Category: Anxiety and self-discovery

Musings about overcoming and appreciating anxiety and learning to love myself.

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Hide and Seek

It’s 30 degrees on April 15th, and I’m content to sit on my couch with my computer and a cup of tea. I’m under a fuzzy blanket, and I’ve given up on the ideal of productivity for today.  I’m reading a book that’s stretching my brain and reminding me of the beauty of words and the transformative power of a phrase previously unheard. I’m texting Bea upstairs because she’s being reclusive and I’m not above bribing her with takeout.  I’m enjoying the sound of my husband playing Tom Petty on the guitar while the kids and their friends shout a combination of accusations and friendly insults that punctuate an intense game of preteen hide and seek. While I listen to their shouting, wondering if I need to intervene, I can’t help but think about the dynamics of this timeless game and how much learning happens in the context of these unscripted social interactions.

I love that my boys have friends to play with.  I love when they choose to be active instead of sitting and staring at screens.  I love hearing them laugh.  But the game always turns sour.  Someone gives up.  Someone is cheating.  Someone steals someone else’s hiding spot… and they need to solve it.  They need to work it out.  And the deepest value doesn’t come from the running and the laughing or even the exercise.  The deepest value is in the struggle.  It’s in navigating how to disagree and still remain friends.  It’s in learning how to stand up for yourself without trampling someone else.  It’s in learning how to behave when you’re called out for having done wrong.

The past few weeks have been a whirlwind, and I’ve been a car spinning my wheels; first stuck in the mud and then careening toward a tree because the rubber finally met something solid and unexpected. I haven’t been feeling very grace-filled lately.  I’m feeling stressed and tired and pulled in too many directions and overall a little edgy.  I’ve spent a lot of time procrastinating and cleaning up dog pee and making slapped together sandwiches and overanalyzing mundane events.  I haven’t written anything publishable in a while, mostly because my writing has been too personal and raw and incoherent to share with the world.  I haven’t yet had a chance to sort it all out in my head, but I am compelled to write anyway, so here I am.

Maybe it’s the dreary nature of an April that feels like January; maybe it’s the pressure of a job that sometimes feels thankless; maybe it’s simply the repetitive nature of mothering, day after day after day… the endless refrain of “be nice to your brother” and “where are your shoes” and “get the guinea pig off the kitchen counter.” Regardless of the cause, the result is a sort of mild depressive state, wherein I seek solace, not in comfort foods, but in comfort beverages; flavored coffee, chamomile tea, chardonnay.  These are what I look forward to when I leave my classroom with a bag full of papers to grade and the knowledge that my children will likely greet me with requests for homework help and the persistent, daily desire to be fed an evening meal.

I know how this works. I’ve been here before.  I even know how to get out of this rut. I need connection and exercise and play and laughter and a night away with my husband. There is seeking that needs to be done. When contentment and gratitude and peace are evasive, it’s part of a natural cycle.  They haven’t disappeared; they’re simply waiting to be found. So I search.  I try to eat well and laugh and stay motivated and accomplish things so as not to fall into a rut. But how do I cope when all of those things feel like effort, and I have nothing left to give?

Sometimes the pressure to be grateful and content feels like more of a task than I can manage. I feel the need to take action, to solve the problem, to just keep looking until I find peace.  But what if I’m going about it all wrong?  What if I’ve forgotten to take my turn hiding?  What if I need to settle in a warm, comfortable, quiet place?  What if I’m being called to be still?  How often do I forget that the hiding has to balance out the seeking?

This rut that I’m stuck in won’t last forever.  Eventually, I’ll gain momentum and my tires will find solid ground.  The contentment that seems so hard to find during the last portion of our endless winters will come out of hiding and settle at the kitchen table or in the backyard hammock. The sun will come out and the rhythm of the school year will become less of a drudging beat and more of a frenetic rush to the close.  The kids’ spring fever will be satisfied by longer days and higher temperatures and more time outdoors with friends.

