The Impatience of a Saint

Lately, people have taken to calling me a saint, which I think is hilarious.

The Church would never see fit to canonize me. I am a bisexual woman who lived with her husband before marriage. I have a look that can make even the most disregulated twelve year old pause, and I’ve groused at the goddamnfeckingdogs several times today. I don’t have the prerequisites for sainthood. I cannot claim to be holy, and I am far from able to perform miracles.

Even though my patience is short, I hope that when people call me a saint what they are really saying is they think I have the patience of a saint. Both kids have ADHD, and folks, that is no joke. Tonight I literally announced “I told you to get silverware so you can eat dinner, not play the spoons.” As an aside, this is not even close to the most ADHD thing to have happened today … just the most recent.

It’s not groundbreaking to say that raising kids with ADHD takes a lot of patience. I imagine I’ll write more about it at some point, but ADHD isn’t what this is about.

The thing that doesn’t sit right with me is this: Perhaps, when someone tells me I am a saint, what they’re really saying is that stepping in to parent kids who have lost their mom, or marrying a man who has been widowed, is something they could not do. That it’s not something they can fathom. That it seems too hard. I am a saint for doing something they see as unattainable or extra loving.

I hear the compliment, and I am grateful for the kindness.

But if I’m honest, it sounds like my everyday life has been turned into martyrdom. I am a stepmom and a second wife, yes. And sometimes that feels hard. Grief is a regular part of our lives, and if I’m honest I am still figuring out how much I should play a role in fostering Sarah’s memory. But that doesn’t mean I am offering up a great sacrifice to do so.

It is no sacrifice to me to have been given the gift of these kids. Every day I receive snuggles and song lyrics. I have philosophical discussions about life and fears that end with a joke or the injection of an imaginary friend. I also get frustrated that I have to repeat the same instructions a million times, and sometimes those imaginary friends were not invited into the conversation. But isn’t that part of it? We do everyday family things. The love these boys give me is a blessing that washes over me daily.

It is no sacrifice to me that my husband has the greatest capacity for love I have ever seen. He is the sort of man who will stand with his partner - care for his partner - in sickness and in health. I have never felt as sure or safe or supported as I do now. I laugh daily with a man who sees me as a partner and encourages me to dream. It is not always easy when his grief laps at our shore, and I’d be lying if I said it was. But no matter what happens, we walk this life together. The love he gives me is holy, sanctified, illumined.

It is nothing short of miraculous to see how my husband and kids keep reaching for love again and again and again. People like to call me a saint, but I’d never be invited to join those ranks.

No, I don’t perform miracles, but Lord knows I am living in one every day.

The Birth of a Child Is The Day A Mother Is Born

I cry when I read poems about mothering. About mothering sons. About mothering young ones, who will inevitably grow (if we’re fortunate). I think, this is exactly it and also, this is not anywhere close to it.

My older son sings Johnny Cash to me and grins when he leans a bit too far into a pun. He asks for hugs and snuggles in and tells me about the latest addition to his arsenal of imaginary characters or, if I’m very lucky, his super secret crush. He waits until bedtime to talk about the latest story that is perhaps too vibrant in his mind, or about his latest theory on life, or maybe even about his recently admitted fear of aliens. Every night I sweep the hair back from his brow and kiss his forehead as I remind him that he is safe and so very loved. 

My younger son clings to me when I try to walk across the room. He tiptoes like a cartoon villain - I can almost hear the staccato music with each step - and yells as he attacks me with a hug. He tells me his worries, or simply that he is worried, and his thoughts skip steps in a way that is almost impossible to follow. Every night I tuck him under three blankets and make sure the preferred stuffed toy is within reach. I drop silly kisses across his forehead and cheeks and tell him that I can’t wait to see him in the morning, and that he is so very loved. 

I lay awake at night worried about older son, who sometimes has trouble sleeping. ADHD overrules tiredness and there are mornings when we find that his light has been on all night, that he’s only slept for a couple hours. In the darkness the house settles, and I wonder if that is actually him, playing or reading or tiptoeing out for a snack. I remind myself that he is safe, even if he is tired, and I try to sleep. 

I lay awake at night worried about younger son. Things are so hard for him right now. He is somehow so similar to the younger me, and I worry that the struggles I carry with me will weigh him down. This mirroring between us is so confronting. He has no idea that when I get frustrated because of his refusal to eat it is really frustration at myself, because my immediate thought when I am upset is also to deny myself food. And so I sit at the dinner table and eat, even though I don’t want to, so that he can learn that he is worthy of taking care of himself.

I had no moment in which I was born to motherhood. I snuck into it. It was a path set before me, that I could choose to follow or not. I took steps, some gentle and easy, others hidden and stretched far apart, and still others rocky and slick. There was no sign post that announced WELCOME TO MOTHERHOOD in the bold letters of a delivery and your baby squirming against your exhausted body. I knew I was en route, of course. I tried to prepare for my arrival in this place, but it was uncharted and I worried (still worry) that I was displacing someone else with my arrival. 

I don’t know when I crossed the border. Suddenly one day I was there. Here. It is nothing like what I expected the land of motherhood to look like, and also exactly what I imagined. I question sometimes if I am really here, or am I just pretending or horning in on someone else’s territory. 

It seems the world doesn’t look too kindly on stepmothers. We aren’t valid. We are wicked. We’ll keep you locked in your room or force you to work. Maybe.

