"So you're a city girl?" The question was posed playfully, and my response was equally so. Yet even as I spoke, I wondered, am I? In truth I'm no more city girl than I am country girl. What I love about cities -- rather, what I always used to love about them -- is that I am an unknown, a face in the crowd, one of many. In a city, I always thought I could lose myself; fit better inside my own head. Every city I've ever visited has its own flavor, its own style. I've found the 'country' places I've visited and lived have that, too. And if I am to be completely honest, I love them, too. I can be inside my head as much in a rural setting as an urban one. The question came up when I mentioned Philly, but jumped quickly to San Francisco, and got me thinking about lots of wheres. Where I've been. Where I've not been. Where I'd like to be.
And I remembered being asked earlier in the week if I was a vegetarian. That question I've heard before, but the group was different. I'm not, but I do typically go for the vegetable-rich choice in certain situations. The best way I can explain it is that I don't trust everyone with my meat products, although that's somewhat incomplete. It's also that I know I'm not great about eating all the veggies I should at home, so when there is a ready-made option available, I'll go for it. I know a good thing when I see it! I'm not sure why vegetarian is the first thought, but the question never surprises me anymore. It amuses me sometimes, because there was a time when I strongly considered being vegetarian. I like bacon too much to give up meat entirely.
What do the two questions have to do with each other? Is there a reason I was presented with both in one week? Of course there is, and I may not figure out what the reason is in this lifetime. In the meantime, they've had me thinking about me -- what I like and don't like, especially. I like pop music, rock, classical, country, contemporary Christian, rap.... I like music, and to be surrounded by it. I like silence, and the way it envelops me, and also the way it enhances odd noises, natural noises that music and talk might block. I like to talk and to listen. I like to be listened to. (Both of this week's questions were asked by people who listened to my responses. Really listened. It's a rarer thing than it should be.) I like to drive. I like to create, to put things in order. I like to drink wine, and whiskey, and tequila in mixed drinks. I like to drink water, without ice or lemon. I like food. I like to run, to dance, and to work out. I like to explore -- both my surroundings and my own thoughts and ideas. I like to laugh, to cry, to feel. I like to be near the water -- salt water, specifically, though I like lakes and rivers, too. I like seasons. I like the feeling of a hand in mine, an arm around my shoulders or waist, and the squeeze that acknowledges some private understanding. I like knowing deep in my heart that I'll have that one day. I like sitting on my bed at the end of the day, knowing that I have lived that day.
I'm not a city girl, although I would be very happy there. Nor am I a country girl, per se. I'm not a vegetarian, though I may choose vegetables over any other choice from time to time. I am me, through and through, and more so than even a year ago. A dear friend told me this week "You're doing so well at this life thing!" The truth is, I like this life thing. In fact, I love it. That's somewhat new to me. I actually have one these days! All is well, here in suburbia, and would be equally well in a city, in the country, with vegetables, or with bacon.
It's a matter of finding the beauty in the every day, even the mundane. Thank you for asking.
Friday, March 25, 2016
Tuesday, March 8, 2016
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.
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.
Thursday, February 18, 2016
always your day
Dear Dad,
More than anything, I wish I could call you and say Happy Birthday. Instead, this keyboard and the phone line in my heart are all I have. For the past 9 days, I have been wearing my Daddy's Girl necklace, as I do during this 'novena.' Most years I have prayed your rosary every day from the day you died until your birthday. Not this year. I've thought about it, but I had other Dad things on my heart. I've really been missing your hugs, your gaze, your smile. The way you hung your coffee cup from your finger when it was empty, along with the pot, but the conversation was still full. The way you thought nothing of staying in pajamas to talk on Saturday mornings, sometimes into lunch time. I painted my bedroom last weekend, and from time to time wished you were there to help -- mostly with the less fun parts, like the edges and painting around the radiator; the parts you would have gravitated toward. I love doing that stuff you used to do. I'm looking forward to the woodworking projects I have planned in there that would have been your 'things' and that I always wished I could do with you. I still have the dollhouse. Everyone still marvels at the table. You are still here.