As I sit here surrounded by this cacophony of noise, there’s a palpable relief in thinking that I don’t have to jump up and intervene with every shout.  There’s comfort in thinking that my inaction may be as important as my action.

Maybe my cozy blanket and my cup of tea and my good book are not so much an escape, but rather an integral part of the interaction.  Maybe I crave connection so much because I need to be able to hide with the firm knowledge that my people won’t let me stay in this dark, quiet place forever.

As we go through our phases of searching and waiting to be found, it’s comforting to know that we’re not alone.  I’m grateful to be surrounded by amazing people who help to remind me that is beauty in the struggle, that there are lessons to be learned from failure, and that there is a time for both the hiding and the seeking.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Home Again

Driving West on I-84 in New York state, somewhere near mile marker 52, I catch my first glimpse of the mountains, and my heart tells me that I’m home. When I pass the ‘text stop’ on this section of road, I mourn the old terminology. There’s something about a ‘scenic overlook’ that acknowledges that the view in front of you is, indeed, spectacular. Worth putting down your phone, at the very least.

If you’re a local, you know that Shawangunk is pronounced ‘Shon-gum,’ but the correct pronunciation is irrelevant when referring to the mountains, which are affectionately called ‘the Gunks.’ I grew up in a place where names overlap, and it behooves one to know the difference between a town, a village, and a hamlet. I once tried to explain to my husband that the Town of Wallkill and the Hamlet of Wallkill are not, in fact, the same thing. When I tried to point out that the Hamlet of Wallkill is actually in the Town of Shawangunk, I’m quite sure he stopped listening.

I moved away from my hometown in 1997, and I’ve reached a point where that was more than half a lifetime ago. I’ve become accustomed to the quirks and foibles of a new place. I can easily navigate a rotary or direct a student to the nearest bubbler. I know how to pronounce Worcester and bang a uey and, much to my dad’s chagrin, I am a passionate Patriots fan.

I don’t go home very often. The reasons are myriad and valid but still a bit lacking. Truth be told, going home is so, so very complicated. Every time I attempt it, I encounter a barrage of unexpected emotions. And every time I leave, I am exhausted from the effort it takes to feel so many feelings.

My anxiety has helped me to pay attention to the cues I get from my body. I know what anxiety feels like. Anxiety is in my gut and my shoulder blade and at the base of my skull. When I go home, the feeling is different. It’s in my chest. And it’s not a tightening; it’s an expansion. My breaths are deep and my lungs fill completely and it’s like my body is trying to make room for all of the emotions that come flooding into my heart. Time slows down. In the moment, I can’t separate the feelings. They tangle into a knot, expanding and contracting as the positive emotions tug against the negative ones and my slow, struggling brain tries to keep up with the barrage.

The physical environment itself evokes emotion. There is the unsettling knowledge that I’m driving down a road that I could navigate with my eyes closed, and yet, off to the left, there’s an entire neighborhood that sprouted in my absence. I imagine the irritation of the driver behind me as I speed up around the familiar curves, only to slow to quickly at an unfamiliar traffic light that’s likely been there for a decade or more. The homes and the stores and the views have changed, but the earth and the hills and the roads still feel like a part of me. Maybe it’s a primal sort of response, but those mountains make me feel protected.

Tangled up with noticing the space around me, I’m also flooded with memories that bring their own emotions along. There’s a pang of regret when I realize that I don’t know if my fourth grade best friend’s parents still live in that house. There’s palpable relief as I recall the time I wrapped my car around that telephone pole and lived to tell the tale. I recall childhood bike rides with fondness and grieve a bit that my kids probably won’t ever know what it feels like to pack a backpack and pedal for hours to meet up with a friend on the other side of ‘town.’ Every turn, every scent, every change in scenery prompts a long-forgotten recollection and I wonder if this happens to everyone.

I think about my friends who still live here. There’s no way they deal with this deluge of memory on a daily basis; they wouldn’t be able to function. Does constant exposure create a sort of numbness? Or perhaps the act itself, the leaving, has created a response in me that simply doesn’t exist for them. Regardless, I look at these strong, beautiful, resilient women. I see their families and their careers and their homes and I can’t reconcile their growth against this background that my brain has relegated to childhood in perpetuity.

