It's Christmas Eve Eve, and it got me to thinking, everyone discusses Mary and her having Jesus. We even have the song, "Mary, Did you know?" However, there are more parents involved in the story than just Mary. How many people have contemplated Joseph's point of view?
Joseph was engaged to Mary. They were planning a life and a future. They were dreaming about how their life would be. Imagine being madly in love with someone and all the plans you make while you are on the cusp of your "forever"... Once you have started dreaming about a future with someone you contemplate if you're a good match. You consider their needs and their role within your life. You mentally dream about if you'll have kids, pets, where you will have a home, how you will share your responsibilities within your home and family.
Then there is a wrench thrown into the mix. Something outside of your control that effects your relationship with your love. "Joseph...your fiancé is pregnant. It is not yours." And an angel comes to you to tell you that you need to stay involved with this woman. You need to continue to love and cherish her. You are to help raise a child that is not your blood. You must parent someone else's child. You are a bystander to this life in some aspects because it is not your child. This child that needs you to help care for and love it. You are in love with a woman who is going to go through pain and agony to birth someone whom you are to responsible for, but can't totally claim as yours.
The thing is, Joseph was thrown into the mix of parenthood. He inherited a child to feed, clothe, discipline, love, and raise as his own... all the while aware that it wasn't his child... and yet, was his child.
Any adult who willingly stepped up and accepted becoming the parent to a child, maybe you understand Joseph's shoes. Co-parents, step parents, bonus parents etc. who help love and guide a child that they do not share DNA with understands that it is very hard to find your place within the child's life. You have to attempt to prove your love for this tiny human. You give of your time, your energy, your heart to someone that you can not help but love and yet, you often stay in the shadows as your aren't "the parent." You hurt when the child hurts. You would fight tigers and bears if need be because this child is family just the same. You scare away bad dreams and bullies. You wash off scraped knees just as any other parent would. You metaphorically carry the weight of this child.
Joseph had to bear the weight of the rumors about Mary. Joseph had to bear the scandal and the pain that Mary did, but he willingly chose to stay beside her. He chose to lead his family. He chose to love and cherish both Mary and Jesus knowing that it would not be an easy life.
Did he "know" how hard it would be to love and raise a child that was and yet wasn't his own when he stayed with Mary? I think he *thought* he knew. But maybe, the answer is far more complicated. Maybe it's like childbirth. We have an idea of how it will be to birth a child. People can tell us what it will entail. We can read books and watch movies about the pain and hardship about it, but until we are in the moment, we don't have a clue. Maybe that is the place were grace and love take over. All the unknowns are washed over with love until we are there in the moment and the only choice we have is love itself.
I think Joseph had an inkling of an idea. I do believe that he knew it would be hard, just as anyone who stepped up to love someone else's child knows it will not be easy. I think that Joseph knew that the child needed him. Let that sink in.... a child who is innocent and helpless needs you. You don't get to walk away from that kind of need. Someone else needs you. Someone who can not thrive without your help, needs you. Joseph did have a choice. He choose love.
We are never ever totally prepared for kids. We are even less prepared to love and care for a child that we never knew we needed in our life.
To all the step parents, co-parents, bonus parents, and people who volunteer to raise children who are not your own, thank you for choosing to love.
Friday, December 23, 2016
Saturday, November 26, 2016
Unbreakable
"I am not unbreakable..."
The strongest people I know are NOT unbreakable. If I were to be totally honest - they are broken. Many of them have been shattered in many ways. They have experienced heartache. They have endured pain. They have held loss and disappointment. They have seen and experienced things that people would avoid if they were given a single second to choose.
Maybe we have gotten it all wrong over the years. Maybe we are all stronger after being broken. On a physical aspect, the human body overproduces calcium to protect the places we have broken in an attempt to heal. The side effect of the healing is that the area is stronger at the site of the break due to the body covering the breakage. In theory, the spot where it was previously broken can not be broken there again. It is reinforced. It has been covered. There are similarities when it comes to muscles and soft tissue as well. Once a muscle or soft tissue has been injured the body "reacts" and tightens around it in order to protect us from hurting ourselves more. This is why injuries require so much physical therapy, once we are hurt and injured, we have to physically work the pain and overprotectiveness out of our body to allow it to return to normal. This is not an instant healing but requires effort. It is not easy and often is painful.
Our minds, emotions, character, and personality are much the same as our physical bodies. After we have experienced life changing moments that break us, we are not the same. We are changed and "reinforce" ourselves in an attempt not to be broken in the same places or in the same ways. We hide our soft places and injured thoughts behind baggage. We take the rejection and pain and cover it to reinforce ourselves against being hurt in the same way. We pull ourselves tight. We reject other's advances and attempts to help us heal for fear that we will have to experience an emotional version of physical therapy. We are often able to see the pain and broken inside of ourselves; however, the fear of allowing the vulnerability to return is often more painful than the initial injury. Our hearts are calloused not from lack of want but from covering and reinforcing the hurt places. We hide our emotions and try to be void of softness.
Some of these walking wounded are so damaged that they see genuine love and devotion but the fear of pain tightens close like the laces on a boxing glove. Their heart laced beneath the layers of glove. The vulnerability hidden beneath the desire to fight and secure one's safety. Unless we are willing to let the gloves come off, stop the fighting, and peel back all the layers of tape and allow our hearts to return to vulnerable- we remain fighters. Hiding our true selves doesn't change who we are, but rather it changes other people's ability to see the previously broken places, the scars of who we are. Scars are not flags of failure. Our scars are a tapestry of places we held on until our bodies gave way when our determination and will held on. Breaking and healing is not failure. It is enduring past when our external strength had reached its limits.
Many women have stretch marks. I don't think I know a single woman who is genuinely happy to have them. I think Kat Williams describes them better than anyone else, "Either you was big and got small, or you was small and got big..." Stretch marks are your skin literally stretching to the point of tearing. Your body was enduring something that requires such a drastic change that it physically couldn't endure and tore...and yet, here you are still enduring more.
Anyone can be a blank slate. Blank slates are bland and forgettable. I think we are more like the Japanese idea of kintsukuroi. Once a piece of pottery is broken, they do not trash it for being broken. The broken and cracks are not shunned and hidden from others. Instead the broken places are filled with gold or silver. The cracks make the pottery stronger and more beautiful as they are replaced and filled with gold or silver. The pottery becomes more than the simple boring piece it once was.
I believe we are the same, we become more precious and more valuable once we have been broken. Broken people are stronger and more precious like the kintsukuroi bowls. The cracks are still there. They may have been healed and/or repaired even.
The cracks remain, but the soul is stronger.
Being unbreakable doesn't make you stronger - being broken, enduring hardships, surviving loss, remaining steadfast when the storms of life crack, chip, and bend you to the point that you are changed makes you stronger.
The strongest people I know are NOT unbreakable. If I were to be totally honest - they are broken. Many of them have been shattered in many ways. They have experienced heartache. They have endured pain. They have held loss and disappointment. They have seen and experienced things that people would avoid if they were given a single second to choose.
Maybe we have gotten it all wrong over the years. Maybe we are all stronger after being broken. On a physical aspect, the human body overproduces calcium to protect the places we have broken in an attempt to heal. The side effect of the healing is that the area is stronger at the site of the break due to the body covering the breakage. In theory, the spot where it was previously broken can not be broken there again. It is reinforced. It has been covered. There are similarities when it comes to muscles and soft tissue as well. Once a muscle or soft tissue has been injured the body "reacts" and tightens around it in order to protect us from hurting ourselves more. This is why injuries require so much physical therapy, once we are hurt and injured, we have to physically work the pain and overprotectiveness out of our body to allow it to return to normal. This is not an instant healing but requires effort. It is not easy and often is painful.
Our minds, emotions, character, and personality are much the same as our physical bodies. After we have experienced life changing moments that break us, we are not the same. We are changed and "reinforce" ourselves in an attempt not to be broken in the same places or in the same ways. We hide our soft places and injured thoughts behind baggage. We take the rejection and pain and cover it to reinforce ourselves against being hurt in the same way. We pull ourselves tight. We reject other's advances and attempts to help us heal for fear that we will have to experience an emotional version of physical therapy. We are often able to see the pain and broken inside of ourselves; however, the fear of allowing the vulnerability to return is often more painful than the initial injury. Our hearts are calloused not from lack of want but from covering and reinforcing the hurt places. We hide our emotions and try to be void of softness.
