I am that girl

I was standing in the shower this morning (that's where I have most of my brilliant ideas) with a cup of  coffee.  This is something I do regularly; lazy weekend morning indulgence with the water so hot it leaves my skin red, drinking a cup of coffee that tastes slightly of shampoo.  I can feel the toxins leeching out of my pores under the steady attention of steam and exfoliating body wash, and today tears, hotter than the water, splashing into my coffee.

To be honest I don't cry very often.  I get angry sometimes and I laugh most of the time, but I don't cry.  I hate it.  It makes my face all red and splotchy, gives me a headache, and makes me feel gross in general.  So when I do feel the need to cry, I make some excuse and hide myself in the shower.  So today it was hot water, coffee, and tears.

A decision was made (by me) that will make my life very difficult in the coming months.  It was a right decision.  It was a good decision.  It was a decision that needed to be made.  It was made with much deliberation, advice seeking, and internal moral wrestling.  But I am not looking forward to it's results. Frankly, I'm terrified.  Yep.  I said it.  I am flat out scared. 

Okay.  That's great.  That's enough to lead to tears in the shower, but it didn't.  Nope. Here's what did:

I feel very alone.

Ugh.

Who wants to admit that?  Especially when I know full well that I am surrounded by wonderful friends and family who would support me to the ends of the earth!  And here's what's worse:

I relate to those obnoxious internet memes that say "She says she's fine, but inside she's coming apart."  Only mine would read, "She says she's fine, but when she runs off to the shower she cries into a cup of coffee!"

I don't want to be that girl.  I want to be wonderfully stable, happy even in the worst of times, the rock that everyone else runs to because they need advice or a smile or just to know that everything is going to be okay.  I want to be infectious laughter, the bright light of hope in the darkness, an inspiration.  I want to be fun, funny, and endearingly dysfunctional.  I don't want to be the melodramatic sigh that makes everyone cringe while reading my facebook page.

The truth is, we are all that girl sometimes.  Not always.  But sometimes everyone sinks into that darkness where the debate between the health benefits of a jog and a glass of red wine ends in the bottom of the wine bottle and the desire to adopt every dog on the ASPCA website so that someone can have a good life!  (Okay, so maybe that's just my personal scenario, but I still feel like someone on the planet can relate.)

Because everyone has those moments.  Everyone.  And yet I am so blind I am to other people's coffee in the shower tears.  My theory is that they, like myself, hide these moments.  I have my own reasons.  I don't want to be perceived as a weak, internet meme following pussy indulging in a hormone driven emotional breakdown.  But that's the truth.  I am that girl.  And while 85% of the time I am a strong, together, bill-paying, responsible adult, the other 15% of the time I'm ashamed of who I am. 

And I shouldn't be.  There is room in me to be both women; strong, independent and happy but with weaknesses and (God forbid!) needs that I can't fulfill by myself.  Hiding my personal pain and  fear is not the right answer.   Crying in the shower isn't bad, but it doesn't lead to answers or to the kind of peace I'm searching for.  Sometimes I should open my mouth and actually share what really matters to me, but it is so hard to be that vulnerable.

The need to write something down is pulling itself from the tips of my fingers into my keyboard.  The springs under each key bouncing back with a pop that says, push me down again... again... again!  Children on a trampoline, bouncing and laughing.

But I am not laughing.  I am actually angry today.  A sullen, dark anger that has been building for several weeks and finally exploded out of me in a volcanic rush of acidic remarks and sulfuric tears. It's still rumbling inside of me, an ulcerated stomach with no promise of relief from a magic purple pill. 

There are several things about anger that I understand now.  I understand why red is an angry color.  The backs of my eyelids are prominently red from exhaustion. Anger makes me tired.  I understand why anger is bad for my health.  My back is in knots and my head is throbbing in time with my accelerated pulse.

What I don't understand is why I can't let it go.  I want to.  I really do.  I don't like feeling like this. But I can't.  It's like it's attached itself to my insides and is driving me in close marching formation toward the battlefield, and all I want to do is trip over my fallen comrades, cry for a little while, and look up and see the sunlight breaking through the clouds with a wry, wistful smile of wonder and healing on my face.