As I drive through this place, I feel surprise, regret, peace, and guilt in rapid succession. I wonder, for a brief moment, if all of these feelings are rushing back with an adolescent intensity because I have never been an adult in this place.

My visit is all I hoped it would be. I reconnect with old friends and it is truly joyful. These women help me to remember who I once was and to find her deep within who I am.

If I peel back the layers, I find a shy first grader waiting for the bus. I find an awkward seventh grader with her nose in a book. I see a clueless teenager who thinks she knows it all. I uncover a tentative twenty something writing lesson plans for her first classroom. I see a beautiful bride, optimistic about the future. A new mother, overwhelmed and exhausted. A tearful woman, making hard choices for her family.

This visit to my hometown was good for my soul. But as I drive back East on that same stretch of I-84, it occurs to me that ‘home’ means something different now.

Home is a small white cape with a stream running by. Home is a bunch of kids and too many pets and the comfort of my husband’s arm around my shoulder. It’s a community of family and friends and neighbors. It’s backyard barbecues and baskets of laundry to fold and boating on the lake in the summertime. Home is bathroom renovations and sick tummies and cuddling in front of the fireplace on a snow day in January.

This new home is the culmination of the experience of all of my iterations. And it is beautiful and messy and complicated and perfectly, purely, joyfully mine.

 

 

 

 

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Cheesecake

When I was a young, single woman just out of college, my roommate received a springform pan as a gift, and she asked me, “Haven’t you always wanted one of these?” The answer was a definite NO, because I didn’t even know what this thing was. For those of you who share my ignorance, a springform pan is a type of cake pan with removable sides. Mostly, these are used to make cheesecakes, but they’re useful in other types of baking scenarios as well.

The thing is, I’ve always been a really crappy baker. I don’t like directions and recipes and measuring things. The terminology always seemed confusing and pretentious. What’s the difference between ‘fold’ and ‘gently stir?’ When you’re told to mix, do you need a mixer, or might a spoon be sufficient? Why do things need to be ‘sifted together?’ Would the whole thing be ruined if I sifted them apart, out of spite?

So back when I was a youthful, tequila-shooting, pool playing, waitressing 24 year old, I decided that I would never need a springform pan. And for the most part, I haven’t.

Granted, I’ve changed a bit since then. Now I’m more of a middle-aged, coffee chugging, story reading, boo-boo kisser. The thing is, I am still decidedly NOT a baker. It’s a joke in my house. If it requires measurement or a recipe or any sort of ‘leavening agent,’ I’m out. I can mess up a cake mix from a box, and if a recipe requires me to sift anything, I will inevitably ruin it.

But, I need to make a confession. My husband will attest to this. At least twice a year, I come across an online recipe that I get excited about. Most often it’s a form of cheesecake topped with some sort of decadent chocolate. I swoon and salivate, and click on the recipe… only to find that it requires (you guessed it) a springform pan. Which (of course) I DO NOT OWN.   I mourn the loss of possibility. I consider buying a turtle cheesecake from the local supermarket. I keep scrolling, with the goal of finding a cheesecake recipe more suited to my own limited abilities. These recipes are often sad substitutions, mixed into pre-made graham cracker crusts and lacking the luscious appeal of a treat created in a spring form pan.

“But,” I remind myself, “You are NOT a baker. You do not NEED a springform pan. You KNOW YOURSELF. Why would you spend money on a kitchen tool that is so obviously out of your league?” I’ve been having variations of this conversation in my head and also with my husband for approximately ten years. You do not need to point out how pathetic this is. I’m aware.

So the last time I encountered such a recipe (apple cheesecake with a pumpkin crust), it was the night before Thanksgiving. And I shushed that little voice in my head. I told her that I was going to check Home Goods for a springform pan while I was shopping that night. I wasn’t sure I’d find one, and I had no idea how much it would cost, but I committed to checking it out. So I did.