Some of these walking wounded are so damaged that they see genuine love and devotion but the fear of pain tightens close like the laces on a boxing glove. Their heart laced beneath the layers of glove. The vulnerability hidden beneath the desire to fight and secure one's safety. Unless we are willing to let the gloves come off, stop the fighting, and peel back all the layers of tape and allow our hearts to return to vulnerable- we remain fighters. Hiding our true selves doesn't change who we are, but rather it changes other people's ability to see the previously broken places, the scars of who we are. Scars are not flags of failure. Our scars are a tapestry of places we held on until our bodies gave way when our determination and will held on. Breaking and healing is not failure. It is enduring past when our external strength had reached its limits.
Many women have stretch marks. I don't think I know a single woman who is genuinely happy to have them. I think Kat Williams describes them better than anyone else, "Either you was big and got small, or you was small and got big..." Stretch marks are your skin literally stretching to the point of tearing. Your body was enduring something that requires such a drastic change that it physically couldn't endure and tore...and yet, here you are still enduring more.
Anyone can be a blank slate. Blank slates are bland and forgettable. I think we are more like the Japanese idea of kintsukuroi. Once a piece of pottery is broken, they do not trash it for being broken. The broken and cracks are not shunned and hidden from others. Instead the broken places are filled with gold or silver. The cracks make the pottery stronger and more beautiful as they are replaced and filled with gold or silver. The pottery becomes more than the simple boring piece it once was.
I believe we are the same, we become more precious and more valuable once we have been broken. Broken people are stronger and more precious like the kintsukuroi bowls. The cracks are still there. They may have been healed and/or repaired even.
The cracks remain, but the soul is stronger.
Being unbreakable doesn't make you stronger - being broken, enduring hardships, surviving loss, remaining steadfast when the storms of life crack, chip, and bend you to the point that you are changed makes you stronger.
Thursday, November 10, 2016
Why do you write?
I've had people ask what makes me write. I love words. I love reading them. I write for 1,001 reasons, including but not limited to...
I write because I use words to process things. So many times I have been trying to process life and find myself overwhelmed. I need words. I like the feel of making the written word. I like reading back over it. Letting my eyes wash over the words and decide if I need to move certain phrases down for more impact or just cut them out entirely. There is something about knowing my brain was the inventor of thoughts that I can hold and reminisce about- that brings me joy. I make decisions better in writing. Pro's and con's inscribed on paper or glowing hollow in the computer light as I hear the clickity clack of the words transform from ghosts of ideas in my skull to skeletons of dreams that continue to evolve and grow into poetry, lyrics, blogs, or stories. It does more than help me. It's cathartic and purges "the crazy" so that what seemed giant and scary and bigger than life in my thoughts now is something I can hold and turn over in my hands.
I write because I am nothing special. I have lived a life with some rather "unusual " plot twists, but so has every one else. Every one has close call stories. Stories of heartbreak, defeat, sadness, near death, and anguish aren't really that odd but rather the usual. I'd like to shamefully think that my words matter. I figure maybe if I can explain some of my experience in writing someone else won't feel as alone. That maybe the person who thinks there is NO ONE else who has lived through "this"- whatever "this" might be- can see that there is someone else out there who has experienced it and overcame it, that maybe they can rest more easily.
I write because I am so very vanilla and boring that I think that with words I can color myself interesting. I think that maybe I can give someone the courage to continue to fight for themselves.
I write because I have experienced some of the most defining moments of my life:
-The overwhelming feeling of terror when the plump red headed nurse handed me my son and he wouldn't stop crying. I remember sitting there staring into this tan screaming face thinking, "I messed up ." I worried that I had already failed at parenting and I had only had a child for a few hours. I starting panicking thinking that I was going to be the one responsible for keeping this tiny human alive and I couldn't even shower unsupervised or give him comfort.
-the first day of teaching where I felt myself shake in my sandals as I stood before a group of twenty something 8th graders thinking that there is no way I know what I'm doing . I felt so very small and inadequate. What if I do a terrible job? What if they hate me? What if I'm not really the best person to do this? I can still remember the clothes I had on, the weight of the necklace I made the night before feeling like a prize for the most foolish hanging from my neck. Student teaching felt like wading into the shallow end of a small pool. I felt safe. Standing in the front of my own classroom with no back up, no mentor teacher to help me felt like falling out of a helicopter into a lake where I wasn't sure where the bottom was. Three hours later, I was addicted to the feeling of teenagers looking to me for guidance and inspiration. I felt like an actor on the stage. I had to grab their attention. I needed to perform the introduction of the lesson like an opening monologue. Three weeks later and I was addicted to the feelings of pride and inspiration I got from seeing them grow and learn and become better. Eleven years later and it still feels like a stage when I stand at the front of my classroom.
- The soul crushing feeling of the perfect kiss that made me know I had never been "IN" love before. I felt like could taste the next 60 years of my life in that dark room kissing the boy I had been talking to, but hadn't yet kissed. I stopped worrying about stupid things. I wave of warm and happy poured over me. I didn't need a label or where this relationship was or wasn't going. I found my best friend. I felt like for the first time in ever, I felt like I was coming home just being in his arms. I'd drive across town, across the state, across bad weather for a fleeting moment. I didn't want to just kiss him; I wanted to come home to him. That feeling left me scared and safe.
-The first time I found the lump in my breast and had to go to the cancer center for the ultrasound and MRI. I had to admit there was an issue, something I don't do well. I had to sit topless and random "strangers" would come in and look, feel, and analyze my breast. I felt alone. Thankful for the dimly lit room that helped to hide the fact that in the moments between doctors I would tear up and panic would hit me like a semi truck. I remember the sound of the MRI crunch and bang as it surrounded my half naked body and thinking that this is what laying in the center of a construction zone would feel like. I daydreamed and thought of song lyrics and how they applied to different people in my life. I pondered if I was strong enough to handle the worst case scenario. Fear and worry swirled around me. Dreams of love and a future family steadied my heart.
- Facing my abusive ex husband in our VPO hearing and trying to find the words without crying to explain why I needed the court to protect me. Hearing my voice crack and feeling my throat get tight and being afraid I'd choke on the words as I spoke. Trying to keep my knees from knocking as I stood completely alone and felt his hatred and glare try to burn holes in me. Not allowing myself to look to my left where he stood because I was scared I'd loose any composure that I was faking.
-Laying in the hospital bed on the children's floor of Baptist holding my son as we discussed his emergency surgery that would begin in the morning. I am conscious to smile and stroke his tiny face and use kid appropriate words as I explain what is going to happen. The hallways are silent except for the occasional nurse walking down the hall outside our door. The room is cool and brightly painted. It smells like a combo of orange sherbet and cleanliness. I think of how ironic it is going back and forth to the kitchen to get more sherbet. The last time I saw anyone eat this much sherbet was me when I was in the hospital for the 5 day stay when he was born. I've let him eat his body weight in ice cream in the last 4 hours and I feel no remorse. I want him to feel peace. I need him to get some sleep. I am hoping I can convey confidence with my words because my heart is raging to break out of the cage of my ribs and fight anyone who tries to touch my son.
These are just title pages of a few of the chapters of my life. I'd like to think that in some tiny futile moment of writing I am more than just words on the page. It allows me to heal some of the broken. Dragging the bad memories out to be lynched for their crimes against my sleep. Removing the unrest by pushing it onto paper. I am forced to face the reality of my life. I think Paul Laurence Dunbar said it best,
"We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile
And mouth with myriad subtleties,"
When I write, I have to give up my mask. I am vulnerable where I can't be hurt. I allow myself to peel back the layers. I confess my weaknesses . I admit fear and failure. I write because maybe I can face all the pieces of myself, maybe I can accept them. Maybe me sharing my experiences will help someone else who feels alone. I write because I hope someone else won't feel lost and broken.
I write because writing does more than allow me to process; it changes me.
I write because I use words to process things. So many times I have been trying to process life and find myself overwhelmed. I need words. I like the feel of making the written word. I like reading back over it. Letting my eyes wash over the words and decide if I need to move certain phrases down for more impact or just cut them out entirely. There is something about knowing my brain was the inventor of thoughts that I can hold and reminisce about- that brings me joy. I make decisions better in writing. Pro's and con's inscribed on paper or glowing hollow in the computer light as I hear the clickity clack of the words transform from ghosts of ideas in my skull to skeletons of dreams that continue to evolve and grow into poetry, lyrics, blogs, or stories. It does more than help me. It's cathartic and purges "the crazy" so that what seemed giant and scary and bigger than life in my thoughts now is something I can hold and turn over in my hands.
I write because I am nothing special. I have lived a life with some rather "unusual " plot twists, but so has every one else. Every one has close call stories. Stories of heartbreak, defeat, sadness, near death, and anguish aren't really that odd but rather the usual. I'd like to shamefully think that my words matter. I figure maybe if I can explain some of my experience in writing someone else won't feel as alone. That maybe the person who thinks there is NO ONE else who has lived through "this"- whatever "this" might be- can see that there is someone else out there who has experienced it and overcame it, that maybe they can rest more easily.