We never talked about boys. Your example of who you were to me is all the advice I ever got from you. Since I knew no one could ever be you, or take your place, or calm my heart the way your left arm hugs did, I never tried to find anyone like you. I wish we had. I wish I'd told you about how much that boy in high school broke my heart, again and again. I wish I'd told you how cute I thought that boy at church was, and that it turned out his locker was across the hall from mine. And that he kissed me on my birthday, and was later threatened by that boyfriend. I wish I'd introduced you to the boy in college who had the most beautiful eyes I'd ever seen, and to his roommates who told me their job was to chaperon and protect me, because they wanted to know that there were girls out there like me. I wish I'd shown you the letters from the boy who wrote me every week when he was at boot camp. I wish you could have told me that all those things meant something; that there were lessons about life, love, hope, myself in all of those things. I wish I'd had the nerve to tell you everything. I wanted to be your little girl forever, and you promised I would be. I wish I'd known that that meant I could share grown up thoughts with you, and still know your love mirroring God's love. I wish you'd told me. I wish I'd asked.
Some days I wish I'd paused on that afternoon 25 years ago when you said to me, "We don't have to do this. We could walk the other way." Nearly every day I've wondered if there was more you wanted to say, or if you really were saying what you thought would touch my heart most. Some days I'm angry you didn't push me; other days I am so incredibly grateful that your encouragement was gentle and constant. Some days I figure by now you'd be a cranky old man, grumbling about chores and noise and things that are out of place. But I know you would be my cranky old man -- the one I would defend to the teeth, love fiercely.
Wishes can't change a damn thing. However, dreams can. I still have dreams, Dad, and I still bounce them off of you from time to time, although sometimes I forget to put you in the loop because they involve things we'd never talked about: boys, faults, fears, and overcoming the same. I still dream of introducing you to my friends. Occasionally it's you that keeps someone at a distance -- I ask myself what you would think of someone (I remember the one and only time I ever heard you say that an acquaintance was never welcome in our home again, and I'm glad you said it, but even more relieved he wasn't my guest.) Most of the time I miss you because you liked everyone, or, more realistically, had a real talent for making everyone think you liked them. I admire that more than I ever would have told you. I always wished I could have that gift. Had I talked with you about it, you would have pointed out that I do, I simply use it the way I use it, not the way you did. Had I talked with you about so many things, they would have been clearer.
Dad, I was afraid of your insights, I think. I was afraid you'd be right, and I'd be hurt by my own lack of experience. I know now, far too late, that is a hurt that you would have soothed in the way only a daddy can: with the love that a daddy has for his Stephania. I'm sorry I didn't know to talk to you. I'm sorry I didn't ask if you wanted to know. I'm sorry I let myself hide this hurt from you. I'm grateful that telling you, even after you've been gone for nine years, feels right. There was a time when your chair seemed like the best connection I had to you, and a few of your shirts, little gifts you'd given me. Today I know that the best connection I have to you is, and will always be, in my heart, in my memories. The rest is just stuff. The gravy is all around me. In the past few months, I've been missing the gravy. Please continue to intercede for me. I need you now more than ever. Remind me again which of my friends I can find you in. And know that your hug still melts my heart, my hand in yours still lifts my spirits. No boy will ever be you to me. Instead of that being a barrier, I'll make that my goal.
I love you, Dad.
I miss you.
Happy Birthday.
Love, Stephania
xo
More than anything, I wish I could call you and say Happy Birthday. Instead, this keyboard and the phone line in my heart are all I have. For the past 9 days, I have been wearing my Daddy's Girl necklace, as I do during this 'novena.' Most years I have prayed your rosary every day from the day you died until your birthday. Not this year. I've thought about it, but I had other Dad things on my heart. I've really been missing your hugs, your gaze, your smile. The way you hung your coffee cup from your finger when it was empty, along with the pot, but the conversation was still full. The way you thought nothing of staying in pajamas to talk on Saturday mornings, sometimes into lunch time. I painted my bedroom last weekend, and from time to time wished you were there to help -- mostly with the less fun parts, like the edges and painting around the radiator; the parts you would have gravitated toward. I love doing that stuff you used to do. I'm looking forward to the woodworking projects I have planned in there that would have been your 'things' and that I always wished I could do with you. I still have the dollhouse. Everyone still marvels at the table. You are still here.
