, I started wearing it again. For the past three weeks of the retreat, I have been particularly aware of it.

Today I lost it. I think it was a message; an answer to my concerns. (Silly me, I hadn't prayed about them! When will I learn? "Should I?" "Guide me, please.")

It was when I sat down to eat lunch that I realized it wasn't there. My first thought, "I hope whoever finds it, enjoys it and gets blessings from it." Then I started to deflate. I'd been having a difficult day--working on elements of my job I had not done alone, while being interrupted by phone calls I was not exactly sure how to answer. While managing to hold the mild panic down, I was pushing through, hoping that I wasn't getting overwhelmingly behind in my other responsibilities--the ones I really have a handle on. (Again, did I give this up to Mary? Is that not one of the things I'm supposed to be learning to do? Was she maybe nudging me to just say, "Guide me?" Probably!) Just before I noticed, just before a friend joined me at the table, I had been wondering if I should cut my break short to try and catch up, if only in my own mind.

I noticed. I pointed it out. We chatted while she finished her lunch. I resigned myself to the fact that it may be gone forever. I consoled myself by remembering that I could buy another medal and put it on the bracelet. I took a quick walk (after finishing the project I'd been on all morning, and finished after lunch) retracing my steps to the kitchen. I reminded myself to tell the kind man who empties our waste and recycle cans, and ask him to keep an eye out. I even opened myself up a little and told someone I'd met but never talked to; he said he'd keep an eye out. On my way back to my desk, a distance of maybe 20 feet, I thought, "Please let it show up.")

It was there, my Miraculous Medal, on the floor at my feet, in a spot I'd looked three times. As I smiled and held it up to show my workmates, I felt the turmoil in my soul subside. And I knew it was another one of my prayers answered. I knew it was an answer to at least a bit of my self-doubt. There are still some small pinpricks of hesitation; still something that I'm holding back. I don't know what it is, or if it will go away, but I will continue to ponder what is in my heart.

and the greatest of these

Not too long ago, I went through a major emotional upheaval, and at the time, not knowing what else to do, I prayed. I've never been a big prayer. I've talked pretty frequently with God (in my own opinion), and not just the "hey, can you do this for me" kind of praying, either. Thanking Him for the blessings in my life has been first and foremost for as long as I can remember. When the boys were very small, I remember praying often for patience, too, which is how I learned the tough lessons about 'getting what you pray for.' It didn't take long for me to realize that if I asked for patience, I would get lots of trying situations to give me an opportunity to practice! Before long, I shifted to more thankfulness: Thanks for the longer naps today; thanks for sending that hug through his little arms just at the point that I needed it; thanks for the gentle breeze while we were walking home.

At certain times, though, I've found myself despairing. Truly lost in grief, frustration, fear, confusion. Often, I would pray then, but not always, and not necessarily with my whole heart. Sometimes I would turn again to the expected, "help me" prayers, and would wind up wondering when I would get help, find peace, understand. Occasionally (not nearly enough, but I'm a little bullheaded at times), I would hit a rock bottom place. At those times, usually because of some offhand remark by a friend, as a last resort, I would breathe deeply and simply say, "Thy will be done."

After 9/11, that's when I finally was able to sleep through the night. I felt peace instantly. Tears still spring to my eyes when I think of it, the feeling was so intense and so sudden. I remember the most recent time as vividly. I was driving on the highway, and I felt profoundly lost. The GPS was guiding me with the tires, but my heart was racing everywhere. The boys were sleeping or listening to music on their iPods; the radio was on. I'm pretty sure the window was wide open. It was summertime. Aloud, I said, "God, guide me. I'll do what you suggest. Thy will be done." Within 24-hours, I was gazing at the Gulf of Mexico, and I had an answer.

Life is a journey. The destination, though of some import, is only a small piece of the puzzle. My whole life, I've believed that the destination is worth less (not "worthless," just having less worth; less fun) if the trip is ignored. Dad used to take the back roads and lesser highways. When I was little, I thought it was just because there are more ice cream shops on the byways. When we went to Rhode Island for the first time to visit a college, I realized he was taking Route 6 to make the trip longer; to drive home, metaphorically, how far away I would be from what I knew if I went that far away to school. I will always remember that trip as being tortuously long enough to convince me that I could never spend that much time with any of my family members ever again. That journey helped me to make my decision, though not the decision Dad was hoping for, I'd wager. (The end result was okay with him--I loved my life in RI, and there I met the love of my life.)