I write because I am so very vanilla and boring that I think that with words I can color myself interesting. I think that maybe I can give someone the courage to continue to fight for themselves.
I write because I have experienced some of the most defining moments of my life:
-The overwhelming feeling of terror when the plump red headed nurse handed me my son and he wouldn't stop crying. I remember sitting there staring into this tan screaming face thinking, "I messed up ." I worried that I had already failed at parenting and I had only had a child for a few hours. I starting panicking thinking that I was going to be the one responsible for keeping this tiny human alive and I couldn't even shower unsupervised or give him comfort.
-the first day of teaching where I felt myself shake in my sandals as I stood before a group of twenty something 8th graders thinking that there is no way I know what I'm doing . I felt so very small and inadequate. What if I do a terrible job? What if they hate me? What if I'm not really the best person to do this? I can still remember the clothes I had on, the weight of the necklace I made the night before feeling like a prize for the most foolish hanging from my neck. Student teaching felt like wading into the shallow end of a small pool. I felt safe. Standing in the front of my own classroom with no back up, no mentor teacher to help me felt like falling out of a helicopter into a lake where I wasn't sure where the bottom was. Three hours later, I was addicted to the feeling of teenagers looking to me for guidance and inspiration. I felt like an actor on the stage. I had to grab their attention. I needed to perform the introduction of the lesson like an opening monologue. Three weeks later and I was addicted to the feelings of pride and inspiration I got from seeing them grow and learn and become better. Eleven years later and it still feels like a stage when I stand at the front of my classroom.
- The soul crushing feeling of the perfect kiss that made me know I had never been "IN" love before. I felt like could taste the next 60 years of my life in that dark room kissing the boy I had been talking to, but hadn't yet kissed. I stopped worrying about stupid things. I wave of warm and happy poured over me. I didn't need a label or where this relationship was or wasn't going. I found my best friend. I felt like for the first time in ever, I felt like I was coming home just being in his arms. I'd drive across town, across the state, across bad weather for a fleeting moment. I didn't want to just kiss him; I wanted to come home to him. That feeling left me scared and safe.
-The first time I found the lump in my breast and had to go to the cancer center for the ultrasound and MRI. I had to admit there was an issue, something I don't do well. I had to sit topless and random "strangers" would come in and look, feel, and analyze my breast. I felt alone. Thankful for the dimly lit room that helped to hide the fact that in the moments between doctors I would tear up and panic would hit me like a semi truck. I remember the sound of the MRI crunch and bang as it surrounded my half naked body and thinking that this is what laying in the center of a construction zone would feel like. I daydreamed and thought of song lyrics and how they applied to different people in my life. I pondered if I was strong enough to handle the worst case scenario. Fear and worry swirled around me. Dreams of love and a future family steadied my heart.
- Facing my abusive ex husband in our VPO hearing and trying to find the words without crying to explain why I needed the court to protect me. Hearing my voice crack and feeling my throat get tight and being afraid I'd choke on the words as I spoke. Trying to keep my knees from knocking as I stood completely alone and felt his hatred and glare try to burn holes in me. Not allowing myself to look to my left where he stood because I was scared I'd loose any composure that I was faking.
-Laying in the hospital bed on the children's floor of Baptist holding my son as we discussed his emergency surgery that would begin in the morning. I am conscious to smile and stroke his tiny face and use kid appropriate words as I explain what is going to happen. The hallways are silent except for the occasional nurse walking down the hall outside our door. The room is cool and brightly painted. It smells like a combo of orange sherbet and cleanliness. I think of how ironic it is going back and forth to the kitchen to get more sherbet. The last time I saw anyone eat this much sherbet was me when I was in the hospital for the 5 day stay when he was born. I've let him eat his body weight in ice cream in the last 4 hours and I feel no remorse. I want him to feel peace. I need him to get some sleep. I am hoping I can convey confidence with my words because my heart is raging to break out of the cage of my ribs and fight anyone who tries to touch my son.
These are just title pages of a few of the chapters of my life. I'd like to think that in some tiny futile moment of writing I am more than just words on the page. It allows me to heal some of the broken. Dragging the bad memories out to be lynched for their crimes against my sleep. Removing the unrest by pushing it onto paper. I am forced to face the reality of my life. I think Paul Laurence Dunbar said it best,
"We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile
And mouth with myriad subtleties,"
When I write, I have to give up my mask. I am vulnerable where I can't be hurt. I allow myself to peel back the layers. I confess my weaknesses . I admit fear and failure. I write because maybe I can face all the pieces of myself, maybe I can accept them. Maybe me sharing my experiences will help someone else who feels alone. I write because I hope someone else won't feel lost and broken.
I write because writing does more than allow me to process; it changes me.
Sunday, November 6, 2016
I'm no princess. Screw the fairy tale.
I have never been the princess type. I never was obsessed with pink. I like green; always have. I used to choose the green gumball in 1st grade when we lined up silently while all the other girls choose pretty pastels like pink and yellow. I never was drawn to pastel colors.
I never dreamed of being a ballerina. I did twirl around in my frilly church slip; however, it wasn't a princess that I was pretending to be. I always felt like I was flying. I was mesmerized by the way the ruffles lifted and fell around me. I remember just wanting to stay in it and being able to spin around and around. Honestly, I still like dresses that swirl around me. Maybe I still like to feel like I'm flying. Maybe I just love the idea of feeling special and pretty. Maybe there is something just a little bit magical about it that I can't put my finger on no matter how old I get. Not a single Halloween did I wear a pretty dress or crown. I've been a mouse, a pumpkin, Tinkerbelle, Elmo, and a couple 3 times I went as Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. What's not to love about saving yourself and defeating evil while wearing perfectly sparkly ruby slippers?
My dad never called me princess. I never introduced myself as, "I'M A PRINCESS!" or used it as rebuttal in an argument. I never dreamed of some knight in shining nothing riding up and saving me. The closest I ever came to that dream had more to do with Richard Gere saving Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. Maybe I liked the idea of being saved by someone who wanted to love me in spite of my sass and attitude like her?
I only wanted to wear high heels because I thought the sound they made, was cool. In 6th grade every student got to choose a famous person to do a research paper over, and for extra credit dress up as the person. Many of the girls choose Princess Diana, Queen Elizabeth, famous actresses.... I choose Albert Einstein. I wore this amazing wild white haired wig that looked a lot like my Granny McNabb's own hair and a suit. My genius mother found double sided sticky tape and we cut off a snippet of the wig for my moustache. I remember walking into Mrs. Henthorn's English class and getting an immediate reaction from the class. I never wanted to be the princess, but I have always had a flair for making a scene. I think that might be my problem. I like the entrance. I like the scene . I have a flair for the dramatic.
So there is my problem with the idea of fairy tales and dreams of the knight in shining whatever- I never needed him. I didn't need pampered. Maybe I was the evil witch in the wildest part of the woods with a picket fence around my shack. I didn't need the pastel and frills. I didn't need trumpets or big jewels. I wanted the heart of it all. I wanted the simple. I wanted the way the love of my life looked at me across the room to resemble a Hepburn movie where the music swelled. I wanted the kisses in the rain. I needed to know that someone was willing to risk looking foolish for me. I needed to know I was the choice.
The problem with all that- is that it's a far more dangerous dream than the princess fairy tale. Anyone can give you flowers and whisper sweet nothings when things are pastel covered and smell like perfume. It takes real courage to allow your walls down, to empty the moat of all the alligators of fear and distrust and allow yourself to be truly vulnerable.
Maybe that's the problem with me, I never was the princess; I was more of the pea. I didn't need a castle or flowers woven in my hair. I needed to feel safe. I didn't need to be adored. I needed to be loved. Being feared is easy when you're the witch. Being adored is easy when you're a princess.
Being the pea that causes people to be uncomfortable and demands a scene - that is much harder to love.
Truth is, I never was the princess.
I never dreamed of being a ballerina. I did twirl around in my frilly church slip; however, it wasn't a princess that I was pretending to be. I always felt like I was flying. I was mesmerized by the way the ruffles lifted and fell around me. I remember just wanting to stay in it and being able to spin around and around. Honestly, I still like dresses that swirl around me. Maybe I still like to feel like I'm flying. Maybe I just love the idea of feeling special and pretty. Maybe there is something just a little bit magical about it that I can't put my finger on no matter how old I get. Not a single Halloween did I wear a pretty dress or crown. I've been a mouse, a pumpkin, Tinkerbelle, Elmo, and a couple 3 times I went as Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. What's not to love about saving yourself and defeating evil while wearing perfectly sparkly ruby slippers?