Yeah.  It so doesn't work that way.  So today I'm dealing with anger with too many adjectives and a hope that my poor keyboard recovers from the forceful strokes of my belligerent fingers.

Whenever I think about buying something brand new I always visualize what it will look like in five to seven years.  I think about rust and fading, scratches and oozing glue from unskilled but good intentioned repairs. What I discover in those thoughts sometimes makes me smile and sometimes makes me sad because I realize that I know I will love whatever it is more after time has left it's mark than I do now. There is a beauty in the damage.

I love damaged people too.  The pared down wisdom of someone who has been through tragedy draws me like the proverbial moth to a flame. I want to listen to the stories they are loathe to tell and bathe in the neurotic need to hide pain behind a smile or a laugh.  Undercurrents of experience line every word or artistic expression. There's something comfortable about damaged people.  A feeling of home.

Free Will

I once believed in perfect circles.  The universe turning slowly until we finally understand where we're going and why.  But only fate makes a perfect circle.  Free will is a wild, tangential comet spinning from the dust to impact the circle with choices that are not always our own.  Free will is both beautiful and tragic.

Just a tiny thought

Sometimes... when the pragmatic part of my brain takes over and I analyze my emotion I get a little nauseous.  I know it's not bad to feel things deeply, but I hate how it tears little pieces out of my soul.  Like Lord Voldemort.... only the good parts of me.  So that when Harry Potter discovers he's my horcrux he finds a piece of my laughter.

Happy Birthday to Me

I have had a bad attitude about Valentine's Day for many years, but it was never because of the actual concept of the day.  It was always because it interfered with my intense need to indulge in narcissism once a year.  The idea of a day solely observed as a celebration of love is actually a wonderful (if often bittersweet) tradition.  The anti-hallmark, anti-commercialism movement likes to go on and on about the negative aspects, but in reality.... it's kind of nice to hear people saying in public the things they usually reserve for quiet, intimate moments.

Things I Learned on my Porch

When I was a little girl, I would spend weeks at a time with my grandparents.  They lived on a wide expanse of land in the middle of nowhere.  "Going into town" was a big deal, and the road was made of dirt that had to be leveled every few weeks to mitigate erosion.  Every morning and every evening (weather permitting) my grandfather sat on his porch and drank coffee or iced tea.  It was a quiet time.  Quiet conversation.  Quiet activities.  Quiet minds.  When he'd finished his drink he would slap his hands on his knees and say "Wel'p." I've always thought this was a contraction of "well" and "up"... but I've never actually asked.  Regardless, it was an incentive to get moving.  Then he would stand and get busy with the day or go into the house to watch the nightly news.

I treasured these moments of quiet.  The air seemed softer and the birds seemed louder.  It was like meditation without the official title.  It was calming.  Even as an adult, I find my grandparent's porch to be a balm in the midst of a crazy life.

When I bought my house I knew it was the right one.  The porch was perfect.  The first morning I woke up, made a cup of coffee, and sat on the front steps drinking not only coffee but also the early morning August air.  That evening, I did the same on my back porch.  I often invited my sister-in-law over to join me, and we would sit together slowly waking up. I've thrown a few parties, and I've noticed two gathering places: the kitchen and the porch.  The living room with all of its couches and comfortable chairs is often empty.  But the porch is always full of conversation.

My dear friends know that the deepest conversations are had on my back porch under the techni-color glow of my owl lights, staring at the branches of the trees, catching glimpses of the stars as they pulse brighter than the back light of the city, and annoying my neighbor with late night laughter.  Often I find myself sitting in my rocking patio chair drinking a cup of tea and listening to the woes of 4th grade spelling tests or how hard hitting a certain note on the trumpet is or which jump rope technique is the most effective during the annual jump-a-thon. It's amazing how much more meaningful these conversations are when they are had on the porch instead of in the car while rushing from one place to another or at the dinner table (which is the ultimate in multi-tasking... serve food, clean up, carry on conversation, referee arguments, and somehow manage to eat...).

The porch is a place of accidental peace.  It is an intensely quiet area where I can actually focus on the important things being brought to me by my friends or children or a place where I can reflect on my thoughts without the distraction of the television or music or work or the fact that my kitchen is dirty and the fans need to be dusted. I spend my moments listening to the sounds of the birds and enjoying the soft air before dusting off my hands and saying "Wel'p!"  That single word encouraging me to face my life again and bring into my hectic day the peace I'd had a moment before.  I'm grateful for my porch.