Or maybe we comfort you when you cry, and teach you to tie your shoes. We test your temperature with a kiss on the forehead. We listen to your stories and laugh at your jokes. We go to parent-teacher conferences and therapy appointments and make sure we have the correct flavor of toothpaste fully stocked. We bake a cake with you to celebrate your mom’s birthday (chocolate, of course, with blue icing), and hold you when you miss her.

Step-parenthood is its own thing, the overlap of the Venn diagram, somehow both parent and not. It is, “Hey, Mama?” Yes, Dear One? “I want my mom back.” I am Mom, and yet I am not. Step-parenthood, I think, is the total embodiment of Both/And.

I like to imagine that somewhere there are versions of fairytales in which Cinderella rides to the ball with her (step)family. Snow White introduces her new dwarf friends to the queen. No one is forced to dance in red-hot shoes, because there is no need for punishment or revenge. They are all just families - imperfect and flawed, but full of love. I suppose until those fairytales exist we will just need to keep writing our own.

Once upon a time, there was a family. They carried a heavy grief with them, but they were buoyed and strengthened by love. Not every day was perfect - some were far from it - but they always returned to each other.

This story is far from finished, but you can believe that they are wrapped in that love. And in the end, they do live happily (and sadly and anxiously and angrily and joyfully) ever after.

This Is A Post About Infertility

There is a small grief I keep in my pocket. 

It was a short, pink line - faint, but there. A week later it was gone, replaced by a period that started heavy and black, and excruciating pain that made my husband wonder when a trip to the ER might be warranted. I hear this is called a “chemical pregnancy,” and is really nothing more than a period that comes a few days late. 

Sometimes in quiet moments, I let myself take that small grief out the pocket I shoved it in. I unwrap it and listen to the If Onlys … If Only that period had not been late, had not come at all. If Only we were a family of five now. If Only the past year of quietly taking tests and undergoing procedures had not happened, had not been necessary. 

I don’t usually have long before it’s time to fold the grief back into itself and put my focus to something more immediate.

There is a fitting parallelism here, between my grief for this and my boys’ grief for their mom. I am the mother of all grief. I am in a storm of my nine-year-old’s pain, trying to keep upright as his anger whips around, knocking him to pieces. I am in the fun house of my twelve-year-old’s mind, trying to keep balance as he turns grief into hysterical silliness before he calms and settles back into himself. And I step into the river of my own sorrow, aching for this loss that never really was.

Infertility is a wild thing. I am desperate for information. I want to see everything going on inside me. I am tempted by internet charlatans offering six week programs to balance hormones. I want to find the right thing to eat or do or think or feel or say. I would howl at the moon, wear my clothing inside out, or drink water upside down if it meant I had that control. If only infertility was as easy to overcome as hiccups. 

And yet - sometimes I wonder if it is better to not know. If I don’t know that the way my fallopian tubes are shaped gives me an increased risk of ectopic pregnancy, then I don’t have to face the fact that I live in the Bible Belt, where somehow it is holy to let me die. A place I fear might put me in jail because of a period that came a few days late.

Let me be very clear here: my life is beautiful. It is full of light and laughter and deep, deep joy. Love overflows. I have an incredible family that I wouldn’t trade for anything. 

I am lucky and I know it. 

I wish I had some sort of neat bow to tie all this up inside. I don’t, and I am sorry for that. All I know is that I give thanks every day for the life I live, and sometimes I take the grief out of my pocket, unwrap it, and wish for what might have been. 

May It Be

I don’t make New Year resolutions anymore.

It became too much pressure: coming up with the perfect idea to revolutionize (resolutionize?) my life and make me the best possible me I could be. There were the stand-bys: lose weight! save money! somehow end up with perfect hair and a perfect waistline and grow seven inches to become supermodel gorgeous! And there were the more unique ones: be as difficult as possible! never put my hair up in a bun again! hold an invisible camera to my face whenever there is a memory I want to hang onto, even though people will stare in confusion!

None of them worked out. For an overthinker, resolutions are like quicksand. The more you try, the more they pull you down.

So I decided I was done with them. But of course, during this time of year, I can’t help but retro- and introspect, and I can’t help but try to set a goal or intention for the coming year. My mom would say it’s because I’m a Virgo and want everything to be just so. (There may be something to that.) The cynic in me says it’s because I was raised in a high demand religion and have been tasked with constantly striving for perfection. (There may also be something to that.) Most likely, though, it’s because we live in a culture where we’re inundated with New Year NEW YOU! messaging, and it’s near impossible to not turn our thoughts to change.

Lately I’ve been trying to assign a word to the year. It feels less official than a resolution, but in all honesty it’s wild to call a shot at that point in the year. For the next twelve months, I will be focused and centered around . But, even though that feels overwhelming right now, I am compelled to think of what I want things to look like this year.

And so, when chatting with my husband while in an airport on December 28, I said, “This year, I want us to fill our home with joy.”

It sounds amazing, doesn’t it? Fill our home with joy. But what does it actually mean?

Honestly? I don’t entirely know. I mean, I know it means having people over, and letting laughter ring through the house. It means using the silly straws, even though they’re a bit of a pain to clean, because they make us smile. It looks like a Lego typewriter kit given to me by my husband, who heard me say that I grew up believing Lego are for boys, and how sad that made me. It is blankets and coziness and all of us together even though we all have sensory overload sometimes at the same time and it can be a lot - but thank goodness we’re all healthy and safe.

But our home, though often filled with Joy, is also filled with Grief. While some who read this will know our story, others may not … my husband is a widower, and my kids have lost their mom. It is the hardest, most unfair thing for them to have experienced, and it has invited Grief in to be a permanent houseguest.

How do I mother kids who are grieving their mother? How do I hold space for my husband when the grief can be just so heavy?