My dad never called me princess. I never introduced myself as, "I'M A PRINCESS!" or used it as rebuttal in an argument. I never dreamed of some knight in shining nothing riding up and saving me. The closest I ever came to that dream had more to do with Richard Gere saving Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. Maybe I liked the idea of being saved by someone who wanted to love me in spite of my sass and attitude like her?
I only wanted to wear high heels because I thought the sound they made, was cool. In 6th grade every student got to choose a famous person to do a research paper over, and for extra credit dress up as the person. Many of the girls choose Princess Diana, Queen Elizabeth, famous actresses.... I choose Albert Einstein. I wore this amazing wild white haired wig that looked a lot like my Granny McNabb's own hair and a suit. My genius mother found double sided sticky tape and we cut off a snippet of the wig for my moustache. I remember walking into Mrs. Henthorn's English class and getting an immediate reaction from the class. I never wanted to be the princess, but I have always had a flair for making a scene. I think that might be my problem. I like the entrance. I like the scene . I have a flair for the dramatic.
So there is my problem with the idea of fairy tales and dreams of the knight in shining whatever- I never needed him. I didn't need pampered. Maybe I was the evil witch in the wildest part of the woods with a picket fence around my shack. I didn't need the pastel and frills. I didn't need trumpets or big jewels. I wanted the heart of it all. I wanted the simple. I wanted the way the love of my life looked at me across the room to resemble a Hepburn movie where the music swelled. I wanted the kisses in the rain. I needed to know that someone was willing to risk looking foolish for me. I needed to know I was the choice.
The problem with all that- is that it's a far more dangerous dream than the princess fairy tale. Anyone can give you flowers and whisper sweet nothings when things are pastel covered and smell like perfume. It takes real courage to allow your walls down, to empty the moat of all the alligators of fear and distrust and allow yourself to be truly vulnerable.
Maybe that's the problem with me, I never was the princess; I was more of the pea. I didn't need a castle or flowers woven in my hair. I needed to feel safe. I didn't need to be adored. I needed to be loved. Being feared is easy when you're the witch. Being adored is easy when you're a princess.
Being the pea that causes people to be uncomfortable and demands a scene - that is much harder to love.
Truth is, I never was the princess.
Saturday, November 5, 2016
I hate you! I want to push you down the stairs...
I think most people think that depression is a feeling of just sad.
But for me.. THAT was NOT the main feeling.
Depression for me was anger, anxiousness, and fear. I struggled with the overall desire to yell and scream and make other people feel badly. I think that somehow in my unbalanced brain I thought that if I hurt people with my words then they would feel as badly as me and somehow I would feel better.
There were some people that their very existence and breathing annoyed me.. if they talked or did anything that might remotely be construed as bothersome to my brain I would desire to push them down the stairs. I didn't want to hurt them. I had no desire to kill anyone...
I wanted the satisfaction of the push.
I wanted someone else to feel as badly as I did inside my own skin .
That maybe if I spread the pain to others, maybe in some crazy way, I would be less miserable.
Depression felt like being constantly exhausted, by stuck with toothpicks holding my eyes open. I wanted to turn off my brain. I needed mental and physical rest but there was never a place where I could find rest.
Depression was sneaky really. I thought maybe I was just cranky or hormonal. I didn't want to admit that I could actually be suffering with depression. The idea of even admitting there might be the problem made me panic and anxious. The idea that my brain was sick was hard to take in. I mean, it's MY BRAIN that in itself made it scary.
I think of my brain as the place I store intimate details of my life: the feeling of sheer and absolute panic the moment that Dr. Friese handed me my son for the first time and he cried and I didn't instantly know how to sooth him, the perfect moment driving down the highway listening to music, sun on my face, white t shirt whipping in the wind as it came in the window while some handsome man sang along with the radio and I fell irrevocably in love with him, the time I called my mother to tell her I had found the second lump in my breast and I felt my throat get tight and the fear felt like strangling as I tried to stay calm and not sound scared as I told her, the parade sending out the other units to Desert Storm wearing my uncle's thick socks under my blue polka dot dress to futilely stay warm and feeling lost looking through the uniforms and sea of faces trying to find my dad who was never again gonna be in the sea. The idea of admitting that my brain might be betraying me, that was a level of denial very real and very near Egypt.
One day I finally heard myself yelling at my child. I saw in his eyes the fear and sad. I saw the mommy I was becoming.
I yelled.
I was mean.
I was ugly.
And I was everything I didn't want to be as a mom. At that moment, I knew there was a problem. I knew I needed help. I knew it wasn't going away on it's own. I knew I had to tell someone there was a problem. That's the other problem with depression, once you know it's there, it doesn't get any less scary.
I had to swallow as much of my fear and disappointment in myself and make the call.
I had to face the people who I loved and admit I needed help.
The drowning suffocating feeling of admitting I had a problem nearly kept me from telling anyone.
Anyone who is suffering, let me tell you something....
If you were sick and needed medicine to get better- you would tell you doctor the symptoms and get medicine to get better, Right? Your mental health is no different. Sometimes the chemistry of it gets sick, and you need to tell someone the symptoms and have others help you get better.
You are not a failure.
You are not permanently broken.
You are not defective.
As someone who has experienced depression, PTSD, and anxiety- please get help.
Save your memories and find the real you and not the foggy unhappy you.
You are worth it.
But for me.. THAT was NOT the main feeling.
Depression for me was anger, anxiousness, and fear. I struggled with the overall desire to yell and scream and make other people feel badly. I think that somehow in my unbalanced brain I thought that if I hurt people with my words then they would feel as badly as me and somehow I would feel better.
There were some people that their very existence and breathing annoyed me.. if they talked or did anything that might remotely be construed as bothersome to my brain I would desire to push them down the stairs. I didn't want to hurt them. I had no desire to kill anyone...
I wanted the satisfaction of the push.
I wanted someone else to feel as badly as I did inside my own skin .
That maybe if I spread the pain to others, maybe in some crazy way, I would be less miserable.
Depression felt like being constantly exhausted, by stuck with toothpicks holding my eyes open. I wanted to turn off my brain. I needed mental and physical rest but there was never a place where I could find rest.
Depression was sneaky really. I thought maybe I was just cranky or hormonal. I didn't want to admit that I could actually be suffering with depression. The idea of even admitting there might be the problem made me panic and anxious. The idea that my brain was sick was hard to take in. I mean, it's MY BRAIN that in itself made it scary.
I think of my brain as the place I store intimate details of my life: the feeling of sheer and absolute panic the moment that Dr. Friese handed me my son for the first time and he cried and I didn't instantly know how to sooth him, the perfect moment driving down the highway listening to music, sun on my face, white t shirt whipping in the wind as it came in the window while some handsome man sang along with the radio and I fell irrevocably in love with him, the time I called my mother to tell her I had found the second lump in my breast and I felt my throat get tight and the fear felt like strangling as I tried to stay calm and not sound scared as I told her, the parade sending out the other units to Desert Storm wearing my uncle's thick socks under my blue polka dot dress to futilely stay warm and feeling lost looking through the uniforms and sea of faces trying to find my dad who was never again gonna be in the sea. The idea of admitting that my brain might be betraying me, that was a level of denial very real and very near Egypt.
One day I finally heard myself yelling at my child. I saw in his eyes the fear and sad. I saw the mommy I was becoming.
I yelled.
I was mean.
I was ugly.
And I was everything I didn't want to be as a mom. At that moment, I knew there was a problem. I knew I needed help. I knew it wasn't going away on it's own. I knew I had to tell someone there was a problem. That's the other problem with depression, once you know it's there, it doesn't get any less scary.
I had to swallow as much of my fear and disappointment in myself and make the call.
I had to face the people who I loved and admit I needed help.
The drowning suffocating feeling of admitting I had a problem nearly kept me from telling anyone.
Anyone who is suffering, let me tell you something....
If you were sick and needed medicine to get better- you would tell you doctor the symptoms and get medicine to get better, Right? Your mental health is no different. Sometimes the chemistry of it gets sick, and you need to tell someone the symptoms and have others help you get better.
You are not a failure.
You are not permanently broken.
You are not defective.
As someone who has experienced depression, PTSD, and anxiety- please get help.
Save your memories and find the real you and not the foggy unhappy you.
You are worth it.
Thursday, October 27, 2016
What your underwear says about your love life ...
I went home last weekend and sat one morning eating my Aunt Fern's homemade pancakes while she folded laundry . It seemed like a typical Saturday. She had already done the dishes, swept , cooked, and was grumbling at underwear as she folded them .
" Act right . You know how you are supposed to lay. Just get it together and lay down and act right."
At that moment, I noticed some things.