"Do that which makes you complete. Be comforted. Work to get along with others. Live in peace." - 2 Cor. 13:11

Friendship

Yesterday was a rough day.  For reasons that would be revealed as my blood pressure plummeted to a lovely 84/40, I was forgetful.  I wasn't sure I could remember my name much less my security badge, the fact that it was trash day, or my driver license.  So when I finally arrived at work half an hour late, I was brought to my knees by a gesture of kindness I never expected.

On my desk, in front of my keyboard was a box of tea.  Not just any tea... my favorite tea.  Peach passion.  The scent of which calms me even on my roughest days.  And on top of the box of tea was a sweet note from a dear friend, wishing me a good day in spite of it's rough beginning.

I can't even begin to describe my gratitude.  I am so blessed with amazing relationships, and I am never prepared for the wonderful people who are brought into my life.  Often I find myself unable to thank people enough for the kind things they do for me.  From mowing my grass to watching my kids while I nap to simply keeping me company on days when I am not good company for myself much less anyone else... these people fill my life and bless me beyond measure.

I hope beyond hope that I am able to be a blessing back.  And I want to tell those friends thank you... from the bottom of my heart.  And maybe one day, I will find a way.  Until then... maybe I can just say this...

My life is meant for relationships, and I will work my hardest to maintain the ones I have.  I promise my friends that I will love them in spite of their flaws, that I will cherish their quirks, that I will encourage their eccentricities.  Because their unique qualities make them wonderful.  And I will pray every day for blessings to overflow on my friends, for peace to pass their understanding, and for life to be interesting and wonderful and full of amazing things. 

Thank you, friends.  For tea in the morning.  For contemplation of homicidal monks.  For deep conversations at 4:00am.  For Star Trek. For the color pink.  For owls.  For singing at the tops of our lungs in the car.  For flowers.  For adventures in home improvement stores. For garage saleing.  For coffee on my porch. For silly string and food fights. For hope.  For the future.

You make my life worth living.

The Golden Rule Revisited

A very good friend of mine said something to me the other day that hurt my feelings.  Like many things that are hurtful, I needed to hear this one because it was truth.  He said to me, "I don't like the way you treat my friend Theresa.  She's one of my favorite people and you treat her like crap.  You would never treat another person the way you treat yourself, and I think that's wrong.  Be nice to Theresa."

It's true.  I beat myself up all the time over things I have no power to change.  I am so much harder on and more judgmental of myself than I ever would be of someone else.  Other people are always given the benefit of the doubt.  I don't know what they think or what their intentions are after all.  I know what I was thinking.  I know where I was going.  I know what I could have done better.

The hardest part of this situation is that I don't know how I can treat myself better.

I walk myself in circles in my head.  If I am kind to myself I carry guilt that perhaps I should have been less selfish.  I should have focused that energy on someone else.  How dare I spend money on my hair when I'm cutting my sons' hair inexpertly in the kitchen??  How can I go to bed early when I have their school schedule and lunches to organize for the morning??  How can I tell a friend in crisis I don't want to go out for coffee and talk about their feelings because all I really want is to sit on my couch and watch Star Trek Voyager on Netflix??  How can I take a day off of work to go to the doctor when my boss obviously really needs me??

People are not machines.  We are not meant to run full tilt all the time.  Sometimes we need rest and when those moments occur, beating ourselves up is pointless because if we don't, our bodies will simply shut down and we won't have to beat ourselves up.  We'll already be beaten.

My worst moments however are not necessarily struggling with obligation... my worst moments are dealing with the crises that happen in my life without thinking I could have prevented them somehow.  For example how could I have prevented my son from acting out in school?  Obviously I'm sitting right next to him in his classroom enforcing all of the behavioral rules I've preached since his birth.  If I am logically aware that I can actually do nothing to change his behavior from my remote location, why on earth do I have this irrational need to blame myself for it?  Yet here I am, doing exactly that.