There are moments when I think that I may have found the secret to life: find a way to hold the Joy and the Grief at the same time. Together. Let them both tear through you, leave you gasping for breath, leave you raw.

I am learning that Joy and Grief are related - cousins, or maybe even siblings. Both experiences of love, both painful at times, neither a feeling we would ever do away with. Joy says, “This love RIGHT NOW, feel the abundance.” Grief says, “This is love RIGHT NOW, feel the absence.”

I will admit now that I do not always want to feel the Grief, to wake up and discover that it will be our companion for the day (or week, or month). Sometimes I want to turn away from it, and pretend it doesn’t exist. I want to invite only Joy into our home, let her fill up the space and leave no room for the heaviness of Grief. But to do so would not only deny my family the chance to let their love continue to grow, but would deny myself the chance to let Grief teach me. To let it make me soft. And I have a sneaking suspicion that if I refuse to welcome Grief into our home, Joy will stop coming around.

And so this is my wish for you, for me: May this year be a year of Joy. And, because none of us will make it through life unscathed, may it also be a year of Grief. The two held together, honing each other even as they blend.

May it be.

Solar Return

This week I turned 34.

It’s not a milestone birthday - unless you figure surviving your Jesus Year to be a milestone - but it feels somehow significant anyway.

I have an image in my mind of my four-year-old self. She is running full speed, barefoot, with hair made of sunshine and wind. She is joyful. Free. I don’t know if this is a memory or a fancy, but I know it is True. Even now, as I write, I am laughing and crying at the image of her in my mind.

I must return to her.

In astrology, the term, “Solar Return” references the return of the stars and sun to the place they were at your birth … aka your birthday. It’s a lovely thing to lean into the consistency of the earth, of the universe … to know that God moves us through cycles familiar and yet somehow new.

I like the term, “Solar Return.” I like the poetry of it, the beauty. But in my mind it’s not about celestial bodies coming back to ME. Rather, it is ME turning back to the sun. Turning back to warmth. Turning back to light.

Turning back to the child whose laugh rang with freedom and who carried the very universe within her.

I could end this here, and wouldn’t that be nice? A short, cheerful, inoffensive post that lets a reader nod in agreement and then move on. Yes, we should all get in touch with our inner child. How nice. Did I remember to put coffee on the grocery list?

(I did not, indeed, remember to put coffee on the grocery list. Whoops.)

I could leave this as an image presented with a smile designed to distract from the heavy weights I carry with me.

I am very good at that: Look at this shiny picture. Isn’t it hopeful and lovely? Just don’t look at this pile of things behind me.

The old luggage, tattered and worn from age and use, holding inside it the identities put upon me from others, that somehow I decided to claim as my own. Overweight. Fat. Too loud. Too sensitive. TOO MUCH.

The dark, inky, black box of tar - shoved upon me by someone who didn’t think my boundaries applied to him. 10 months later, when he reappeared (thankfully online rather than in person), he wouldn’t even get a warning from the police officer who told me that, “someone forcing you to have sex with them is a red flag,” and that “this is why you shouldn’t date online. But don’t worry. You’re a pretty girl. You’ll find someone soon enough.”

There’s a garden patch there, too. It’s beautiful, but the roots are all tangled. In it, church and family have become so intertwined that I can’t tell if I’m staying put because I want to or because it would hurt too much to uproot myself.

There are more boxes in the pile. But to list them now feels too much, and would somehow present an untrue image of myself. There is a stack of things behind me, but I am not overwhelmed by it. Perhaps down the road I’ll shed more light on more boxes, but this is enough for this day.

Many years ago I had a dream, one which has been playing through my mind a lot of late. In it, I picked my way through the ruins of what was once a house. I knew - in that way we all know things to be true in dreams - that the house had been mine. Once pristine and beautiful, it was now exploded, reduced to a pile of smoldering rubble. A glint caught my eye, and I picked up a shard of glass: a piece of mirror large enough to reflect back at me. When I saw my reflection I was surprised, and yet … somehow not. I knew it to be true. The face looking back at me in the mirror was not my own.

It was a lioness.

Somehow, I think she and the little girl with bare feet and wild hair are one and the same.

I would love to be able to say that I have it all figured out. That I know how to let go of the boxes that pull me down and how to build on the others that lift me up. But to say so would be a lie, and I’m not about that. All I know is that I am tired of being at war with myself - with my mind, my body, my spirit.

And so 34 is my Solar Return, whatever that ends up looking like. A journey of trust and courage, to turn back to warmth, back to light, back to the me with wild, windy, sunshiny hair.

When the Darkness Comes Calling

You think too much.
You don't need to feel anxious about this.
Calm down. It's not that big a deal. Don't be so sensitive.

I am a healthy, happy person.

I have a quick smile and a loud laugh that erupts more often than trips out of my mouth. I dance in my kitchen and moonwalk my way out of my socks at night. I can make it through my day to day with no true fear that (barring some horror) I won't make it, even on my worst days.  And I'm pretty good at laughing things off - like those fun statements above that helpful and loving people use when I look at them with that expression.  You know, the one that's stuck somewhere between panic and despair, with a little bit of "This is what drowning feels like" thrown in.

At least, that's where the feeling sits, so I assume that's where the expression lies.

It's a bizarrely colored feeling, too. Have I told you that I see colors? I mean - yes, I can see the world in technicolor - but emotions and feelings, concepts and ideas...they're colorful in my mind. Although, they're not exactly in my mind, in my mind. They take up space outside my head, sometimes running to hide behind me so that I can't deal with them. The hiders, to be honest, are usually the negative things - fear, anger, anxiety, or - the most frustrating - a character who isn't letting me see her clearly just yet. These are the things I have to coax to the forefront of my mind, and often when I see them they are a sickly yellow, or maybe a CAUTION!! orange.