In my life, though, I've been coasting more than I thought until I looked at the Gulf, at the boardwalk leading to it, and considered how perfection is most beautiful when it is imperfect. That boardwalk made me happy, even though walking on it meant watching out for the boards that were warped or out of place. When I think of the peace I felt there, I can feel the water lapping at my feet, my legs, my arms. I feel the sun as the love shining down on me. The beach and the water were beautifully refreshing, and gave me the strength I needed to make a promise.

In thanksgiving, I promised to examine my heart, and open it to God's graces. I still have questions (plenty of them!) and I still wonder where I'm going sometimes. But there is a trust there in my heart that amazes and awes me. Now I am learning about the joys of believing in more than I did yesterday. Each day is the beginning of another small journey, each of which builds to take me closer to wherever that is. I trust that parts of that journey will be surprises to me--some happy, some sad; some confusing, and some enlightening--but will combine with the plans, hopes and dreams that I work toward.

Faith, at the moment, to me, is a collaboration, and I am ever so thankful for the newness I feel in every aspect of my life. Prayers from years ago--almost forgotten!--have been getting answers (not always "yes," either! and I don't mind!) and more thankfulness, peace and energy has been flowing in. Trust. Trust is the miracle I've witnessed at least twice in the past 6 months. Trust borne of faith, hope, and love.

day by day

After dropping our oldest off at school today, and making a quick stop at a friend's house and Dad's grave, and having no co-pilot for the drive home, I had a chance to mull over the words that have been swirling in my head for days without synthesizing enough to come out well.

On Friday, I tried two or three times to express what was in my head. The best I could do was my last post, which looked exactly like what I wanted to say, but looked far different, and had a far different feel than that which I usually write and post. Oh, well, that happens, and is a part of who I am; how I create, balance, flow.

Today, though, the key to tying the swirling words was the visit to Dad. I don't always stop when I'm in the area, and there are arguments for and against in my mind and my heart every time. Honestly, I'm not interested in what other people think I should do. I stop when I feel the need.When I do stop, it's not because I have any feeling that he's "there" more than he's anywhere else. It's more that I need to be in a specific place in my history in order to find something there. Clumsily, I could equate it to a pilgrimage: I'm going there to feel a connection between past and present, and only his headstone can be the portkey. On the pedestal, I found an ornament: a cross, with the words "Prayer Heals," left by someone since the last time I was there. Peeking behind the headstone, I chuckled that there is still a circle of dust where the bottle of wine left by my sister (who later asked me to remove it) had been hidden by the caretaker.

Prayer Heals.

Over the past week and a half, I have been participating in a Consecration to Mary, and Wednesday, this question was posed: Why are you here? What made you decide to do this? I've been thinking about it ever since--truthfully, I had been wondering before the question was asked aloud. I'd been struggling with an answer, because the quick and easy answer is that I am doing it because Mom is. I know that's not entirely true, because I had decided to get the book before Mom said she wanted to go, too. So, why? (The questioner, incidentally, was not looking for an answer; this is for my own benefit.)

After my visit, listening to Jeff Cavins (I highly recommend), Jason Mraz and David Cook (favorite song twice) while driving from the top of the state to the bottom, I was able to put together many of my thoughts. First of all, I've always had lots of questions. For a long time, I equated having questions to a lack of faith. Over the past few years, I have come to believe that what I really lack is understanding and knowledge--two things that bug me about anything I'm involved in. Therefore, my questions must be connected more to a desire for understanding, a thirst for knowledge, and a desire for a deeper faith. That's why I'm there: I want to see if I can find some answers, if I can get closer to goodness, faith, sainthood.

Lofty goals, but what better way to be a better person? Shouldn't goals be lofty? I have nothing to lose. I've worked on and developed balance in myself, in my life, and I've been getting this close all the time. So the next step is to focus on my spirit, my soul. Having life crises will do that for you: it makes you look at where you are, analyze it, take stock of the good, the bad and the ugly, and rearrange, reprioritize and reorganize. I'm opening, blooming, growing, developing.

A little late, maybe, but better late than never.

princess

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

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

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

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

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

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

They wed.