A. Everyone in my family is a bit off their rocker .(in ways that I am comfortable with and find oddly reassuring )
B. I had never ever seen anyone fold underwear like that in my life . It was the most perfect way I have ever seen in my whole life . They were folded up from the crotch to the band and them quaded in a delicate dance of fingers and fabric . They stacked absolutely perfect . They were amazingly flat and looked mathematically square . They might even have resembled a game of Jenga had she rotated the direction with each row .
C. I thought about how I had never seen anyone argue with underwear.
D I had no idea that was even a way to fold undies . I wondered how many other things I probably have been doing wrong my whole life . It made me feel somehow small and immature and sorta foolish but I have no idea why . Maybe I realized how even more amazing she is ?
E. the amount of time and effort she put into folding was nearly at the level of art. Any possible line and wrinkle was removed and forced into perfect lines . Resistance was futile .
G I had no idea that someone could put love into folding underwear . I assure you each fold was meticulously executed . She made sure that no ripple or wave would be left in the fabric . It was a labor of love . I was mesmerized by my aunt folding laundry .
I am not that kind of laundress . I do not fold my undies . Honestly- once my booty is in them- all the wrinkles are removed by other means . Watching her artfully craft, pinch, and force the rebel wrinkles into the mold of perfection that all the rest of the underwear army had already been assembled had my utmost attention . What kind of love self sacrifices to that degree ?
I don't think I have ever spent so much time picking out underwear to purchase as was calmly and lovingly put into folding the stack . Had I never loved like that ? Would I ever put that much effort into someone for something so simple ? Why had no one taught me how to adult with laundry like this ? The questions and ponderings were swimming in my head .
Do I think that everyone needs to fold laundry of their loved one as gracefully and perfectly to show their love and devotion to their significantt other ? No . But do I think that giving up your time and energy to labor out of love for someone you care very deeply for is mandatory ? Yes, I do .
I don't think I have seen such a more simple picture of love in a long time . Does my uncle notice that she flattened each and every ripple ? I doubt that . I don't even know if the perfect flattening makes single difference on whether said undies are more or less comfy .
Does it remove that fact that I saw someone put their energy into something so small ? No .
How you treat the small things in a relationship - THAT does show your love for others .
Are you willing to give up something for someone else - even if they never notice ?
I think more people should . Gestures of love and devotion are simple to attain and often overlooked ....but as I say in the kitchen eating pancakes and watching my aunt fold underwear- I was absolutely sure that my aunt and uncle are in love .
What acts of love and sacrifice do you do for others ?
The simple things , even folding underwear, for others can be a reminder to the other person that you love them .
So I'm asking, what does your folding technique say about your life?
How are you expressing and showing your love for others?
Are you just going through the motions? Are you letting the people in your life put forth all the effort? Are you pushing, pulling, and lovingly pulling the teeny tiny wrinkles out?
After all, the little things aren't little.
" Act right . You know how you are supposed to lay. Just get it together and lay down and act right."
At that moment, I noticed some things.
A. Everyone in my family is a bit off their rocker .(in ways that I am comfortable with and find oddly reassuring )
B. I had never ever seen anyone fold underwear like that in my life . It was the most perfect way I have ever seen in my whole life . They were folded up from the crotch to the band and them quaded in a delicate dance of fingers and fabric . They stacked absolutely perfect . They were amazingly flat and looked mathematically square . They might even have resembled a game of Jenga had she rotated the direction with each row .
C. I thought about how I had never seen anyone argue with underwear.
D I had no idea that was even a way to fold undies . I wondered how many other things I probably have been doing wrong my whole life . It made me feel somehow small and immature and sorta foolish but I have no idea why . Maybe I realized how even more amazing she is ?
E. the amount of time and effort she put into folding was nearly at the level of art. Any possible line and wrinkle was removed and forced into perfect lines . Resistance was futile .
G I had no idea that someone could put love into folding underwear . I assure you each fold was meticulously executed . She made sure that no ripple or wave would be left in the fabric . It was a labor of love . I was mesmerized by my aunt folding laundry .
I am not that kind of laundress . I do not fold my undies . Honestly- once my booty is in them- all the wrinkles are removed by other means . Watching her artfully craft, pinch, and force the rebel wrinkles into the mold of perfection that all the rest of the underwear army had already been assembled had my utmost attention . What kind of love self sacrifices to that degree ?
I don't think I have ever spent so much time picking out underwear to purchase as was calmly and lovingly put into folding the stack . Had I never loved like that ? Would I ever put that much effort into someone for something so simple ? Why had no one taught me how to adult with laundry like this ? The questions and ponderings were swimming in my head .
Do I think that everyone needs to fold laundry of their loved one as gracefully and perfectly to show their love and devotion to their significantt other ? No . But do I think that giving up your time and energy to labor out of love for someone you care very deeply for is mandatory ? Yes, I do .
I don't think I have seen such a more simple picture of love in a long time . Does my uncle notice that she flattened each and every ripple ? I doubt that . I don't even know if the perfect flattening makes single difference on whether said undies are more or less comfy .
Does it remove that fact that I saw someone put their energy into something so small ? No .
How you treat the small things in a relationship - THAT does show your love for others .
Are you willing to give up something for someone else - even if they never notice ?
I think more people should . Gestures of love and devotion are simple to attain and often overlooked ....but as I say in the kitchen eating pancakes and watching my aunt fold underwear- I was absolutely sure that my aunt and uncle are in love .
What acts of love and sacrifice do you do for others ?
The simple things , even folding underwear, for others can be a reminder to the other person that you love them .
So I'm asking, what does your folding technique say about your life?
How are you expressing and showing your love for others?
Are you just going through the motions? Are you letting the people in your life put forth all the effort? Are you pushing, pulling, and lovingly pulling the teeny tiny wrinkles out?
After all, the little things aren't little.
Monday, October 24, 2016
Dear first responders...
Dear first responders-
Those of you who see a need in others and your first response is to fill the gap regardless of personal gain or cost,
Those of you who are sleep deprived and eat less calories than you should due to your overwhelming need to assist those in some form of crisis,
Those of you who are the physical representation of law and the last lines of defense of others,
Those that race in the dead of winter along icy streets to stop destruction or violence,
Those who hold broken bodies,
the dispatchers who never get the cries for help out of their nightmares,
the face that remains a blank slate when others mock, demean, and insult your sacrifice,
Those of you who answer the phone at 2am to listen professionally or personally,
the doors that you pass through not ever sure of what is on the other side,
the hugs you give to the grieving, the broken, and the distraught regardless of smell, age, or income,
relationships strained due to pagers and on call,
the empty spot you leave in the bed next to loved ones,
the missed birthdays,
the holiday celebrations had on random days to try to preserve some sense of normalcy,
the conversations you refuse to share with your spouse because you try to limit their fear for you,
the search lights and strained eyes,
the smoke and flames you face,
the uniform that labels you but doesn't always keep out the elements,
the CPR you perform long past when it is helpful to give family members some sliver of peace,
those who eat in uniform more often than at the dinner table,
those who sit with their backs to the wall and watch doors and scan the room for threats,
those who change directions in the mall to avoid your family becoming a target to former run-ins,
those who polish and shine and press uniforms to honor your fallen brothers and sisters,
the ones who escort families members unable to walk with the own power due to the weight of loss,
the kind eyes an abused woman sees who she is bruised and battered,
the rescheduled date nights,
the vest on the hook that means you are home,
the boots by the door covered in unmentionables,
those of you hated and loved for what comes naturally to you,
the uniforms that you dry clean to remove things you hold in and haunts your already hectic sleep patterns,
those who walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
those who do not walk to emergencies but run,
the cold meals eaten later,
the colder meals you give up on and just throw away,
the uniform that parts crowds who only see a uniform not a person,
the sirens that are normal,
the flashing lights your eyes are used to looking past,
the family who just don't understand why you choose this profession,
the emotional recoil from the real world,
the blue lines and the red,
Thank you.
Your good deeds do not go unnoticed. Your sacrifice is good and saves more than the people who encounter, you give family tree's more time. You enable people to live and love and laugh another day.
In case no one tells you today- well done.