Google tells me this is synesthesia, a brain dysfunction (or whatever) in which sensory paths cross and mingle or tangle. The outcome is that our senses manifest in abnormal ways. The most common form of this is having colors attached to letters and numbers, or seeing sound.

(The brain is a bizarre and beautiful thing, isn't it?)

It took me just under 30 years to realize that other people don't see the world in this way, that other writers don't first discover their stories as colors. My therapist was fascinated by it, but since it never seemed to negatively impact my life there was no real need to explore it or have it officially diagnosed. My current functional medicine practitioner encourages me to embrace it.  You are a vibrant color girl! That's who you are! 

It's just the way I see the world.

My anxiety is electric blue - and when I say electric, I do mean electric...it jolts and zaps when you don't tread carefully. It can be frightening, but there is a strange sort of luminescent beauty to the fear. More often than not it's only charged to the level of static cling. But sometimes it reaches levels of Jurassic Park Electric Fence Danger.  (I've talked about that before...check it out.)

Sometimes, though, these colors go dark. It's not quite like someone turned out the light as much as it is that they poured horrible, sticky, inky tar over my brain. The brightest pink turns sour, rancid even, and I feel like I'll either explode or suffocate. Feelings have always been waves to me: they begin at my feet, and when they reach my chest is when they're most intense - often why it takes me a loooooooong time to feel and react to things - and when they are inky they threaten to drown me. My mom reminds me that as intense as they are, my feelings can't actually kill me, and so I do the things I've learned to help the tar go away - or at least to help the wave recede.

I am grateful that, though I have grappled with that Darkness, I have never felt abandoned in it. I have heard from those who have been left, untied, with no light, in that dark and scary place. And their stories frighten me. People with depression actually believe others will be better off without them alive. It's like walking through pitch black with no light and no idea of where safety is, or if there even is safety.

When the Darkness comes calling it can be disguised as many things: anger, fear, pushing people away when we need them the most. Because when the Darkness comes calling it isn't simply about turning on the light switch again. (No shade, Dumbledore...turning on the light can help.) No, it is about somehow extracting yourself from the tar, and it feels like all you have is a Q-Tip.

I am grateful my mental health has never pulled me that deeply into the tar. That Darkness looms, and dampens my colors sometimes, but ultimately I am alright. That's not the case for others. (If it's not the case for you, don't listen to the voice that tells you everyone else is better off without you. We aren't. We need you. Call 1-800-273-8255...they may have something better than a Q-Tip for helping you escape the tar. At the very least, they can Q-Tip with you.)

I guess I'm asking you to take a moment and remember that even the healthiest among us suffer. Even those who "have it all" struggle. The loudest laughers may actually be mired in an inky bog. This is not lack of courage. It is not lack of love.

It's just the brain, doing it's bizarre and beautiful - sometimes horrible - thing.

When The Answer Is, "No."

I have been thinking a lot about rejection lately.  That's probably because I've faced it pretty regularly during this season in my life.  Some of this rejection has been career-related.  Some has been in the ever-constant search for that Special Someone.  And some has been self-rejection.  Rejection has seemed to become a recurring event in my life.

And it always sucks.

Hard.

My experience with rejection seems to go like this: I read/see/hear the "No."  It's like someone has just up-turned a bucket of numbness over my head.  As the numbness trickles down my body I start to wonder if maybe this time I won't feel so horrible about it.  That thought, though, is evidence that the numbness is wearing off, because suddenly I can feel the acid burn in the pit of my stomach.  There's a pressure in my chest that makes breathing difficult.  It squeezes and squeezes until one fat tear spills onto my cheek.  And then...well.  The floodgates have opened.

"How to Deal With Rejection" has been a session at pretty much any conference I've attended.  I've sat in several of these sessions and here's what I've learned: Rejection sucks and it is all a part of the process.  You will be rejected. Everyone will be rejected.  It's not personal, so once you accept that it becomes easier to deal with.

I decided to write down the ways I actually, practically deal with rejection when it happens.  Maybe it'll help you, too.  So, without further ado, here we go:

- Take a deep breath.  And then take another one.  And another.  I know it feels like it will hurt to breathe.  There's a pressure on your chest that seems to be shoving your heart and lungs down into the burning in your belly.  It seems safer to take shallow breaths.  I know.  But I promise you, the pressure will actually let up as you breathe.

- Related: Get some fresh air.  I don't care if it's 7* outside - you need some fresh air.  Crack the window in your car and crank the heater.  Hug your heating pad and wrap yourself up in a blanket so you can stay warm while also being able to breathe something other than stale air.  I can't overstate how important oxygen is right now.  It is major.  

- Drink some cold water.  And I do mean cold.  Everything is kind of burn-y right now, so you need to counter that.  Later on you can have the comfort of hot tea, hot cocoa, or hot coffee, but right now just try some ice water.  It will help.  I promise.

- Also related to water - wash your face.  Seriously.  It's amazing how refreshing and humanizing this simple act can be.  Yeah, mascara may run and your eyes may still be red, but you feel better.  You know that first shower after you've been sick for a while?  Yeah...this is a miniature version of that.

- Eat something good for you.  I know the instinct is to drown your sorrows in fried food, chocolate, and alcohol.  And those things all have their place.  But if that's all you consume your body is going to feel crappy.  Try some sauteed veggies (I like fajita veggies, myself), or a fresh salad.  Something refreshing, that will help your physical self feel better.  It translates to the emotional self.  Really.