We never talked about boys. Your example of who you were to me is all the advice I ever got from you. Since I knew no one could ever be you, or take your place, or calm my heart the way your left arm hugs did, I never tried to find anyone like you. I wish we had. I wish I'd told you about how much that boy in high school broke my heart, again and again. I wish I'd told you how cute I thought that boy at church was, and that it turned out his locker was across the hall from mine. And that he kissed me on my birthday, and was later threatened by that boyfriend. I wish I'd introduced you to the boy in college who had the most beautiful eyes I'd ever seen, and to his roommates who told me their job was to chaperon and protect me, because they wanted to know that there were girls out there like me. I wish I'd shown you the letters from the boy who wrote me every week when he was at boot camp. I wish you could have told me that all those things meant something; that there were lessons about life, love, hope, myself in all of those things. I wish I'd had the nerve to tell you everything. I wanted to be your little girl forever, and you promised I would be. I wish I'd known that that meant I could share grown up thoughts with you, and still know your love mirroring God's love. I wish you'd told me. I wish I'd asked.
Some days I wish I'd paused on that afternoon 25 years ago when you said to me, "We don't have to do this. We could walk the other way." Nearly every day I've wondered if there was more you wanted to say, or if you really were saying what you thought would touch my heart most. Some days I'm angry you didn't push me; other days I am so incredibly grateful that your encouragement was gentle and constant. Some days I figure by now you'd be a cranky old man, grumbling about chores and noise and things that are out of place. But I know you would be my cranky old man -- the one I would defend to the teeth, love fiercely.
Wishes can't change a damn thing. However, dreams can. I still have dreams, Dad, and I still bounce them off of you from time to time, although sometimes I forget to put you in the loop because they involve things we'd never talked about: boys, faults, fears, and overcoming the same. I still dream of introducing you to my friends. Occasionally it's you that keeps someone at a distance -- I ask myself what you would think of someone (I remember the one and only time I ever heard you say that an acquaintance was never welcome in our home again, and I'm glad you said it, but even more relieved he wasn't my guest.) Most of the time I miss you because you liked everyone, or, more realistically, had a real talent for making everyone think you liked them. I admire that more than I ever would have told you. I always wished I could have that gift. Had I talked with you about it, you would have pointed out that I do, I simply use it the way I use it, not the way you did. Had I talked with you about so many things, they would have been clearer.
Dad, I was afraid of your insights, I think. I was afraid you'd be right, and I'd be hurt by my own lack of experience. I know now, far too late, that is a hurt that you would have soothed in the way only a daddy can: with the love that a daddy has for his Stephania. I'm sorry I didn't know to talk to you. I'm sorry I didn't ask if you wanted to know. I'm sorry I let myself hide this hurt from you. I'm grateful that telling you, even after you've been gone for nine years, feels right. There was a time when your chair seemed like the best connection I had to you, and a few of your shirts, little gifts you'd given me. Today I know that the best connection I have to you is, and will always be, in my heart, in my memories. The rest is just stuff. The gravy is all around me. In the past few months, I've been missing the gravy. Please continue to intercede for me. I need you now more than ever. Remind me again which of my friends I can find you in. And know that your hug still melts my heart, my hand in yours still lifts my spirits. No boy will ever be you to me. Instead of that being a barrier, I'll make that my goal.
I love you, Dad.
I miss you.
Happy Birthday.