My inner monologue sounded like this: “They probably don’t even have one. They’re probably like 50 bucks. Oh, shush. Just look. It can’t hurt to look. Yep. Just as I thought, they don’t have…. Oh, wait. There’s one. No, there’s like ten. Wait, there’s a whole SHELF of these damned things?”

Ladies and Gentlemen, do you know how much a springform pan costs? I’ll spare you the suspense- $5.99. LESS than SIX DOLLARS.

I bought me a springform pan. I almost bought two. After ten years of agonizing over this purchase, I practically skipped out of the store. I called the hubs. “Guess what I bought?” I didn’t even wait for him to guess. “A spring form pan!”

“It’s about damned time,” he replied. Because I know him so well, I could hear the enthusiasm straining behind his exasperation. He wanted cheesecake, too.

I brought home my brand new pan. I set it in the cabinet, excited to put it to use the very next day. I stocked the pantry with the necessary ingredients and dreamt of cheesecake.

That was twenty-three days ago. The pan is still in the cabinet, and the ingredients are still in the pantry.

It turns out, I do know myself. I haven’t yet used my new purchase. I like cheesecake in the abstract, and I love the idea of making my own. It just hasn’t reached the top of my to-do list just yet.

But something beautiful has happened. I learned to shush that Negative Nelly whispering in my ear about all that I cannot do. I have now become the kind of person who believes in my own potential. Watch out world. I’m going to turn all that doubt into something delicious.

And I could make a cheesecake AT ANY MOMENT.

 

 

 

 

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A Writer’s Voice

The writer in me

She cajoles and she whines

Let me out. Set me free.

Right now! It’s my time.

 

And the mom (in me, too)

She soothes and she shushes.

Relax. Settle down.

What’s with all this fussing?

 

Small tasks occupy

Every moment of time.

And I cling to hold on

To the thoughts in my mind.

 

The teacher in me?

She says, “Wait your turn.”

Take a breath. We’ll get there.

There is much more to learn.

 

The wife in me whispers,

“Just wait ‘till he sleeps.”

Jot down a note and…. the thought?

It will keep.

 

But ideas float away

Like smoke on the wind.

Swallowed by moonlight;

Will I find them again?

 

 

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Admiration

My father never passes a stranded motorist on the road. He stops to help. EVERY. TIME. The man has a heart of gold, and automotive skills to match.

I have a friend who consistently mails out her Christmas cards on the day after Thanksgiving. They contain beautiful, professional photos of her kids, and are mailed using festive holiday stamps. I am baffled and inspired by this.

One close friend is a single mom to two kids, one with Autism. She is gentle, full of love, and also a fierce advocate. She is one of the strongest people I know.

I have a sibling who manages to coordinate a ‘family gift’ from eight siblings to our parents every year. Her organization is admirable and her patience is endless.

A friend from church consistently makes meals with ingredients I can’t name. She tries not to use the same recipe twice, and her entire approach to food leaves me awestruck. She is equally savvy about wine, and I am so grateful to be able to learn from her. And drink with her.

Several close family members live life with depression and anxiety. I’ve watched them develop strength and grace and self-awareness that astounds me.

My mother in-law has an incomparable sense of style. With random yard sale knick knacks and a little spray paint, she can turn any room into a showpiece. Her home is magazine worthy and once all of these small-ish people move out of my home, I hope she’ll teach me all she knows.

My husband has a voice that literally brings people to tears. Last week, he sang the communion hymn at church, and even our pastor got weepy.

I had an aunt who never forgot a birthday. Like, ever. And she sent a card, snail mail, every single year. I still have them in a box, and I can hear her voice from heaven when I re-read them.

I have several sisters who don’t take any crap from anybody. They learned this from my mom. They are all strong, independent women, and they stand their ground even when it gets uncomfortable. I call them when I need a pep talk. Or someone to call the cable company for me.