I have learned in my short life that I do not know what the future holds. (I know that's a random segue, but stay with me... I promise I'll tie it in!)  Every day is new and fresh and things happen that I never expected.  So many things have happened in the past several years that I never thought possible for me, yet here I am sitting at this table writing these words... I am beyond blessed!

And maybe that's the key.  Everyday I need to look at my blessings, discover just how wonderful this life is, remind myself that while sometimes hard things happen, beautiful things happen to.  Perhaps there are things that are my fault.  Perhaps I could have flapped my butterfly wings and changed the course of war in Africa, but I didn't.  Instead I made an impact elsewhere and left a joy-filled crater that I can't beat myself up for. 

What I Learned While Repairing My Toilet

There are many things I can do, and a few of those things I'm very good at.  I can garden (you wouldn't be able to tell that from the state of my yard at the moment though).  I can cook (not fantastically, but definitely adequately).  I can clean (obsessively). I can fix a computer (in my sleep).  I can change the oil and spark plugs in my car (though I prefer to pay someone else to do it).

However, I am not particularly good at anything DIY around the house.  A friend of mine showed me how to re-wire an electrical socket.  I'm ashamed to admit that other than "turn off the power before you start" I remember nothing of what he said.  And plumbing completely baffles me!

Since I moved into my house over a year ago the toilet has run constantly. This was something that was noticed during inspections and should have been fixed.  Somehow, it was overlooked (in other words I didn't notice it wasn't fixed) and I was stuck with it.  I ignored it for a while until it got really loud and I started noticing a difference on my water bill.  For some reason, when it affects my bank account, I take action.

One Saturday I decided to do something about it.  Everyone I'd spoken to had advised me that this was an easy job.  And wasn't I an independent, strong-willed woman who had taken the world by the balls and made it hers?  Surely a toilet would not conquer me!  So I went to Lowe's and purchased a toilet repair kit.

I followed the directions.  I turned off the water and disconnected the hose.  I caught the excess water in a bucket.  So far so good!  I removed the ballcock and tried not to giggle (the guts of a toilet have amusing names... just sayin').  I removed the floater and the overflow tube.  I was getting pretty good at this.

Then the directions told me to unscrew the tank.  My home was built in 1953, and while some things have been updated and it looks fairly modern, there are some things that have not been.  My toilet has probably been in this bathroom for more than thirty years.  The bolts that held the tank to the bowl were covered in some sort of strange crust (I'm hoping it was rust).  One I removed... with effort.  But the other would not move.  Not even a tiny bit.  After an hour of frustrated attempts I was fighting tears and lamenting the weak upper body strength associated with my gender.

And I called my dad.

What is it about dads that make them know everything?  Just the sound of his voice gave me confidence that this was going to be okay.  When I explained what it was I was doing he gently told me I didn't need to do all of that.  He asked me what I saw and I described the disaster that sat in pieces in front of me.  The delicate balance between independent, strong-willed woman and despairing little girl who didn't have a clue what to do with this dirty, watery mess tilted and I nearly lost it.  But dads somehow work magic, and mine is particularly good.  He spoke the incantation, "How 'bout I come take a look at it."

Verbally I objected.  Emotionally I rejoiced.  Cognitively I stubbornly wanted to figure it out on my own.  Talk about conflicted!  But in the end, I agreed, and he was on his way.

In the meantime, I resorted to my good friend Google and searched for answers.  In the ensuing ten minutes I discovered that he was indeed right and I was doing too much work.  I was nearly finished when he arrived and inspected my work.  He simply said, "Yep.  Looks good.  Make sure everything is good and tight and keep an eye on it over the next couple of weeks to make sure it doesn't leak." Suddenly I felt like a brilliant neurosurgeon who had just performed life-saving brain surgery.

I had done it. The toilet worked, and it didn't make a sound! What's more, I had done it by myself!  I was proud and humbled at the same time, and I realized in that moment that without his affirmation I would have gone back and forth on the matter for some time and may never have come to the conclusion that I was indeed doing things right.  I needed the help, as much as I didn't want to admit it to myself. Getting up close and personal with a toilet forced me to realize that asking for help isn't weakness.  Asking for help is a kind of strength in and of itself.  Life isn't about knowing everything, it's about knowing who to ask when we aren't sure and being willing to change what we're doing to follow wiser directions.