Love, Stephania
xo
Tuesday, February 16, 2016
an interesting combination
Over the weekend, I painted my bedroom. It was a long, three day weekend -- three glorious days in a row that I didn't have to work, plus the usual Friday afternoon I have off to almost make up for my usual 6-day workweek. I used every spare moment last week to prep the room, moving furniture away from walls, moving furniture out of the room, taping cracks, filling holes. Friday into the evening I sanded. The ladder and I circled the perimeter, getting intimately close with the walls that hold stories of all kinds. I love prepping a room for painting. I was already sore when the boys and I sat down to relax a bit at dinner time. Reaching and the consistent gentle pressure for sanding affecting my shoulders, my upper back, my hands. And I was delighted.
Saturday morning brought wall washing; another aspect to experience rather than simply get through. Changing the water halfway through, I considered the illusion of surfaces. Nothing could have indicated to me how just plain dirty the walls were when I was using nothing but my eyes to judge. There was no mistaking the black water I poured down the drain, the grit that remained in the bottom of the bucket until I rinsed and re-rinsed, filling it with fresh water and detergent. "I am that wall," I thought, happily, joyfully, I might add! Prepping, sanding, washing, painting, it's all like getting to know a friend, acknowledging the rough places, helping to smooth them over, but never meaning to eliminate or completely forget them. Making the cracks and holes bearable is a friend's responsibility, isn't it? Or at least helping them to be.
While I worked, I did talk to some friends; most via text, but one on the phone. As I relayed my plans for the room, beyond painting (I have some projects involving power tools in mind!), I was told, "You have talents. You should use them; show them off. I can see you on your own somewhere beautiful prepping, painting, and building beautiful things for people. It'd be great." It would be great. (My friend also mentioned being near water, which was interesting as there was no reason for this new friend to know this about me; that I am drawn to water, sand, islands.) That call made me smile for a good while. Some of the conversations led to tearful thinking; some to out and out sobbing. All of it was cleansing, refreshing, as much a renewal for my heart as my work was to the room.
Last week, during a break in prepping, I was asked about the color of the trim. "I never worry about that unless I have to," I said, which in reality is not entirely true. My bedroom has 5 doors and 3 windows, meaning there is a ridiculous amount of trim to consider. Truth be told, I had turned a blind eye to the trim, hoping against hope that the world could, too. It only took about three feet of painted wall to show me how imperative the trim work would be. Again I thought of the parallels: what we see and what we wish we see can only run next too each other for so long. Reality bites sometimes, and requires that we do the careful detail work, on our knees, sometimes holding our breath to be sure to get the bead just right. I trekked back to the paint store to get a nice glossy white. The friend who asked about the trim was right, of course, the trim makes the color pop even more, it pulls the room together, finishes the overall effect. Painting the baseboard requires the use of two brushes: both 1" and 1 1/2" sash brushes. My well-being requires the use of two types of prayer: speaking (1") and listening (1 1/2"). When I try to rush through with only one, the results are less than satisfying. There's more area that requires the larger brush. The edge, where the smaller brush is used, is more difficult, more painful and frightening to navigate. The way they work together to unify, though, is more than worth the effort. And in reality, it's not that hard -- and doesn't take that long. I have two walls of baseboard done, so I could move the larger pieces of furniture back in, and will work on the rest of the trim throughout the next week or so. It'll be a longer process than the walls, but that is as it should be.
Next, I will create plans for the bookcases and radiator cover, and figure out the best timing for purchasing and assembling. I have the paint, and I'm ready (and willing) to use it. The most exciting project I have planned is for the door, the details of which I must review a few more times. A sliding barn door made of wood and canvas, painted with some as yet unknown design....part of the reasoning behind this description of me, observed by my friend on the phone: "artsy, funny, pretty, detailed - an interesting combination." I'm looking forward to seeing where this life will take me; where God has me going. I'm finding more of myself, along with even more joy in sharing, although that can be so very painful. Spending time with the walls in my room, I was many times struck by the power of memories, and the force with which they will present themselves when necessary. Many of them, related to the time of year, were unpleasant, ugly, and had been hidden far below my seemingly clean surface. Some surprised me, others made me think "you again," but presented some different side or view to consider. All of them brought intense emotion; some a strong desire to act out. Instead I reached out, again and again. That's something new to me, and I was strangely surprised at how helpful it was. Even when the reaching out was repeated, in the same words, to the same person, more than once. Mercy is a beautiful thing.