- You'll have to walk a fine line with this one, but listen to a song that expresses how you feel.  Personally, I like Chasing Dreams by Dave Barnes for creative rejection, and Sad by Maroon 5 for breakups/romantic rejection.  As I said, it's a fine line, because it can be too easy to be sucked into the vortex of "Woe is me," but sometimes we need to hear someone validate what we're feeling, and music can do this in ways nothing else can.

- You know that movie/TV show/book that never fails to make you feel better?  Yeah, go watch or read that.  Your brain will probably try to convince you to stick with the sad song.  Don't.  And I bet when you first press PLAY or open the book you'll want to stop.  Just sit with it for five minutes.  My most recent choice was You've Got Mail.  It didn't disappoint.  It was like being hugged by an old friend.

- And speaking of being hugged...find someone.  If you're a hugger, ask for a hug.  Sometimes I stop at my sister's house just because I know I'll get a hug from her and at least two of my nieces.  If you aren't a hugger, that's fine.  But find your someone anyway.  You know that someone - the person who can sit with you without saying something, or who can listen to your disbelief and pain, or who can make you laugh (or at least smile).

- Go to sleep early.  This one is tough, I know, because when you go quiet is generally when your brain is finally able to run through all the things.  And it's easy to replay the rejection again and again.  Do what you can to stay in this uncomfortable place.  You may cry (I always do).  You'll probably need to focus on those deep breaths again.  But turning to face that rejection head on will lessen its power.  It will allow you to stand up and try again sooner than if you try to ignore and/or power through the pain.  Also, as an added bonus, this quiet time is when you are finally able to hear what you need to recover.

Because that's what all this really comes down to.  Your body will tell you what you need.  If you can sift through all the noisy pain of rejection, you'll be able to know exactly what will help.

And at some point, you'll be able to face the idea of trying again.

From 'Truce,' by Twenty-One Pilots

Thoughts From the Road

There's so much space.

Not in my car, mind you.  No, that is packed to the brim with as much of my life as I could fit in a VW Bug.  Just around.  There's space.   Space for imagination to roam.  Space for tall tales to grow.

Space.

I am not, and never will be, a desert dweller.  It's so dry - too dry.  But I have to admit that Disney certainly gets their landscapes right - I felt like I was driving through Cars.

The bugs on the windsheild are a nice touch, don't you think?

210 miles into New Mexico every thought cleared from my mind except one:  What the actual f*** am I DOING???

Six miles later I thanked God and the sky for the torrent that expressed the sadness I couldn't.  On and on we drove, eastward, through all that space, cutting in and out of rainstorms as sudden and angry as my grief and fear.

I like the driving.  It's surprising, if I'm honest.  I wiggle and fidget and can hardly sit still at a desk, but driving hours on end seems to fit well.  I enjoy the sense of kinship I feel with other drivers, even the faceless long-haul truckers.  Especially the long-haul truckers.  I can identify them by their cabs, and I want to wave as we pass each other, following those unwritten rules of road etiquette.  Instead I just tap my thumb on my steering wheel and whisper, "You're doing great, girl," though whether I'm speaking to my car or myself I don't know.

I'm a terrible travel buddy, able to sit in silence for hours, listening to podcasts or music, or just caught up in my own thoughts.  What do I think about that conversation?  How different would that experience have been if I had acted on impulse instead of following whatever social script has been downloaded into my brain?  What will my job be like?  Do I already love my empty, little apartment?  (Yes.)  What are my characters doing?  When will I be able to let them soar again?  What will life be like in Nashville?

My mom doesn't mind the silence, either.  She says I'm the perfect travel companion.

I'm so glad she's here.

Every so often we pass a cross on the side of the road, and this is somehow a great comfort to me.  These odes to loved ones lost not only offer a reminder to be careful, but are evidence that we will never be forgotten.  After all, if a stranger moving her life from Santa Barbara to Nashville can see them and offer a silent prayer for the unknown, then how many others do the same when they pass?  In Orthodoxy we do not offer "Rest In Peace" as a wish for the dead, but rather, "Memory Eternal."  May his/her/their memory be eternal - everlasting - ongoing.  I feel as though, in the split second it takes to zoom past, the memory of these people is, indeed, eternal.

We are now over halfway to Nashville.  I haven't yet changed the clock in my car to central time.  I don't have it in me.  Not yet.  I am in between homes right now.  Once I'm there I'll make the change, but for now I'm appreciating that feeling of connection with my California tribe.

Amarillo smells like cow dung, and somehow this makes me sadder than I think I would be in another place.  The sad and tender part of me feels the smell as an insult, even though I normally wouldn't mind it.  Tomorrow we land in Little Rock, and I hope - oh, I hope! - it smells better than here.

And then?  And then Nashville!  And then my sister, my brother-in-law, my four incredible and hugable nieces.  Friends and relatives and a church community, all already rooted, ready to make me feel like less of a transplant and more grounded.

And then the adventurous side of Steph will be bigger than the sad side.

Pray us there, friends.  Love to you all.

Me, My Anxiety, and I

Several months ago I wrote a post in which I promised I would talk about why I'm going to therapy: My anxiety.  It's taken 6 months for several reasons, two of which I feel I need to state here.