Yep.  A toilet taught me that.

Re-claiming

It's taken me three long, desert-like years to discover that violence can be purely emotional.

Yes, I've read all the stories about emotional abuse. I've watched Law and Order: SVU. I've seen first hand the results of brain-washing. But never once did I think it could happen to me. Perhaps this is a resulting fallacy of my mid-Western American upbringing. Relatively safe. Relatively happy. Relatively sheltered. Being aware of what is happening in other parts of the world does not give the same understanding as actually experiencing those things. Anyone who has been to a third world country and witnessed real poverty can attest to this.

I am no different. I had no idea what real emotional trauma could do to a person. In fact, because I mostly blamed myself for the trauma in my life, it never occurred to me that it was abuse. But it was. And I was a victim.

Ugh. I hate that word. There is such a loss of control there. Something I hate with so much passion, I can't even describe it in words. I don't like loss... in any form.

But loss is what I experienced. Not just any loss, but a violent, tragic, heart-rending loss. The kind that broke me.

I'm not talking about the kind of broken that makes a person suicidal. I am aware that people have it much worse than me, and there are kinds of emotional trauma that some people never recover from. It is my prayer that I am not one of those people. I am determined to recover, and this... this is my therapy.

My loss was my cathartic, creative writing outlet. My stories were stolen from me, literally taken and violated. A kind of emotional rape that I am positive few people are really going to understand. I won't take it personally if you scoff at this. The analogy probably sounds ridiculous to anyone who has been physically raped. And from that perspective, it is. But the trauma was the same. My creativity was broken. My inspiration suppressed. The loss was so deep, I sank gratefully into denial.

Today I was shaken from that comforting, self-effacing place. Today the band-aid was ripped right off, and not by more hurt... but by kindness and a genuine need to help heal a wound that was obvious to anyone who knew me four (or more) years ago. This emptiness that filled my once literary, word-filled world was bigger than I expected.

Now, I am angry. How dare anyone take that from me? It was mine. It IS mine. And while the physical, readable evidence of those days no longer exists (except perhaps on some back-up server that no one can access without special privileges that I wouldn't even know how to begin to request) the creativity, the passion, and the drive that formed passages, paired words, lengthened narrative... those still exist. They are buried under hurt and anger and abject terror, but they are there.

Today I make it my mission to pull myself out from under those layers. I make it my mission to find myself again. Today I told someone I was content with who I am, but a few short hours later I discovered a part of myself is missing. Perhaps I am still content, but I am driven to find the rest of me. No... it's deeper than drive, deeper than ambition. I need to find it. It is an integral part of me. The outpouring of my soul. And I will reclaim it.

Things but not so much Stuff

I was recently asked: "What would you save if your house was on fire?"

Perhaps an unfair question, since the first answer out of my mouth would have to be my children. (Duh!) But barring any living creature in need of saving, it took me less than half a second to answer this question. There is only one thing I would save.

I am not a material girl. I like shoes, and own 40 or so pairs. I enjoy television and my computer. I like my washing machine and my car. I get nostalgic over pictures of my children as babies, and I own several books I have read 50+ times. But I wouldn't save any of them.

I would save my plant, Harvey.

About two years ago, my cat knocked Harvey over and broke the planter in which he had grown for more than fifteen years. I was distraught, genuinely upset, manic, almost in tears. Yes, that sounds dramatic, but it was true. My sister-in-law came over because we were supposed to go out to dinner, and when she arrived she stared at me like I was certifiably insane. All this.... over a PLANT!?

I took her confusion stoically (or as stoically as I could while desperately searching for a new flower pot and trying not to weep over the marbles that tumbled dirtily from between Harvey's roots). She naturally didn't understand. This is no mere plant, and the thought of losing him knotted my intestines and made my heart beat too fast.

Harvey is my oldest friend. I have had him since I was 13 years old. He is a cutting from my grandmother's philodendron, and he has been everywhere with me since then. My ex-husband told me he knew I wasn't coming back, not when I told him I was leaving, but when I packed up Harvey to move in with my parents. Harvey greenly took up a prominent place in every home I have ever lived in, and I always know he's going to be there.