My bedroom is painted, and like any good project (including myself), the work has just begun, and will continue for quite a while. I'm excited about the challenges and successes to come -- and even the bumps along the way. I know, without a doubt, that I am not alone, and never will be, even when I work in solitude.
Saturday morning brought wall washing; another aspect to experience rather than simply get through. Changing the water halfway through, I considered the illusion of surfaces. Nothing could have indicated to me how just plain dirty the walls were when I was using nothing but my eyes to judge. There was no mistaking the black water I poured down the drain, the grit that remained in the bottom of the bucket until I rinsed and re-rinsed, filling it with fresh water and detergent. "I am that wall," I thought, happily, joyfully, I might add! Prepping, sanding, washing, painting, it's all like getting to know a friend, acknowledging the rough places, helping to smooth them over, but never meaning to eliminate or completely forget them. Making the cracks and holes bearable is a friend's responsibility, isn't it? Or at least helping them to be.
While I worked, I did talk to some friends; most via text, but one on the phone. As I relayed my plans for the room, beyond painting (I have some projects involving power tools in mind!), I was told, "You have talents. You should use them; show them off. I can see you on your own somewhere beautiful prepping, painting, and building beautiful things for people. It'd be great." It would be great. (My friend also mentioned being near water, which was interesting as there was no reason for this new friend to know this about me; that I am drawn to water, sand, islands.) That call made me smile for a good while. Some of the conversations led to tearful thinking; some to out and out sobbing. All of it was cleansing, refreshing, as much a renewal for my heart as my work was to the room.
Last week, during a break in prepping, I was asked about the color of the trim. "I never worry about that unless I have to," I said, which in reality is not entirely true. My bedroom has 5 doors and 3 windows, meaning there is a ridiculous amount of trim to consider. Truth be told, I had turned a blind eye to the trim, hoping against hope that the world could, too. It only took about three feet of painted wall to show me how imperative the trim work would be. Again I thought of the parallels: what we see and what we wish we see can only run next too each other for so long. Reality bites sometimes, and requires that we do the careful detail work, on our knees, sometimes holding our breath to be sure to get the bead just right. I trekked back to the paint store to get a nice glossy white. The friend who asked about the trim was right, of course, the trim makes the color pop even more, it pulls the room together, finishes the overall effect. Painting the baseboard requires the use of two brushes: both 1" and 1 1/2" sash brushes. My well-being requires the use of two types of prayer: speaking (1") and listening (1 1/2"). When I try to rush through with only one, the results are less than satisfying. There's more area that requires the larger brush. The edge, where the smaller brush is used, is more difficult, more painful and frightening to navigate. The way they work together to unify, though, is more than worth the effort. And in reality, it's not that hard -- and doesn't take that long. I have two walls of baseboard done, so I could move the larger pieces of furniture back in, and will work on the rest of the trim throughout the next week or so. It'll be a longer process than the walls, but that is as it should be.
Next, I will create plans for the bookcases and radiator cover, and figure out the best timing for purchasing and assembling. I have the paint, and I'm ready (and willing) to use it. The most exciting project I have planned is for the door, the details of which I must review a few more times. A sliding barn door made of wood and canvas, painted with some as yet unknown design....part of the reasoning behind this description of me, observed by my friend on the phone: "artsy, funny, pretty, detailed - an interesting combination." I'm looking forward to seeing where this life will take me; where God has me going. I'm finding more of myself, along with even more joy in sharing, although that can be so very painful. Spending time with the walls in my room, I was many times struck by the power of memories, and the force with which they will present themselves when necessary. Many of them, related to the time of year, were unpleasant, ugly, and had been hidden far below my seemingly clean surface. Some surprised me, others made me think "you again," but presented some different side or view to consider. All of them brought intense emotion; some a strong desire to act out. Instead I reached out, again and again. That's something new to me, and I was strangely surprised at how helpful it was. Even when the reaching out was repeated, in the same words, to the same person, more than once. Mercy is a beautiful thing.