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

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

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

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

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

She had become.

insignificant distractions

We all have them. Those things that take our attention away from where it should be focused, and sometimes keep us confounded despite our best intentions. Some distractions are quite profound: blowing bubbles or jumping in a puddle with a toddler; stopping to pick dandelions on a spring day; getting stuck under an awning with a stranger in a sudden downpour. These distractions often serve to make us think of what we have been missing in our often hectic day-to-day. Frequently, we promise ourselves we will make more time for that toddler, on spring days, to allow our day to be brightened by a friendly word. These distractions are significant--much more significant than we give them credit to be. They remind us, at a very deep level, who we are, who we mean one day to be, who we admire.

Other distractions may get more attention because they seem more flashy, more showy, more exciting to talk about--or hide. While they may last longer -- less than half a year, or even almost 15 years or more -- they are not significant. Why? If a distraction can last that long, wouldn't it be quite significant? No; not if they are only serving to remind you of who you are not. Once the distraction is shaken, each day without it becomes more beautiful, clearer, and more crisp. Each day without the distraction becomes hopeful, promising, REAL. Life in general is better. Insignificant distractions may make a temporary impact on the being, but ultimately, every insignificant distraction proves the honesty and intensity of a soul bound for better things.

In The five people you meet in Heaven, Mitch Albom wrote, "In order to move on, you must understand why you felt what you did and why you no longer need to feel it." This applies to  insignificant distractions, which are sometimes hard to explain, but, in the end, can be seen objectively as teaching moments; moments that may have lasted longer than a simple kiss, but mean far, far less, because they had no depth. Insignificant distractions, even when long-lasting, are superficial, at best; meeting only our most ignoble needs.

Moving forward from significant distractions--babies, babbling brooks, a clear and star-filled sky--the kind that show you the power of God and His love--is somehow much easier to understand and learn from; and, therefore, we are able to walk away feeling empowered, blessed, and somehow 'more.' They carry depth; they reach into our very core.

Happily ever after is real. It just requires copious amounts of hard work. Insignificant distractions cannot dismantle a strong foundation. In fact, insignificant distractions rather fortify the edifice. Oh, yes, focus can be lost, but when we realize our mistakes, we can prove to ourselves just how powerful our true selves can be.

out the door

Some days, saying good-bye is not all that difficult. Today, for instance, as I listened to rain fall on the canvas awning, all I could hear were silver dollars plinking down, and that made walking away at the end of the day particularly satisfying. And the fact that there will only be one more walk away is even more gratifying.

So much of what I have learned about myself has been related to a frustrating atmosphere. Yet I understand that is appropriate. Learning my limits, facing my limitations, forcing my boundaries, -- all lessons borne of frustration, to a certain extent.

Not everything has been so difficult. Most of the planning, teaching, training and relating has been, at least most of the time, enjoyable and even easy for me. I've enjoyed working with both kids and adults, and even made some wonderful friends. I will never turn my back, but I am happy to walk away; to close the door and look for the next open one.

No, the frustration has been singular and intense, and has left quite a bitter taste in my mouth. I feel used, and at the same time, unseen--neither of which sits well with me! I am not to be ignored, minimized, overlooked. These are things I fight tooth and nail, in my own quiet way. I've made my case, spoken my mind, and what happens next is my own; my choice, my future, my lessons learned.

Best of all, though, I have my family and true friends to love an support me. My husband and sons who have heard all my stories, laughing and grumbling right along with me. And my dear friends who have asked, in turn, how it's all going, and have been able to relate each of my experiences to one of their own. I truly am blessed to have learned so much--about myself, about life, about others.

And I'm ready to move forward with that knowledge.

up that hill

We ran this morning, for the second time (yesterday being the first) in months. Pain in my foot and ankle, pain in his foot, weather excuses, summertime laziness, and a host of other obstacles have had us benched. I'm amazed, impressed and pleased with how good it felt to get out early and push ourselves a bit further than yesterday. Boy, did it feel good! At one point, though, when we had to walk out two stitches in my side, I found myself wondering how bad tomorrow would feel--mostly regarding sore muscles. Once again, I reminded myself that I only need enough for today. "Get me through this run, feeling good, and I'll be thankful; to my body, to God, and to my fantastic running mates." And so I am. As a bonus, I am already looking forward to getting even further tomorrow. I've missed our 3-mile mornings, and really want to build back to them.