He has seen me through times when I wasn't sure I had the strength to make it, and his silent presence is a balm to my soul. He is my secret keeper. He alone knows everything about me, and he will never tell anyone. (Mostly because he can't!)

I honestly can't think of anything else I would save from a fire. Maybe attachment to a plant is weird, but so be it. This is the longest relationship I've ever had, and I will nourish it with every drop of water and every dissolvable grain of Miracle Gro.

White

I glanced up this morning and realized it was only Wednesday. It's been a really long week. The constant repeating of "keep your hands to yourself" and "use your inside voices" and "please get off of the cat" becoming a soundtrack to back the growing white monotony of snowbound boredom.

The biggest snowstorm in recorded history, they say. Don't leave your homes except in an emergency, they say. The roads are treacherous and the temperatures frigid, they say. Too quickly I have discovered the parts of myself (pretty much all of me!) that lack patience and despise enforced solitude.

I shoveled, stacking snow in neat piles on either side of the driveway. It got me out of the house for a few minutes. Maybe my children will survive one more day.

Dreaming....

The rows and rows of cubicles were laid out in a mesmerizing maze. There were no chairs and no computers. The acrid smell of new carpet was everywhere. I walked the rows slowly, glancing here and there at the people standing, staring numbly at their hands. The all looked the same. Headsets perched on dark hair, small noses, high cheekbones, brown skin, mouths in a permanent smile. I knew they weren't mannequins, but they seemed like it. Plastic.

I made my way to three computers lined up on a low table. My co-worker stood behind the table talking on his cell phone. He smiled at my approach. I climbed the three steps to the slightly raised dais. He turned off his phone, gesturing expansively to the big, high-ceilinged room.

"What do you think?" He asked.

"It's wonderful! I don't know how I can improve on what you've already done here," I replied.

"I feel like it's unfinished," he said with a sigh and a look of deep disappointment.

"Well, let's talk statistics then. What is the expected service level? What kind of contract have you signed? The facility is state of the art. So you've got the tools to do a fantastic job."

I looked out the tall windows at the skyscrapers impaling the tropical sky, low clouds gathered at their tops. I wanted to breathe that air, to bask in the Manila humidity. My co-worker sat down on the floor next to the long table and started sorting a tall pile of papers muttering about contracts and SLA. He was preoccupied, so I wandered the lines of cubicles again.

"It's time to go, Theresa," you said from behind me. Your big hands rested gently on my shoulders.

I sighed, glancing down at my black skirt and heels. At least I was appropriately dressed. We walked to the stairs and quickly down them. The cab took us to the old house. I stepped out and walked to the top of the hill. Things looked different now. The street below was paved and the eroded sides of the hill were covered smoothly in grass. I laughed as my son ran nimbly down the hillside.

"What's funny?" You asked.

"This hill is the reason I have scars on the tops of my feet. It used to be gravel, and I slid down it on my knees once," I replied with a nostalgic smile.

You smiled back. I liked having you with me. You were gentle, and I knew I would be emotional soon. We made our way to the house and my mother met us on the lawn. She hugged you.

"I'm so glad you're here," she said, and you laughed. I knew this was your first meeting, and I wondered why she was acting like she had known you for years. Then I saw the crowd behind her and understood that she felt caught out. I refused to apologize for someone else's prejudice.

"Come," my mother said.

We walked to the stairs surrounded by that judgmental crowd. My brother stood next to me. His hair was long and a smile creased his face setting off his perfect teeth. I wanted to hate him, but this wasn't how I hated him. I hated him bald and angry. Like Sampson's strength, maybe his joy was in his hair.

I saw you go up the stairs. The rest of the crowd went down. I followed the crowd to a room filled with folding chairs. I knew we had plenty of time, but I was impatient for you to be beside me. I felt naked and unprotected without you. I sat on the empty back row, pulled out my phone, and quickly texted.

"Where are you?"
"In broom closets and cupboards. I know my way out. I'm just taking my time."
"Will you be coming down soon?"
"Once I've finally found the roof. I want to see the sky before being buried."
"You're not being buried, love."
"This funeral is in a basement."
"Why did you come?"
"I'm writing a paper on the words people use at funerals."
"Oh."