1. I don't want to give anyone the idea that I'm a big bundle of nerves all the time and am therefore not capable of doing anything, or that I need to be handled with kid gloves.  I am a bundle of nerves much of the time, but I am capable as shit.  And I promise you, the kid gloves only serve to make the anxiety worse.  Give me your authenticity - what you really think and feel and dream about and fear and hope for and can't abide by - give me something to connect to.  None of that will make me feel anxious.  I promise.

2. I feel gross using the phrase, "my anxiety."  Too often I've seen it used as a way people justify rudeness, flakiness, or just a general sense of discomfort.  I truly believe in removing the stigma - please, God, can we get rid of the mental health stigma?? - but seeing people flippantly say, "Oh, my gawd, I am so stressed I'm literally having a panic attack.  Literally." while standing in line at a coffee shop doesn't do much for the cause and makes me question the validity of using that language in my own life.

So, disclaimers presented, I guess I should  tell you a little about my experience as a fairly anxious person.  Here I go:

It's normal.

Guys.

My life?  It's a normal thing.  I'm a normal human.  (Well, maybe not completely normal, but my abnormality has less to do with anxiety and more to do with a goofy sense of humor and quirky view of the world.)

I go about my day and do my work and see my friends and family and laugh and cry and generally experience one or more anxiety episode a day.  I think of these as my "anxiety responses."  What am I responding to?  Any number of things, really.  I've started paying attention to my triggers, and have compiled a partial list for your entertainment.

A Not-At-All Comprehensive List of Things That Trigger An Anxiety Response in Stephanie:

• Not getting enough sleep

• Eating sweets

• Eating some "healthy" foods (I'm lookin' at you, sweet potato)

• Not eating enough throughout the day

• My (very peaceful and gentle) alarm going off in the morning

• Slicing vegetables

• Making eye contact with another driver at an intersection

• Feeling unprepared for an upcoming event

• Feeling unprepared for a hypothetical event

• Having a busy schedule

• Having an open schedule

• Sitting at my desk at work

• Parking my car

• Coffee hour at church

• Walking in a large crowd

• Literally nothing at all

None of these items always causes an anxiety response!  They just do sometimes.  These are some of my general triggers.  Something happens (or doesn't) and the wave of anxiety hits.  I've learned to breathe through this experience, or to maybe take a nap or hit the gym.  It's certainly uncomfortable, but not debilitating.

Sometimes it feels like this.

Or maybe this.

Sometimes, though - sometimes it almost is debilitating.  Sometimes the wave of anxiety gets stuck in my chest.  Every so often I blow something from that list way out of proportion, or maybe more than one combine to make a SUPER RESPONSE that I can't seem to shake.  Or maybe something happens, something bad or good (like signing with an agent!) that trips my brain up enough that my body can't tell the difference between fear and excitement so I end up stuck in the anxiety cycle.  Or maybe - and this is the worst of all - maybe I find myself in a waiting season of life.

I am a doer.  I do.  And when I do, I do well.  I am confident and capable.  Powerful.

One could even say I'm super.

But when I've done all I can and am stuck waiting?  When I'm chained in the train yard when I should be powering along the tracks?  That's when the anxiety kicks in.  This anxiety:

This is the anxiety that shuts me down.  This is when my skin is electric, jolting not only me, but those near by.  This is when I don't want anyone to touch me, because even a pat on the shoulder might tear apart the tenuous grasp I have on myself, and I might actually explode.  This is the anxiety that makes me forget how to breathe.  It is the voice that tells me I will never be good enough.  That no matter what I do, it won't be enough.  It traps me in a loop, endlessly caught between the need to DO and the knowledge that it won't be enough.  I become a malfunctioning oscillating fan, clicking over and over again, unable to move to the next position.

Until I remind myself to breathe.

And breathe again.

Inhale.  Exhale.  Inhale.  Exhale.

And then I text my mom, or I walk through my office and find my dad, and I say to them, "I am feeling anxious about ________."

Suddenly the fist around my heart relaxes, and the knot in my chest loosens just enough.  I am okay again, at least until the next time it hits.

I'm learning, thankfully. I am discovering things that help.  Things like talking about it: telling someone, joking to the people at the gym about a workout being a good place to direct my anxiety, laughing at the fact that, "surprise, surprise, I'm anxious today."  It helps.  And so do a lot of other things.

Look!  I made another list!

A Not-At-All Comprehensive List of Things That Relieve Anxiety In Stephanie:

• Talking to my parents

• Being with loved ones

• Public speaking

• Working out

• Eating a nutritious meal

• Taking a nap

• Laughing REALLY hard

• Roller coasters!

• Writing

• Talking to my therapist (duh!)

• Prayer/mediation

• Seeing people talk about things they really love

• Sitting at my grandma's graveside

See? Normal. Ish.

Friends, I am doing well - so freaking well - and I hope you can see that.  I hope you are doing well, too.  If you're not, well, drop me a line.  And maybe we can breathe together.

Wordsmithery

I was reading the “Dear Literary Ladies” blog and one of the responses said to write everyday.  Even if all you can get out is, “I can’t write.  I have absolutely nothing to say.”  You go from there.

I find myself realizing what it means to work to be a writer.  Obviously there is a vastly romantic side to it.  It’s my life’s purpose to write, I truly believe that.  Why else would my heart lift every time I put pen to paper?  When I’m writing, whether it be a story, a letter, a reflection, or what-not, I can truly breathe.  The tight knot in my chest – the one I never realize is there – loosens and I feel strangely free.  It’s as if I spend my days in one suite of a house – one large, beautiful suite – but then suddenly a door opens and I realize I have full run of not only the house but of all the grounds as well.  I’m truly happy, and free to be happy, when I am writing.