Those of you who see a need in others and your first response is to fill the gap regardless of personal gain or cost,
Those of you who are sleep deprived and eat less calories than you should due to your overwhelming need to assist those in some form of crisis,
Those of you who are the physical representation of law and the last lines of defense of others,
Those that race in the dead of winter along icy streets to stop destruction or violence,
Those who hold broken bodies,
the dispatchers who never get the cries for help out of their nightmares,
the face that remains a blank slate when others mock, demean, and insult your sacrifice,
Those of you who answer the phone at 2am to listen professionally or personally,
the doors that you pass through not ever sure of what is on the other side,
the hugs you give to the grieving, the broken, and the distraught regardless of smell, age, or income,
relationships strained due to pagers and on call,
the empty spot you leave in the bed next to loved ones,
the missed birthdays,
the holiday celebrations had on random days to try to preserve some sense of normalcy,
the conversations you refuse to share with your spouse because you try to limit their fear for you,
the search lights and strained eyes,
the smoke and flames you face,
the uniform that labels you but doesn't always keep out the elements,
the CPR you perform long past when it is helpful to give family members some sliver of peace,
those who eat in uniform more often than at the dinner table,
those who sit with their backs to the wall and watch doors and scan the room for threats,
those who change directions in the mall to avoid your family becoming a target to former run-ins,
those who polish and shine and press uniforms to honor your fallen brothers and sisters,
the ones who escort families members unable to walk with the own power due to the weight of loss,
the kind eyes an abused woman sees who she is bruised and battered,
the rescheduled date nights,
the vest on the hook that means you are home,
the boots by the door covered in unmentionables,
those of you hated and loved for what comes naturally to you,
the uniforms that you dry clean to remove things you hold in and haunts your already hectic sleep patterns,
those who walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
those who do not walk to emergencies but run,
the cold meals eaten later,
the colder meals you give up on and just throw away,
the uniform that parts crowds who only see a uniform not a person,
the sirens that are normal,
the flashing lights your eyes are used to looking past,
the family who just don't understand why you choose this profession,
the emotional recoil from the real world,
the blue lines and the red,
Thank you.
Your good deeds do not go unnoticed. Your sacrifice is good and saves more than the people who encounter, you give family tree's more time. You enable people to live and love and laugh another day.
In case no one tells you today- well done.
Sunday, October 23, 2016
Trial by fire .
How do you know what you are made of ? One way that we measure the strength of buildings and metals is trial by fire . We see the boiling point of the metal. We measure the outcome post fire for structural integrity. We analyze if the building remains standing once the blaze has been let a smoldering mess. We look to see if the structure is still solid or if it will crumple under pressure AFTER the intial shock of the fire and destruction has already occurred .
Maybe the same is true of people. Maybe the old tale about the parent putting tea, eggs, and a carrot in boiling water to educate their child about life is something that we should truly take to heart . The egg gets hard after the heat has already been removed . The same is true of some people . The carrot completely crumples and turns to mush . It is the same color and retains most of the original vitamins but it is soft and easily destroyed when any pressure after the original heat has been removed . The tea is effected by the fire as well . It does not become hard like the egg . It is not weaker like the carrots . Instead the tea is brewed and changes . It becomes its best destiny . Some people are like tea . After being exposed to heat - they realize they have more potential and grow into their true destiny . They literally are tried by fire and grow into more then previously thought of them.
I have been all three versions of the food depending on the trials I have encountered . I'd love to tell you that some of my trials were totally random- but that is that the case. Some of the trials and pressure I have experienced were my own poor decisions . I have lost family, friends, a home, loved ones, etc due to my lack of good decisions. I have failed. I have been selfish and cruel and down right mean. My boiling points and structural integrity has not always revealed a core of strength. Times that I thought I had things under control only to find myself after the fire was left in ash- I am reminded of the documentary over the twin towers . The metal used for the "cage" - the internal metal that was to hold everything together in case of fire or destruction was not build according to the original plans . That error was very much like some of my errors .... they revealed my failings and I crumpled . I lost people dear to me . I lost pieces of me . I lost my sense of safety . I mushed like the carrot .
Another issue I've had when tried by flames and fears is ignoring the problems. I foolishly tried to pretend I was "fine ." That's like seeing a fire in your cabinet and closing the door and hoping for the best . Ignoring the trials and fire does not make the fire cease to exist - it only allows it to grow and devour more. A fire left untamed is allowed to feed and thrive on the kindling of ignorance. I couldn't hide from my problems or tribulations any more than closing the cabinet would stop the fire . It kept burning .
It kept eating away at things that were important .
I kept loosing things and people I love .
A few days ago I saw this verse :" When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not harm you . " Isiah 43:2
Ironically it's smoldered in the cabinet I tried to close ... I hadn't put out some of the things that were causing me harm . I hadn't stopped the fires . Today I reread the verse and something new stuck out.
"Walk through the fire ..." notice it doesn't say SIT and remain in the problem . It doesn't say create more problems due to anger and bitterness . It doesn't say ignore the fact that you are experiencing fire . Rather it points out something so obvious.
Don't stay in the fire . You are passing through the flames .
"If you're going through hell - keep on going ." Don't stay the way that you are . Don't keep making the same stupid choices that you made to put you in that predicament. Keep building and get away from the fire .
Keep going .
Stop making the same bad choices and hoping for a new outcome because the cabinet is closed.
Keep fighting.
Stop providing kindling.
"...The flames will not harm you."
But they will change you .
Being tested by fire isn't the end - it's a shift.
Maybe the same is true of people. Maybe the old tale about the parent putting tea, eggs, and a carrot in boiling water to educate their child about life is something that we should truly take to heart . The egg gets hard after the heat has already been removed . The same is true of some people . The carrot completely crumples and turns to mush . It is the same color and retains most of the original vitamins but it is soft and easily destroyed when any pressure after the original heat has been removed . The tea is effected by the fire as well . It does not become hard like the egg . It is not weaker like the carrots . Instead the tea is brewed and changes . It becomes its best destiny . Some people are like tea . After being exposed to heat - they realize they have more potential and grow into their true destiny . They literally are tried by fire and grow into more then previously thought of them.
I have been all three versions of the food depending on the trials I have encountered . I'd love to tell you that some of my trials were totally random- but that is that the case. Some of the trials and pressure I have experienced were my own poor decisions . I have lost family, friends, a home, loved ones, etc due to my lack of good decisions. I have failed. I have been selfish and cruel and down right mean. My boiling points and structural integrity has not always revealed a core of strength. Times that I thought I had things under control only to find myself after the fire was left in ash- I am reminded of the documentary over the twin towers . The metal used for the "cage" - the internal metal that was to hold everything together in case of fire or destruction was not build according to the original plans . That error was very much like some of my errors .... they revealed my failings and I crumpled . I lost people dear to me . I lost pieces of me . I lost my sense of safety . I mushed like the carrot .
Another issue I've had when tried by flames and fears is ignoring the problems. I foolishly tried to pretend I was "fine ." That's like seeing a fire in your cabinet and closing the door and hoping for the best . Ignoring the trials and fire does not make the fire cease to exist - it only allows it to grow and devour more. A fire left untamed is allowed to feed and thrive on the kindling of ignorance. I couldn't hide from my problems or tribulations any more than closing the cabinet would stop the fire . It kept burning .
It kept eating away at things that were important .
I kept loosing things and people I love .
A few days ago I saw this verse :" When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not harm you . " Isiah 43:2
Ironically it's smoldered in the cabinet I tried to close ... I hadn't put out some of the things that were causing me harm . I hadn't stopped the fires . Today I reread the verse and something new stuck out.
"Walk through the fire ..." notice it doesn't say SIT and remain in the problem . It doesn't say create more problems due to anger and bitterness . It doesn't say ignore the fact that you are experiencing fire . Rather it points out something so obvious.
Don't stay in the fire . You are passing through the flames .
"If you're going through hell - keep on going ." Don't stay the way that you are . Don't keep making the same stupid choices that you made to put you in that predicament. Keep building and get away from the fire .
Keep going .
Stop making the same bad choices and hoping for a new outcome because the cabinet is closed.
Keep fighting.
Stop providing kindling.
"...The flames will not harm you."
But they will change you .
Being tested by fire isn't the end - it's a shift.
Monday, October 3, 2016
Everyone is a used car salesmen when it comes to ourselves.
I am full of bad choices and mistakes in my life; however, it doesn't make me any less valuable.
It took me years to figure that out. And even typing it - is hard . We judge others entirely differently than we judge ourselves . I see myself through my passion and my intentions and also through all the ways I've failed . It's a teeter totter of insanity where the balance is never quite level . I want to be more than my failures . I want to find a way remove them. I don't want to lose the lessons learned or the growth I gained from the experience - but rather peel away some of the scars .
Everyone is a used cars saleman when it comes to themselves. We have all been hurt. We are all selling broken pieces of a person. What is even more interesting are the people who hide themselves, or worse the people they are in a relationship with. Everyone has chapters in their life they don't like and do not like to read out loud. We are human.
Life is too short for crappy relationships with people who do not value you.
Life is too short to be with people who are not proud to have you and love you how you need. Love is not earned . It must be freely and wholeheartedly given . Life is too dang short to tolerate anything less than love . I do not mean the easy stuff of love : the seeing the good in your significant other, the flowers and fancy. The real aspects of love where it gets hard . The phone calls and texts that occur between midnight and 4 am ... The confessions of mistakes you can't undo and have no idea how you can look at yourself in the mirror . The questions where there are no simple answers . The people who hold you up literally and figuratively whether it's due to too much alcohol, loss, or things you'll never want to speak of again .