The words kept scrolling on my screen, your answers sometimes coming before I could send the questions. All around me the basement full of chairs filled also with people. I was surrounded. I felt suffocated. My joy-filled brother I hated sat in front of me. Beside him was my long-haired friend. They spoke in laughs and words I couldn't understand. It sounded like music.

My long haired friend leaned back and hugged me. "Your aunt meant a lot to me," he said. "Thank you," I murmured.

You sat next to me then and I wondered if you had found the sky. You smiled warmly at my long-haired friend. "Brother," you said and you clasped hands and bumped shoulders.

You leaned back in your folding chair, and I heard it creak under your weight. You placed your warm hand on my thigh. My brother, who I loved and hated, reached back and moved your hand to my knee.

"What was that?" I asked him.

"It didn't belong there," he replied with a laugh, running his fingers through his hair. His joy fascinated me. I hadn't seen him like this in so long.

Someone at the front of the crowded room demanded attention, but I couldn't take my eyes off of my joyous brother. I glanced briefly at you, seeking wisdom in your dark gaze, but you were far away, tapping your fingers against my knee in an unknown rhythm, singing silently, your black eyes lost in memories I couldn't read.

I opened my own eyes then to the pre-dawn dark and murmured to the wall of your chest pressed against my cheek, "I dreamed you went with me to a funeral." Your voice was heavy with sleep as you replied, "I put the 'fun' in funeral."

The cold air stings like lemonade and strep throat. As much as I hate winter, I welcome the erratic weather today. It matches my volatile mood. One second sunny and cheerful, the next dark and broody.

I moved things around in my house just to do something different. Harvey, my eternally present philodendron, now sits across from me. His leaves are facing the wrong direction because of previous light exposure. I did that on purpose, but I'm not sure what purpose. It doesn't hurt him to spill over only one side of the pot, but my obsession with symmetry is sometimes a little overbearing and awkward. Sorry, Harvey.

Daily ritual... taking out the garbage, loading the dishwasher, making the bed (okay, I never do that last one)... they rule my quiet, boring life right now. It makes me want to scream. Yes, it's orderly and ordered, but I want to throw things just to mix it up a bit.

I'm 31, and I'm going to go to college. Again.

I lost my job.

So that was perfectly blunt and straight forward and designed to make you feel sorry for me. Ultimately, however, I am attempting to use this new and terrifying experience of uncertainty to catapult my creative side. Some days I have the perspective of "maybe this was just what I needed!" Other days I have he perspective of "this is so not what I needed right now!" Either way, I don't really have a choice but to move on.

Calvin Coolidge said, "Nothing in this world can take the place of persistence. Talent will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful people with talent. Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb. Education will not; the world is full of educated derelicts. Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent. The slogan "press on" has solved and always will solve the problems of the human race."

To add to that, I was given a fantastic piece of advice the other day. I was told that it was a good idea to make myself do something creative every single day. Photography, writing, business planning, whatever it may be, to just force myself to do it. Not everything I would do would be brilliant, inspired, or even remotely usable... but it would be something. Something from which to build and good practice for my brain.

So that's where I am. At a loss and yet terribly devoted to making something out of this nothing. Let's see where this goes!

Sunlight streams into the room, warm in spite of the chill in the air. It heats the honey colored wood of the floor, illuminating the fact that the floor hasn't been swept in several weeks.

The light just touches the half full cup of coffee, it's steam curling into the air, that sits on the floor next to my bare feet.

Silence is the wind in the trees, a sound that reminds me of my grandmother. That esteemed woman would be ashamed of the dying houseplants beside the chair, their leaves drifting to the ground on the breeze of the ceiling fan.

I am finding comfort in this old chair, its fraying upholstery embracing me gently in the quiet of morning, in this messy room, its books out of order and leaning odd directions on the shelves, in this creaking house, its memories silently watching from the plaster walls.

Fighting this feeling that life is spiraling downward and will soon land of the floor like the leaves of my houseplants.

Dangling the Carrot

When it comes to relationships, I admit I'm bad. My deep-seated insecurities get the better of me. I read things that aren't there. I second guess myself and talk myself out of something that is probably beneficial. I jump through hoops that don't exist. I run an obstacle course that is only real in my mind.

And I end up emotionally exhausted.