There will certainly be days when we don't get out there, or when we just can't go as far, or it just plain hurts. That's okay. We're prepared: we're talking about the possibility, making plans for alternatives, for progressing naturally, for getting back on track. And taking it all day by day. Give us enough for today. That's been my mantra lately; replacing "Just breathe," since that was only getting me through, not helping me build. When I needed to breathe, I was in a different place. Staying afloat was a decent option. All these years later, I'm going for more--because I can! Not only is my support system different (read: stronger!), but my mindset is more open, yet more focused at the same time. (I know that's possible--I took a photography class--and the results are fantastic when the subject matter is right.)

Sweating out life's toxins is the best result of our runs. Running, talking, crying, laughing, yoga and writing are my ways of watching the darkness rush out of my mind, my heart, and my soul. Take close to equal parts, shake, and serve. My life is good. My life is better than good: it's better than it's been since I can remember. I feel more like an individual within my role as a member of a team than I ever have before, and I wouldn't trade it for anything. And I'm getting back on track, which is more rewarding than anything else I've ever experienced.

I'm happy, so I run. Finally I run to all the time; I don't run away from. I am arriving.

venting: my hat

I have a hat that I love.

Or, rather, I HAD a hat; now it's a misshapen disk of rattan, which made me cry. "Someone," in doing the chores laid out yesterday, put quite a pile of books on top of my hat. It was not in the best shape to begin with--as I said, it was my favorite (and I don't have favorites easily!) and as such had been bumped around a bit. Still. The worst part? The "Someone" is apparently No One who lives in this house.

Isn't that always the way?

Of course I know the hat is just a hat. To you. To me, it is not only protection, but it was quite a find. I have a rather large, round parietal bone, and therefore have so much trouble finding hats that fit without giving me a headache or a rash on my forehead. This one was marked down AND I bought it while shopping with my brother, to boot! It was a special hat, to say the least.

It's what the hat represents that bugs me. In our house, so much of the "stuff," though replaceable and material, does have meaning to me. That's not to say I can't live without it, or would call it more valuable than my family, but I am very sentimental, and tend to identify with the emotions  and feelings related to my stuff. All I have ever asked is that my housemates show some respect for my stuff.

Because it represents me.

There are many people in my life that care about me, and I appreciate each and every one of them. For some reason, though, many of the people that I care the most about--my children, my mother, my blood--seem to think I'm just a hat. That I can be scrunched and mashed, stuffed, tossed, and simply re-blocked. For most of my life, I've lived with it; rolled with it. I can't. What I have to say, and what I find to be important are no less valid than what others say and feel. It's beginning to hurt me physically that my spoken words, my actions, my being do not carry weight; that when someone else says the same things, they are suddenly more authoritative and compelling.

Respect me. For me.

Don't get me wrong: I do not need someone to come save me. My husband is wonderful at talking me through the times when I need it most; I genuinely matter to him. What I need is to stand up myself. To tell those who dismiss me that they simply cannot. They are not people I can ingenuously walk away from--I love them for what we have shared, for who they are to me. I'm not angry with them. Just hurt by their offhand manner. I have value, I mean something. I can only be re-blocked so many times.

My hat represents me. It is not me, but it stands for my spirit. Don't try to break it.

lightening and lightness

Today I read a post about Love, and it got me thinking a bit. Then I saw a quote that made me think some more. And then I realized that it all tied together in a conversation we had this morning. In the post:

"In any given day, we have only a finite number of opportunities to love and be loved: use them well." ~Fr. King.

It was part of a greater post about the person of love. It was quite thought provoking, since I have been struggling with loving some of my neighbors lately. Reading that post gave me a reason to consider the whys and wherefores of changing relationships and the various emotions involved, especially when a philosophical stance is unexpected--whether positive or negative (from my own perspective, of course).

Then, while trolling through Pinterest, I came across another quote:

"Sometimes God calms the storm...sometimes He lets the storm rage and calms His child."

That hit home. Recently, when I had a huge choice to make, I knew that I needed some guidance. I wondered just what to ask for help with--I've learned not to ask directly, because God seems to want me to make my own decisions; He doesn't seem to hand anything over for free. Because this was so big, I had to choose my words carefully. As a result, I did not ask for help in deciding; I did not ask for answers. Instead, I asked for the least I could think of: I asked for the strength to be myself. Nothing more.