My bedroom is painted, and like any good project (including myself), the work has just begun, and will continue for quite a while. I'm excited about the challenges and successes to come -- and even the bumps along the way. I know, without a doubt, that I am not alone, and never will be, even when I work in solitude.
Sunday, February 7, 2016
vision of me
There are times in life when the varied pieces of experience and interest seem to be spread wide and messy, and completely unrelated. Looking at them, one wonders how they could truly be part of one creation, one whole. Without direction or diagram, focusing on only one piece at a time, trying to make sense of it on its own merit becomes habit. However, without the broader, fuller view, justice is not done to the parts cast aside and ignored, even temporarily.
There are many reasons one might sit back, take a deep breath, and shuffle things up to get a new perspective on what's already there, what may need to be added, enhanced, or really doesn't belong. Many of those reasons relate to a life change of some sort; a loss, a gain, a move, death of a loved one. In those cases, the reassessment has the danger of becoming frantic, impulsive, even compulsive.
Other reasons are more continuous; related to a legitimate desire to refine, to learn, to try to see the bigger picture. Occasions of clarity may give quick glimpses of the way A relates to Q, while leaving J, K and L a mysterious pile of unknown.
There comes a time when the romanticism of piecing things together fades away. The unfinished picture, the jumble of disjointed parts, begin to resemble nothing more than an abandoned canvas, a pile of glass shards; a half-hearted attempt at fine art. With the blessing of the right support, the relentless love of heart family, that pained vision's falsehood is revealed. Seeing truth is not necessarily less painful, but every burden shared is divided, lightened, and ultimately strengthens.
The truth of the pieces left over, scattered around, is difficult, if not impossible , to see alone, And while the help of dear friends, even professionals, is helpful, without God, what is revealed is incomplete. His vision of me is what matters most.
There are many reasons one might sit back, take a deep breath, and shuffle things up to get a new perspective on what's already there, what may need to be added, enhanced, or really doesn't belong. Many of those reasons relate to a life change of some sort; a loss, a gain, a move, death of a loved one. In those cases, the reassessment has the danger of becoming frantic, impulsive, even compulsive.
Other reasons are more continuous; related to a legitimate desire to refine, to learn, to try to see the bigger picture. Occasions of clarity may give quick glimpses of the way A relates to Q, while leaving J, K and L a mysterious pile of unknown.
There comes a time when the romanticism of piecing things together fades away. The unfinished picture, the jumble of disjointed parts, begin to resemble nothing more than an abandoned canvas, a pile of glass shards; a half-hearted attempt at fine art. With the blessing of the right support, the relentless love of heart family, that pained vision's falsehood is revealed. Seeing truth is not necessarily less painful, but every burden shared is divided, lightened, and ultimately strengthens.
The truth of the pieces left over, scattered around, is difficult, if not impossible , to see alone, And while the help of dear friends, even professionals, is helpful, without God, what is revealed is incomplete. His vision of me is what matters most.
Friday, January 29, 2016
not forgotten
This morning, sitting down with my coffee, I opened my bible study journal and read the prompt, psalm 142:6-7, and psalm 13:3. Which fits better today?
I cry out to you. Lord, I say, You are my refuge, my portion in the land of the living. Listen to my cry for help, for I am brought very low. Rescue me from my pursuers, for they are too strong for me. ps142:6-7
How long must I cry sorrow in my soul, grief in my heart day after day? How long will my enemy triumph over me? ps13:3In my notes, I had written that psalm 13 fit more what I felt today, or recently, although neither fit perfectly. After I worked through the prompts, I did what I usually do, and read the verses before and after; context is everything. The entirety of psalm 13 made my heart laugh and break at the same time.