It makes me wonder if anyone else does the same thing. And maybe that's why we all seem to be so bad at communicating. We dance this dance of fear of the unknown when it would just be easier to ask, to be honest, and to get it all out in the open.

But maybe.... that takes some of the fun out of it.

Sushi

Sometimes reality is so raw, so unyielding, so un-sugar-coat-able that I’m afraid to write about it. To lay everything out there, naked in the hot sunlight, is frightening. Reality will get a sunburn, blister, and peel, leaving me even more tender and sensitive.

Looking at me you would think I was successful, and you would be right! Why is it that in the midst of all this success, all this positive change, all these accolades of achievement, I am suddenly so very lost?

I don’t feel like I’ve earned any of this. Yes, I’ve worked hard, sacrificed my time and energy, pinched pennies, saved for years, pulled myself up by my proverbial boot straps. I’ve taken these lemons and I’ve made lemon cake! But I’ve also hurt people along the way. I’ve torn my dignity to shreds, abandoned faith and hope, stepped on fingers and toes, refused to speak when my words could have mended so many broken relationships. Because I was afraid. So very afraid. The fear is still there… my ever-present friend, but I have a choice. My choice is to move on anyway, to lift my head and speak the truth in love. Because perfect love casts out fear.

Life is about relationships, and the fact is, people will hurt me, abandon me, lie to me, cheat on me, ignore me, hate me, talk about me behind my back, seek revenge, refuse to forgive me, mock me, hurt my feelings... Because people are people.

I have the opportunity every day to observe people who think no one can see them. People catch my eye through my three giant glass windows and one heavy glass door. I watch people who laugh at each other, people who fight with each other, people who are alone, people who spoil their children, people who shout at their children, people without children, people who are tired, people who work hard, people who are lazy, people who don’t care what they look like, people who care a little too much.

All of these people have one thing in common… they are people. They feel just like I do. They smile and laugh. They get sad and cry. They all have a story, a story they may want to tell the world, or a story they would prefer to hide so deeply inside that not even they have to admit that it exists.

I watch these people as a quiet, unknown observer, and they teach me something, a lesson written in posture, expression and the strain of skin over white knuckles against the steering wheel…

...we are all the same.

So this is my voice. I’ve screamed at God for so long that my voice is raw and unlovely, but it is mine. I am not fearless, and I know so many people who are far better equipped at word crafting. All I can possibly hope for is to be real.

Nursery Rhymes and Other Morbid Subjects

My youngest son loves to sing. He will sing almost anything, from commercial jingles to angsty Linkin Park. Today he stood in front of the refrigerator, rearranging the magnets, singing at the top of his lungs...

Five little monkeys swinging on a tree
Hey, Mr. Crocodile, can't catch me!
Along came Mr. Crocodile, quiet as can be
And snatched that monkey right out of the tree.

Four little monkeys swinging on a tree....

And so the song went on. Until there were no monkeys left to taunt the poor crocodile.

Is this how we teach our children to cope with life? We stand with our friends and stare danger in the face, taunting it until one of us falls victim to a classic blunder ("never start a land war in Asia"). Instead of learning from that mistake, we continue to plow ahead, until the crocodile consumes us all and there is no one left to wonder why swinging from the tree seemed like such a good idea to begin with.

Nursery rhymes are like this. They prey on death, disease, and phobias. Why was Jack jumping over the candle stick? Why did the spider sit down beside Little Miss Muffet? Does anyone feel sorry for the four and twenty blackbirds that got baked in a pie? And what is up with Humpty Dumpty?! Who sits on a wall? Especially someone who is friends with the king's horses and the king's men.

I could go on and on. From Little Red Riding Hood and her ill-advised, lonely walk in the woods to The Three Little Pigs and their architectural genius, and songs we sing on the playground about London's bridges falling and ring around the rosie, preying on literal historical fact in a sing-song, childlike manner. Death. Disease. Plague. Disaster. Fear. Pain. We teach our children these things are normal, these things are commonplace, these things are simply to be observed or ignored.

Never do the songs and stories tell us how to overcome these things.

So we swing from the trees. A bunch of monkeys with no purpose other than to follow in the footsteps of those who went before. Until the crocodile snatches us away and we no longer have to deal with life.