The last time I remember getting a solid, easily identifiable answer from God was a few weeks after 9/11. I had prayed every day and night, fervently and desperately, for peace and strength, and safety for our children, and anything else I could think of. One morning, as I was about to begin my frantic prayer, I clearly and distinctly heard a voice in my heart say, "Be not afraid. I go before you always. Come, follow me." It had been one of my favorite songs growing up, and when I heard it, I was calmed. Completely. I agreed, but then became the only-occasional-prayer that I had always been.

Until I needed to be myself, before I could be anything else. And I have not stopped this time (so far). Having the strength to be myself has given me the grace to forgive where I thought there could not be forgiveness; to love where I feared love had died; to be loved and nurtured; to be open to possibilities and so many new beginnings.

Saturday, we went to Mass, and (not unusual) my mind wandered, due in part to the fact that I misheard and wondered who this St. Bob is who had written to the Thessalonians, and partly, I think, because God had other things to say to me. I left with a feeling of peace within myself: affirmation that forgiveness and love were possible for me because I am me, and not because someone else thought I should or shouldn't. (this was also related to my favoritest Pin of all: "Don't judge others because they sin differently than you." Wow!! A very old message put in a different way can make such an impact!)

This morning we were talking about praying. I don't really feel like I ever learned how or when, only where, which makes it inconvenient sometimes. The result is that I pray sporadically--not just when I need something; I also pray when I am thankful, or when I hear about a friend who is sick or hurting. This is the longest I have prayed regularly, and by regularly, I mean more than just once a week at Church. And do you know what? I am myself. And I am so very grateful for the strength to be myself.

paint chips and possibilities

I sat down to write this morning, and the words that came I deleted. Three times. Then I wrote about nothing. The first three times, I felt reactionary and defensive, confused and, I'll admit, curious. But everything I started to write sounded like bait to me, and that is not healthy. It's been a rougher couple of days than I would have liked, but at the same time, wonderfully enlightening and laden with growth and progress. Discovering that a confidante was not as supportive as originally thought was difficult enough; but then to discover that someone who never had any interest in me suddenly wants to know what I have to say on a daily basis is much more disconcerting. (Just ask, I say.)

What I really want to write about is paint chips. I'm considering them today, and getting excited about the new possibilities they represent for me. Having a project is a great way to make it to tomorrow. Especially since tomorrow is always uncertain. A friend (not the aforementioned) just fixed the railing on our balcony, and suddenly there is so much I want to do! The balcony was once my favorite "room" in the house. I remember spending hours there each evening in the summer while my husband took our oldest son to the pool: a welcome break for a stay-at-home mom, pregnant with #2. Once the baby was born, I would spend many mornings out there, nursing him and reading in the morning sunshine.

I'm not sure what brought me in from out there....probably a busy toddler the following summer.....but sometime after that, the railing was damaged in a storm, and going out there with children was just too risky. And like so many things in life, "priorities" got in the way of repairing it.

Which leads me to today. Steve fixed the railing over the weekend, and ever since he came over to measure, I've been picturing the new space. Knowing that the railing needs to be painted, I have been considering colors for the walls, the floor, the ceiling, the doors, and looking through my old scrapbooks of ideas for making it special. Pinterest will be my next stop, along with a visit to a dear friend who has sold her house and is selling much of their stuff in preparation for a move. I'm picturing the floor, and wondering what furniture to put on it; a rug for the spring and fall? Who can I call for electricity? And what will I hang on the walls? And I'm running through my favorite inspirational quotes, and wondering how they would look on the railings, or along the ceiling.

New beginnings like this one are joyful, abounding in anticipation; much like my life right now. I have been through the wringer, but, like the laundry referenced in the expression, I have come out cleansed and refreshed; ready for another challenge. For a short time, I considered the benefits of starting over in another place and time. In reality, however, that just amounts to running and hiding; to not facing what brought me here to this place and time. Making the decision to stand my ground has turned out to be far more fulfilling, productive and mature. Instead, I will make this space better, along with myself and my (important) relationships.

Not every project turns out as expected or anticipated; and not every relationship turns out to be the friendship we hoped for. Both are frustrating. The good news is, we can always start again--another new beginning, filled with joy and anticipation. And a little bit of anxiety. Okay, more than just a little bit sometimes, but I refuse to be paralyzed by it. I'm learning to take more risks when they benefit the ones I love, including that bit of me that needs my nurturing. Before snow falls, I hope to have a new spot to write, to contemplate, to meditate, to pray. Not just on my balcony, either, but also in myself.

I am my favorite current project.