I like to think I am good at it.  Oh, I know I bend the rules a bit; I begin sentences with conjunctions and I hate indenting with each new paragraph.  But I really do feel like I have a talent here…I flatter myself and call myself a wordsmith.  There’s a certain magic in that word, don’t you think?  Wordsmith.  I work with words.  I build with words.  I manipulate words to take the form I want them to.

There’s a dark side to being a wordsmith, though.  At times I feel like a slave who has ignored the master.  The knot in my chest makes itself known if I stay away from the notepad for too long.  I try to distract myself from it: who has time to write anyway?  I’m busy.  I have a job, things I’m involved in.  I have a life (or so I like to imagine).  At the end of the day I am far too tired to sit down and wrestle with words.  Because that’s what it is sometimes.  Some words just won’t be manipulated.  Some storylines take on a life of their own, and they rush along, leaving me chasing behind.  Characters won’t say or do what I ask them to, and when I try to force them to do so the scene ends up being stilted.  So I cross it out and try again – maybe.  Sometimes I simply cross it out and walk away.

I say “cross it out” because I do most of my initial drafts with a pen and paper.  The words flow more easily then when I am sitting in front of a computer.  It feels more organic to let the ideas flow straight from my soul through the pen.  The rational side of me recognizes the immaturity of this statement.  A true writer would, should, be able to just type.  It cuts down on time.  It’s more practical.  Unfortunately I’m not there yet.  Cold typing will be a goal of mine.

Ultimately I would like to be a published author.  This is where the “work” comes in.  It takes discipline and a huge time committment to spina story from beginning to end.  Writing it down is the hardest part for me.  I have plenty of stories in my head.  I run through them constantly.  Characters make themselves known to me, they at times beg to have their stories told (some of them are very pushy!).  Settings pop up in my mind and distract me from the “real world” around me.  Scenes and conflicts play behind my eyelids, keeping me from sleep.  Someday (hopefully soon) I will write a story – from beginning to end – and I know it will be the opening of the floodgates.

Now here’s the kicker I don’t want to write things that will bring people down.  I want to write positive stories, things that will ultimately uplift me, and whoever else happens to read them.  That doesn’t mean my stories don’t ever have sadness in them – they very often do.  I hope, though, that by the time the story ends I have found peace with it, and therefore the reader does, too.

Because, let’s be honest here, I do hope many people read what I write.  The thought at once thrills and terrifies me.

I would hate to bring anyone down.  It’s like L.M. Montgomery said, “I would not wish to darken any other life – I want instead to be a messenger of optimism and sunshine.”  I want to be a messenger of optimism and sunshine in all I do.

Ultimately, though, I write for myself.  I write because I am beginning to suspect it is my life’s blood.  I need to write to survive, just as I need to breathe or eat or sleep.

For now it’s enough to simply write a little bit every day.  It’s enough to try to mend my Giving Cup.  And do you know what?  I think it might be working.

1 Corinthians 12:4-11

Growing Pains and Spies

It’s graduation season, and I don’t know about you but I have been made painfully aware of this.  Really – my body is in pain.  I am sunburned from the hours spent out side and, well, to be honest I’m starting to feel that if I never sit down on a hard, plastic chair again it will be too soon.  Honestly, though, it’s a small price to pay for supporting friends and family.  I can survive a sore bottom for them,  And, really, I appreciate the opportunity to reflect on my own past and the path I have walked since I graduated high school.

Sitting through these graduations I have been struck by two profound thoughts: 1) I wouldn’t go back if you PAID me! and 2) Lord, have mercy!  We must be the most annoying people to sit next to. 

I would not go back to high school if I was paid to.  I would not return to that time of my life.  Now, I am one of those strange people who will freely admit that they enjoyed high school.  I had a blast!  I was involved in activities that I enjoyed and I was good at them.  I did well in classes.  And while I did have a core group of friends I was also somewhat of a clique-hopper, so I never felt truly rejected or left out.  I enjoyed high school.

That being said, I also went through a lot of growing pains in high school.  I am sure everyone will agree that growing pains are pretty terrible.  Grown ups, people long past the point of physical growing pains, will cringe when they hear the term.  Nobody likes them, but they are a fact of life.  They are, however, made more bearable by the knowledge that they are accompanied by growth.  We are not in pain without reason – when the pain is gone we will be taller, bigger, stronger.

The same can be said for emotional or spiritual growing pains.  The main difference is that we very often don’t recognize the pain for what it was until it has long passed. 

High school, for me, was a time of growing pains.  They were not constant – I was more often without pain than with it.  Since high school I have experienced even more growing pains.  (Really, it’s quite distressing when I think of just how much growing I’ve needed, and how much more is to come.)  Going back to high school, regardless of how much I enjoyed myself, would erase all of my growth.  I would be a flower in reverse, growing from bloom to seed.  I do not want to do that.

One of the main things I would miss if I walked backwards on my path is the ability to take great joy in a small moment.  What I have experienced of life so far has taught me that so much is given in each moment.  All we have to do is reach out and take it.  I was born with a heart of laughter, and I take great delight in using that heart.  Truly, it makes me excited to experience more of life. 

Each moment has much to offer, even moments sitting in an uncomfortable chair hoping your sunscreen will work even as you feel like you are melting.  Today I had such a moment.  I could have let it bring me down.  Luckily, though, I was sitting with friends, and the joy of being with them outweighed the discomfort of the situation. 

We chatted through the entire ceremony  No, we weren’t catching up on the latest drama, or talking about what was on TV last night.  We were imagining what our situation would be if we were in a spy movie.  Suddenly every person with a camera became an enemy spy, an assassin, scoping out the targets: us.  The beautiful Sunken Gardens of the Santa Barbara courthouse became grounds for running and strategic cover from the assassins.