Everyone tries hard to present themselves to the world in a light that shows off the good they have left . We see ourselves from the inside . We see those scars . We see the broken and battered. We know how badly it hurts to smile and be dutiful in our jobs, family role, and the motions of living. We follow the rules given to us by people who don't see inside our heads. These outsiders who tell us the "appropriate" ways to handle things . We shy away from vulnerability for fear of being seen as weak. The major issue with this - love and joy can only be attained through being vulnerability.
Used car salesmen are selling a thing- a piece of machinery that can be insured and replaced if broken. Hearts are not machinery . They are not able to be replaced . If we break a heart it's more like a broken bone - scars form to try and cover the weakness but that spot will always be weak. It will always have a tenderness that can not be wholy removed . The scars remain .
I read some place that to truly be vulnerable a person must present all the parts of themselves - confess their most weak and tender spots and then metaphorically hand the other person a knife knowing the other person has the map to your most tender and vulnerable aspects of you .
To try and find love and openness - you have to stop selling a used car.
You are not replaceable . You are not a machine .
Draw the map to your most vulnerable and tender .
Admit what you need .
And hand the knife to someone you trust .
Close your eyes ...
And be vulnerable .
It took me years to figure that out. And even typing it - is hard . We judge others entirely differently than we judge ourselves . I see myself through my passion and my intentions and also through all the ways I've failed . It's a teeter totter of insanity where the balance is never quite level . I want to be more than my failures . I want to find a way remove them. I don't want to lose the lessons learned or the growth I gained from the experience - but rather peel away some of the scars .
Everyone is a used cars saleman when it comes to themselves. We have all been hurt. We are all selling broken pieces of a person. What is even more interesting are the people who hide themselves, or worse the people they are in a relationship with. Everyone has chapters in their life they don't like and do not like to read out loud. We are human.
Life is too short for crappy relationships with people who do not value you.
Life is too short to be with people who are not proud to have you and love you how you need. Love is not earned . It must be freely and wholeheartedly given . Life is too dang short to tolerate anything less than love . I do not mean the easy stuff of love : the seeing the good in your significant other, the flowers and fancy. The real aspects of love where it gets hard . The phone calls and texts that occur between midnight and 4 am ... The confessions of mistakes you can't undo and have no idea how you can look at yourself in the mirror . The questions where there are no simple answers . The people who hold you up literally and figuratively whether it's due to too much alcohol, loss, or things you'll never want to speak of again .
Everyone tries hard to present themselves to the world in a light that shows off the good they have left . We see ourselves from the inside . We see those scars . We see the broken and battered. We know how badly it hurts to smile and be dutiful in our jobs, family role, and the motions of living. We follow the rules given to us by people who don't see inside our heads. These outsiders who tell us the "appropriate" ways to handle things . We shy away from vulnerability for fear of being seen as weak. The major issue with this - love and joy can only be attained through being vulnerability.
Used car salesmen are selling a thing- a piece of machinery that can be insured and replaced if broken. Hearts are not machinery . They are not able to be replaced . If we break a heart it's more like a broken bone - scars form to try and cover the weakness but that spot will always be weak. It will always have a tenderness that can not be wholy removed . The scars remain .
I read some place that to truly be vulnerable a person must present all the parts of themselves - confess their most weak and tender spots and then metaphorically hand the other person a knife knowing the other person has the map to your most tender and vulnerable aspects of you .
To try and find love and openness - you have to stop selling a used car.
You are not replaceable . You are not a machine .
Draw the map to your most vulnerable and tender .
Admit what you need .
And hand the knife to someone you trust .
Close your eyes ...
And be vulnerable .
Monday, April 18, 2016
Oh MY GAWD! Reasons why relationships with our mothers are complicated
There older I get the more I think my relationship with my mother is a lot like God. I respect and am in awe of both. I fear disappointing them both. I want to do things that make them proud of my literal creation. Maybe it's a simplistic concept .
I don't think I know a single person who has a simple relationship with their mom. The one person who cheers me on no matter how ridiculously bad I fail - is my mother. I know that there are times where things are completely wrong and broken in my life, and I feel the dual idea to call her and to avoid her. I long to call and vent and get advice. I also want to avoid because I'm feel like I don't want to fail her . I think the same dual thoughts exist about God for me. I want to run to and get help and also fear admitting my failures. I truly believe that both would never stop loving me. That statement in itself is rather hard to admit. I am not easily loved. I am complicated and moody. I over analyze some days while I work so very hard to create a balance of perfection only to push too hard in one area and fall on my face.
The first lump I found in my breast I was an emotional basket case. I told members of my inner sanctum "tribe." I made appointments with the doctors. I went to the dr appts, the mammograms, the ultrasounds, and the MRI alone because I didn't want to be the person who told my mom something was wrong. I have no desire to make my mother cry. I didn't know how to tell her. I didn't know what to pray for either. I am believer that everything happens for a reason. What if I prayed for healing and I wasn't sick? Then I'd feel like I wasted God's time . ( I'm an over analyzer after all. ) So I waited to tell my mother. The same person I adamantly believe is my best supporter. I didn't ask for healing from God; instead, I asked for it to be the right outcome.
She has seen my naked more times than I can even fathom; literally and metaphorically. She knows my birthmarks under my arm and lower back like they were art. She told me once if anything ever happened to me, she knew she could be the one to identify my body because she could do it by my scars...my ears, my hands, whichever. She didn't want to see my face and have to see me like that- so she decided that she could identify me by my scars.
The person who loves me best can see past my broken and hurt and see how they make up.....me. Loving someone should be like that. You see the scars of someone you care about and see that they have created a stronger more identifiable person. Some of my favorite things about my own child, besides his heart and ornery side, are the 2 teeny tiny freckles where his neck swoops down to his collarbone. Things that other people might not notice... Maybe our mothers love us differently because we are the only people who know what their heartbeat sounds like from the inside. Maybe it's because no matter the circumstances involved with our conception- it's a fact that at one point ( OR MANYYYYY) our mothers were responsible for our literal every need. That no matter how badly I fail or fall - my mother would help me. Ironically, its the same reason why I avoid ever asking her for things.
I can talk to her for hours on end or go a month without talking and she will still be there. I make her crazy. She says things without saying them. She always notices when I change my hair. (Key word: NOTICES) She secretly hates most of the nail polish colors I wear, and yet instead of saying it-She smiles and says, " I see you painted your nails." And we both know.
Maybe that's the problem with our mothers. They understand us. They see us. Even when we fight with them- there is nothing we wouldn't do to try and protect them from seeing us fail, from feeling sadness, from thinking we aren't the best we can be. It's the same way I see God.
Please don't see me fail.
Please don't think I'm not worthy of the love.
Please love me.
Please be proud of me.
That's it. Our relationships are complicated because the unending love they give us almost feels like a burden. We WANT to be successful and happy in their eyes. We WANT them to be proud of us. We also want to protect them from seeing all the stupid things we have done- even though eventually they see everything in the end.
No matter how crazy she makes me,
No matter how crazy I assume I make her,
I wont ever give up on my momma.
And I truly think only God knows why.
.
I don't think I know a single person who has a simple relationship with their mom. The one person who cheers me on no matter how ridiculously bad I fail - is my mother. I know that there are times where things are completely wrong and broken in my life, and I feel the dual idea to call her and to avoid her. I long to call and vent and get advice. I also want to avoid because I'm feel like I don't want to fail her . I think the same dual thoughts exist about God for me. I want to run to and get help and also fear admitting my failures. I truly believe that both would never stop loving me. That statement in itself is rather hard to admit. I am not easily loved. I am complicated and moody. I over analyze some days while I work so very hard to create a balance of perfection only to push too hard in one area and fall on my face.
The first lump I found in my breast I was an emotional basket case. I told members of my inner sanctum "tribe." I made appointments with the doctors. I went to the dr appts, the mammograms, the ultrasounds, and the MRI alone because I didn't want to be the person who told my mom something was wrong. I have no desire to make my mother cry. I didn't know how to tell her. I didn't know what to pray for either. I am believer that everything happens for a reason. What if I prayed for healing and I wasn't sick? Then I'd feel like I wasted God's time . ( I'm an over analyzer after all. ) So I waited to tell my mother. The same person I adamantly believe is my best supporter. I didn't ask for healing from God; instead, I asked for it to be the right outcome.