How long, Lord? Will you utterly forget me? How long will you hide our face from me? How long must I carry sorrow in my soul, grief in my heart day after day? How long will my enemy triumph over me? Look upon me, answer me, Lord, my God! Give light to my eyes lest I sleep in death. Lest my enemy say, "I have prevailed," lest my foes rejoice at my downfall. But I trust in your mercy. Grant my heart joy in your salvation. I will sing to the Lord, for he has dealt bountifully with me!I laughed because of a comment from my spiritual director one day: "You have no problem demanding from God. Maybe you should just tell him how you feel." The demands at the start of the psalm are pretty much the ones I'd been making: show me; help me; love me. My heart broke because in all my recent journey, I have trusted in His mercy. I have seen Him at work in my present and my past from my new perspective. I have sung to Him, and been filled with immeasurable gratitude for His tremendous generosity. God amazes me because even in my most difficult moments, He will send the most personal of gifts for me alone, if only I am open and aware of His presence. This morning, psalm 13 did indeed fit best -- but not because of one single verse.
Wednesday, January 27, 2016
my favorite pants
Yesterday I sat down for lunch, crossed my ankle over my knee, and discovered that the lower edge of my pants was frayed. Not just frayed, but threads hanging frayed. My favorite pants. My. Favorite, Pants. I'd known they were not long for the Okay to Wear To Work category, as they were fading some, but with all the snow we'd had, and an appointment and a meeting after work, I needed something that would float between work and not work. Seeing the frayed edge made me a little sad, but I still had most of my day in them to go. I reminded myself they were my favorite pants, and pressed on.
Arriving home, I decided to peruse Amazon for the style and brand, hoping against hope that I could find them based on the mysterious numerical codes on the tag, since the original tag with the familiar name was long gone. Finding the tag, I noticed that the waistband was also a bit worn. In fact, all the seams were less than new looking. They looked like broken in, well-worn, very loved favorite pants. That I could wear on a weekend when I was feeling particularly casual.
And I realized I was looking at a metaphor.
Until I took a close look at them, my favorite pants looked fine. Not great, because they were clearly beginning to fade, but they looked fine. Fine enough to wear to work once a week (usually on Friday, my own personal business casual twist). But once I'd seen the truth - the frayed edge of the back of the left hem - I began to see the signs of something more going on. Each telltale spot of wear tugged at my heart in a very different way than some other areas of my life I've been seeing with new eyes. In the biblical context my therapist sometimes like to use, once the scales began to fall away, I've been seeing more than the simple cracks and bumps in my life. I've begun to see the true wear and tear, the dangerously close to breaking parts, the more than a little frayed. My favorite pants fit me. They function. The zipper and the button and hooks are all solidly in place and functional.
But I have to be honest and admit they do not work as dress clothes any longer.
I bought a new pair of pants today. They are similar, but not the same. (They do happen to be the same color, but that was a function of supply, not a matter of true choice.) They may or may not become my next favorite pair of pants. Slowly I will begin to disentangle myself from my attachment to these old pants, until eventually they sit in the bottom of my drawer, even more threadbare than I can imagine at the moment. And I will gratefully say goodbye. Until I looked at - really looked at - the seams and edges yesterday, I had no idea that I could have a 'relationship' with a pair of pants. In reality, that's not what this is; rather serving as a metaphor for a good and true relationship's life cycle. There are neat memories associated with these pants, from work things to personal things, from family events to meeting new friends. I felt good wearing them in part because nearly every time I wore them someone told me I looked nice - someone different just about every time; strangers sometimes. Saying goodbye to a friend is hard. Ending a relationship is painful. These are pants; it'll be much easier. But knowing that all of that wear was happening without my notice for the simple reason that I wasn't even considering looking is a reality check. I find myself in a bit of a life predicament, wondering why no one told me they were getting a bit tired. I've asked enough people that I trust to explain that to me as a life lesson. The response varies, but what it really comes down to is that with scales on my eyes, I couldn't have seen anyway; would not have accepted the idea.
I'm learning to trust more - to trust my instincts, to trust those who love me day after day. to trust the people to whom I choose to open my heart. I'm more selective than I've ever been before, and also more open. More me. My relationships and friendships are now what I want to see in my future, who I want to see there. More honest - like the new relationship I will have with my favorite pants, except the people I'm talking about may spend more time with m public than these old pants.