When we ventured inside the courthouse to find a bathroom we hurried through the open spaces, twirling and ducking into doorways to avoid the imaginary spray of bullets.  we searched the bathroom (“All clear!”) and then returned to the rest of the group the same way we had left: running and laughing so hard we had a hard time breathing.  And as we sprinted across the lawn to get to the parking lot we were thankful that bad guys are such bad shots.  There was no way we would have survived otherwise. 

Sure, it was juvenile of me – a college graduate and a teacher – to play “spy” at a high school graduation.  And yes, I did feel slightly guilty about the constant whispers we inflicted on the people around us.  But more than anything I was thankful.  I was thankful that my path of growing pains has helped mold me into a person who can take such joy from a small moment. 

I was thankful that while I recognize how much I enjoyed high school I also recognize that I don’t want to go back.  Ever.  I would never want to sacrifice the woman I am becoming – even if she does play “spy” – for the girl I was then.  Growing pains and all.

Valleys Revisited

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about  the path I’m walking through life.  For the past year or so it seems to have been pretty straightforward.  Oh, there have been a few curves here and there, but they were mild and almost unnoticeable.  I thought  my path stretched out endlessly in front of me for so long that the horizon blurred and my road and the sky melted into one.

And I was fine with that, for the most part.  While I may have gotten antsy a time or two (or three…) I knew it couldn’t truly go on with so little variation forever.  In fact, I knew there would be a bend in the road soon enough.  So I tried to stay content while walking the path my feet were set on and occassionally remembering that I should keep an eye out for road signs.

It seems my eyes weren’t open when they needed to be. I missed a sign I would have appreciated.  My path suddenly became all twists and turns and, being caught unawares, I tumbled into this valley I have felt stuck in.  Now, I don’t know if I fell off my path or if it led me into the valley – I have no idea if the tumble was planned or completely accidental.  Maybe it was the shock I needed to open my eyes.  Maybe the valley I’ve been walking through is necessary in my life.  Maybe I didn’t fall off my path at all, but it led me steeply into this place.

There is beauty here in the valley.  I don’t know what, exactly, it is yet, but I will at some point.  That’s how valleys are.  They are covered in shadow, hidden by the hills and peaks on either side.  In the valley there are some individual beauties, little things to help us get through: a stream or a river, flowers or plants, a bird’s song. 

 However, it’s once you leave the valley and turn around for one last look that you see the whole picture.  Each beauty you grew to love may not be distinguishable anymore, but you will catch your breath at a greater, more awe-inspiring beauty.  Shadows dance across ridges that looked discouraging before, softening their edges.  Light winds its way through the shadows, subtle as a whisper, telling you that the valley may not have been as dark as you originally thought.

Yes, there is beauty here in this valley.  For now, though, my eyes are focused on the road before me, the road that leads up and out. 

There is a bend in the road ahead.  I can see it, even now at this distance.  I have no idea what lies beyond, and to be honest I’m a little afraid of the bend.  But I can’t wait for it.

So I walk.  I keep moving through this valley in hopes that I reach the sunlight soon.  And I listen to that little voice that has begun to whisper: maybe, just maybe, the sunlight is closer than I thought.

Giving Cups

It’s taken me a long time, but I’m finally here: one more comet in the blogosphere.  This has been many months in the making.  After enough prodding from family and friends (feel free to smile, leaha…that was a direct nod at you) and a weekend of serious contemplation and far too many chocolate-covered caramels I decided to go ahead and do it.

So here I sit, typing my life, or at least parts of it.  I live in an enchanted world – usually.  I am prone to flights of fancy; I would like to believe in fairies and sprites and there’s a part of me that’s sure if I step just right I can follow the moonpath across the ocean to a timeless world of nonsense and make-believe.  Don’t get me wrong, though.  For all that my head is in the clouds my feet are planted firmly on the ground.  I know that nonsense is just that: nonsense.  I also know, however, that we all need a little nonsense in our lives. 

Lately, though, my enchanted world, my nonsense, has dimmed.  My mom says I’m walking through a valley right now.  She’s right (figuratively speaking, of course).  But the best way I know how to describe it is by saying that my Giving Cup has a hole in it.

You see, I have a theory that each one of us has something in us, in our souls, the very core of who we are, that allows us to give to others.  Our Giving Cups.  Some of us have big Giving Cups, others have smaller.  Some Giving Cups are shiny and ornate and obvious, and others are simpler, more subtle.  Regardless of what they look like we each have one, and we pour from our Giving Cups into other people – ideally into their Giving Cups so they can give, and so on.  But sometimes our Giving Cups run low.

This can happen for any number of reasons (we’re tired, or hurting, or angry, or we’ve given too much) or it can happen for no reason at all.  When our Giving Cups run low we feel drained and we just can’t give anything anymore.  This is when our loved ones ride to our rescue (hopefully).  They do something to refill our Giving Cups.

Lately, however much my friends and family pour into me I can’t seem to feel full.  I have come to the conclusion that my Giving Cup has a hole.  So I write.  I write to lift the weight from my shoulders.  I write to reopen my eyes to the beauty around me.  I write to mend the hole in my Giving Cup.

And I write to share my crazy life with whomever wants to read it.  So many strange and wonderful and amazing and unbelievable things happen to me that some might think my life is a life of fiction.  And I think they would be right – to a point.

So here’s to exploring the blogosphere together.  Here’s to fixing our Giving Cups.