She has seen my naked more times than I can even fathom; literally and metaphorically. She knows my birthmarks under my arm and lower back like they were art. She told me once if anything ever happened to me, she knew she could be the one to identify my body because she could do it by my scars...my ears, my hands, whichever. She didn't want to see my face and have to see me like that- so she decided that she could identify me by my scars.
The person who loves me best can see past my broken and hurt and see how they make up.....me. Loving someone should be like that. You see the scars of someone you care about and see that they have created a stronger more identifiable person. Some of my favorite things about my own child, besides his heart and ornery side, are the 2 teeny tiny freckles where his neck swoops down to his collarbone. Things that other people might not notice... Maybe our mothers love us differently because we are the only people who know what their heartbeat sounds like from the inside. Maybe it's because no matter the circumstances involved with our conception- it's a fact that at one point ( OR MANYYYYY) our mothers were responsible for our literal every need. That no matter how badly I fail or fall - my mother would help me. Ironically, its the same reason why I avoid ever asking her for things.
I can talk to her for hours on end or go a month without talking and she will still be there. I make her crazy. She says things without saying them. She always notices when I change my hair. (Key word: NOTICES) She secretly hates most of the nail polish colors I wear, and yet instead of saying it-She smiles and says, " I see you painted your nails." And we both know.
Maybe that's the problem with our mothers. They understand us. They see us. Even when we fight with them- there is nothing we wouldn't do to try and protect them from seeing us fail, from feeling sadness, from thinking we aren't the best we can be. It's the same way I see God.
Please don't see me fail.
Please don't think I'm not worthy of the love.
Please love me.
Please be proud of me.
That's it. Our relationships are complicated because the unending love they give us almost feels like a burden. We WANT to be successful and happy in their eyes. We WANT them to be proud of us. We also want to protect them from seeing all the stupid things we have done- even though eventually they see everything in the end.
No matter how crazy she makes me,
No matter how crazy I assume I make her,
I wont ever give up on my momma.
And I truly think only God knows why.
.
Tuesday, April 12, 2016
You don't matter...
"YOU don't matter . You are a cog in the system. "
In the grand scheme of things , I am merely a mass of carbon that occupies less than 10 meters of space . And it's true that my combination of my parents genetics is very unique...
In fact, I'd probably tell you some lovely story about how my parents were high school sweethearts, how my grandpa thought my dad was a wild one who drove too fast ( he was ), and how my momma was a nerd (she was), and how my dad drove from his college to my moms college on Valentine's to bring her an engagement ring , and how they got married super young , how they got married on St. Patrick's Day because it was during spring break so they only got to be "weekend married " until the semester was up, and how my dad wanted 15 kids and my momma didn't want ANY, and they waited for 9 years to have me .
The truth of the matter is that - I am ONE person . You are ONE person.
Even if you procreate and create and create and create until you have enough kids to make a football team, you are still ONE person .
And many people will tell you -
YOU don't matter . You are a cog in the system. Your life is as insignificant as a leaf crunched beneath the foot of one of those football players I previously mentioned . <crunch>
But the question has to be asked, "Is that true ?"
Do YOU matter ?
Some people might argue it on a chemical reaction level. They could discuss how you are a carbon based life form and you are apart of a food chain ... Blah blah blah.
Some might discuss how the whole world is connected on a unspoken and interwoven level . Touchy feely stuff . This might make you feel good enough to make choices that change society or even just the people are you .
Others might argue that your dharma is predisposed and you have no control other than the karma that you create .
I'd like to think that maybe it's somewhere in the stew bowl of all of those . Maybe I am destined to do something . Possibly due to my being connected to the rest of humanity , and the science of all living things , but here is the big, Big, BIG thing ...
You make choices .
Do you choose to help others ? Honestly, it's not about you if you do. Technically, then you don't matter. Technically you help others to HELP them.
Do you love and care for your friends, family , and/ or tribe ? Sometimes my love for my tribe is tough love and I care that they stop making choices that do not help themselves . Therefor reinforcing that I do not matter . I may want them to make better choices. I may want them to be loved . However, they must choose their path because I don't actually matter in their equation .
Why do teachers teach ? Do they teach to make themselves better ? Do they share their knowledge or tools to feel better about themselves ? Spend an hour in a room full of teenagers and ask me if I teach for the "feelings." The thing is, I teach because I believe that these unpolished humans are going to change the world . I don't matter . I don't teach for me . I teach in hopes that they will build and create . I teach them poetry so that when they find love maybe they will think "She Walks in Beauty " is the perfect way to explain to their lady love how the feel when they saw her from across the room . Maybe my encouragement will be the echo to "rage rage against the dying of the night !"
I teach for that moment years ago when a mom stopped me in Target to tell me her son had spent the previous year suffering badly from depression . I teach because she tells me that he struggled with thoughts of suicide but he didn't want to let me down ... I don't actually matter . I will tell you that I sat in the cookie aisle at Target that summer day and cried . I bawled loudly and embarrassingly gross . I'm pretty sure that I had snot smeared on my face . I more than likely looked like some B movie prom queen who had overcome adversity to win the crown and kiss her best friend after they placed a cheap plastic rhinestone tiara on her head .
But ... I don't actually matter .
What matters is that he survived . How he lives his live and if he becomes a pilot or a dad who goes to every soccer game his kids plays in ... It all doesn't matter .
Why do you love people ? Is it about you or them ?
Why do you take care of people who need care ?
Your choices effect others . That's what actually matters .
You are a mass of carbon who doesn't matter .
In the grand scheme of things , I am merely a mass of carbon that occupies less than 10 meters of space . And it's true that my combination of my parents genetics is very unique...
In fact, I'd probably tell you some lovely story about how my parents were high school sweethearts, how my grandpa thought my dad was a wild one who drove too fast ( he was ), and how my momma was a nerd (she was), and how my dad drove from his college to my moms college on Valentine's to bring her an engagement ring , and how they got married super young , how they got married on St. Patrick's Day because it was during spring break so they only got to be "weekend married " until the semester was up, and how my dad wanted 15 kids and my momma didn't want ANY, and they waited for 9 years to have me .
The truth of the matter is that - I am ONE person . You are ONE person.
Even if you procreate and create and create and create until you have enough kids to make a football team, you are still ONE person .
And many people will tell you -
YOU don't matter . You are a cog in the system. Your life is as insignificant as a leaf crunched beneath the foot of one of those football players I previously mentioned . <crunch>
But the question has to be asked, "Is that true ?"
Do YOU matter ?
Some people might argue it on a chemical reaction level. They could discuss how you are a carbon based life form and you are apart of a food chain ... Blah blah blah.
Some might discuss how the whole world is connected on a unspoken and interwoven level . Touchy feely stuff . This might make you feel good enough to make choices that change society or even just the people are you .
Others might argue that your dharma is predisposed and you have no control other than the karma that you create .
I'd like to think that maybe it's somewhere in the stew bowl of all of those . Maybe I am destined to do something . Possibly due to my being connected to the rest of humanity , and the science of all living things , but here is the big, Big, BIG thing ...
You make choices .
Do you choose to help others ? Honestly, it's not about you if you do. Technically, then you don't matter. Technically you help others to HELP them.
Do you love and care for your friends, family , and/ or tribe ? Sometimes my love for my tribe is tough love and I care that they stop making choices that do not help themselves . Therefor reinforcing that I do not matter . I may want them to make better choices. I may want them to be loved . However, they must choose their path because I don't actually matter in their equation .
Why do teachers teach ? Do they teach to make themselves better ? Do they share their knowledge or tools to feel better about themselves ? Spend an hour in a room full of teenagers and ask me if I teach for the "feelings." The thing is, I teach because I believe that these unpolished humans are going to change the world . I don't matter . I don't teach for me . I teach in hopes that they will build and create . I teach them poetry so that when they find love maybe they will think "She Walks in Beauty " is the perfect way to explain to their lady love how the feel when they saw her from across the room . Maybe my encouragement will be the echo to "rage rage against the dying of the night !"
I teach for that moment years ago when a mom stopped me in Target to tell me her son had spent the previous year suffering badly from depression . I teach because she tells me that he struggled with thoughts of suicide but he didn't want to let me down ... I don't actually matter . I will tell you that I sat in the cookie aisle at Target that summer day and cried . I bawled loudly and embarrassingly gross . I'm pretty sure that I had snot smeared on my face . I more than likely looked like some B movie prom queen who had overcome adversity to win the crown and kiss her best friend after they placed a cheap plastic rhinestone tiara on her head .
But ... I don't actually matter .
What matters is that he survived . How he lives his live and if he becomes a pilot or a dad who goes to every soccer game his kids plays in ... It all doesn't matter .
Why do you love people ? Is it about you or them ?
Why do you take care of people who need care ?
Your choices effect others . That's what actually matters .
You are a mass of carbon who doesn't matter .
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