I just realized the metaphor in having a shopping buddy, like I did tonight. I have a group of friends that have informed me that they are the interview panel for certain levels of friendship. And they are a tough crew - individually and as a group. For that I am so very grateful. When taken at its very basic level, it's kind of like shopping for new pants. At one point, trying on the pants I ultimately bought, my shopping buddy simply said, "Let me see the waistband at the front?" At that moment, I realized that the hard question, the scrutiny that made me feel the most vulnerable, really was the key factor. I needed a shopping buddy to help with the decision I may not have even considered facing. I need my heart family to do the same.
Arriving home, I decided to peruse Amazon for the style and brand, hoping against hope that I could find them based on the mysterious numerical codes on the tag, since the original tag with the familiar name was long gone. Finding the tag, I noticed that the waistband was also a bit worn. In fact, all the seams were less than new looking. They looked like broken in, well-worn, very loved favorite pants. That I could wear on a weekend when I was feeling particularly casual.
And I realized I was looking at a metaphor.
Until I took a close look at them, my favorite pants looked fine. Not great, because they were clearly beginning to fade, but they looked fine. Fine enough to wear to work once a week (usually on Friday, my own personal business casual twist). But once I'd seen the truth - the frayed edge of the back of the left hem - I began to see the signs of something more going on. Each telltale spot of wear tugged at my heart in a very different way than some other areas of my life I've been seeing with new eyes. In the biblical context my therapist sometimes like to use, once the scales began to fall away, I've been seeing more than the simple cracks and bumps in my life. I've begun to see the true wear and tear, the dangerously close to breaking parts, the more than a little frayed. My favorite pants fit me. They function. The zipper and the button and hooks are all solidly in place and functional.
But I have to be honest and admit they do not work as dress clothes any longer.
I bought a new pair of pants today. They are similar, but not the same. (They do happen to be the same color, but that was a function of supply, not a matter of true choice.) They may or may not become my next favorite pair of pants. Slowly I will begin to disentangle myself from my attachment to these old pants, until eventually they sit in the bottom of my drawer, even more threadbare than I can imagine at the moment. And I will gratefully say goodbye. Until I looked at - really looked at - the seams and edges yesterday, I had no idea that I could have a 'relationship' with a pair of pants. In reality, that's not what this is; rather serving as a metaphor for a good and true relationship's life cycle. There are neat memories associated with these pants, from work things to personal things, from family events to meeting new friends. I felt good wearing them in part because nearly every time I wore them someone told me I looked nice - someone different just about every time; strangers sometimes. Saying goodbye to a friend is hard. Ending a relationship is painful. These are pants; it'll be much easier. But knowing that all of that wear was happening without my notice for the simple reason that I wasn't even considering looking is a reality check. I find myself in a bit of a life predicament, wondering why no one told me they were getting a bit tired. I've asked enough people that I trust to explain that to me as a life lesson. The response varies, but what it really comes down to is that with scales on my eyes, I couldn't have seen anyway; would not have accepted the idea.
I'm learning to trust more - to trust my instincts, to trust those who love me day after day. to trust the people to whom I choose to open my heart. I'm more selective than I've ever been before, and also more open. More me. My relationships and friendships are now what I want to see in my future, who I want to see there. More honest - like the new relationship I will have with my favorite pants, except the people I'm talking about may spend more time with m public than these old pants.
I just realized the metaphor in having a shopping buddy, like I did tonight. I have a group of friends that have informed me that they are the interview panel for certain levels of friendship. And they are a tough crew - individually and as a group. For that I am so very grateful. When taken at its very basic level, it's kind of like shopping for new pants. At one point, trying on the pants I ultimately bought, my shopping buddy simply said, "Let me see the waistband at the front?" At that moment, I realized that the hard question, the scrutiny that made me feel the most vulnerable, really was the key factor. I needed a shopping buddy to help with the decision I may not have even considered facing. I need my heart family to do the same.
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