Other friends make beautiful handmade gifts. Some consistently and gently have difficult conversations with their kids.   Some home-school. Some run marathons. Some play instruments. Some volunteer with the homeless.

This list could go on for days. I look at the people I love and I see so many gifts. I could tell you something admirable about everyone I know.

But admiration has its down side. Noticing what’s amazing about others sometimes compels me to judge myself. I take the gifts and achievements of my loved ones and hold them up as a standard to be met. I look at what I lack and I analyze myself in comparison to all of these incredible, talented, gifted people. And I forget that each of them, too, is innately flawed and fallible. The thing is… every single one of these people doubts themselves. EVERY. SINGLE. ONE.

As we move into this holiday season, as we each attempt to do our best to move through Advent with an open heart and a joyful waiting and a sense of perspective, let’s be gentle with ourselves and celebrate the gifts of those around us.

When you get that beautiful card from your friend, just enjoy it. Let her know how much you admire her. And mail your card cobbled together with individual shots because the kids won’t all look at the camera at the same time. Or send New Year’s cards. Or skip it all together. The world won’t end.

When Facebook shows you another creative “Elf on the Shelf” shenanigan (and your elf hasn’t moved in three days), congratulate your friend. Laugh at the silliness.  And keep the ‘elf crutches’ on hand for the next time you forget about the little guy.

When you forget to send the holiday napkins to school or wind up stopping for another last-minute gift card at a gas station, take a moment to remember what YOU do well. Somebody out there admires YOU. Pause for a moment to remember why.

And if you’re searching for a special holiday gift this year, find a way to let YOUR people know what you admire about them. It’s perhaps the most meaningful gift of all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Hostess

I’m totally in my element when I’m hosting a party. Whether it’s cocktails and crudité, football and chili, or pizza and piñatas, I get geared up to be the hostess.

When I was in college, my friends would come to visit me in my little rented cottage on the lake. I’d host dinner parties with lasagna and chicken parmesan and red wine, which was a huge step up from the ramen and cheap vodka we were so used to, and my friends exclaimed, “Girl, you’re so… domestic!” I still get together with those girls and our gaggle of kids and I’m reminded of how far we’ve come.

After college, I rented an apartment on my own, just outside of Boston. It was a beautiful apartment, but I was living on my own in a new city and I didn’t know a soul. I was five weeks into my first year of teaching (and my first year of adulting), and I didn’t really have any friends yet. It was time for parent-teacher conferences, and my new apartment was less than a mile from the school where I worked. So I decided to host a dinner party for my colleagues, between 3:00 when school got out, and 5:00 when conferences started. I set up a buffet table, complete with foil pans and sterno burners. Over ziti and meatballs, I made lifelong friends.

At that same apartment, I began the short-lived tradition of the “End of the Year Luau.” The luau was definitely NOT a dinner party. It was a full-on boozy bash replete with cheap inflatable decorations and plastic ‘coconut’ bras from the Oriental Trading Company. There were cheesy party games that nobody wanted to do but everybody enjoyed; in the morning there were people passed out on every soft surface and my potato chip bowl was halfway down the block in the middle of the street. The second year I hosted this, my landlord stopped by. I was terrified. He laughed at the look of panic on my face and asked for a margarita. The third year, I was pregnant, and my friends repurposed all of my cheap decorations. The Luau took the form of a baby shower. Times they were a-changin’.

There have been so many parties since; first birthdays, housewarming parties, New Year’s bashes, Superbowl parties. Some guests appear in each and every memory; old friends who have moved with me from tequila shots to chicken nuggets. Some of the faces were cherished for a season; friends who were close for a time and then lost touch. Some have been tragically lost, through accidents or illness. Some of the faces have evolved from children to adults; the time passes so quickly.

But these memories help me to hold each of these people in my heart. I can hear their laughter and remember their stories and revel in the fact that we experienced joy together.

That’s what hosting a party is for me. Sure, there’s the frantic cleaning and cooking. There might be some shouting at the kids to clean up the dog doo in the yard and get their laundry out of the bathroom. I’m lucky to be married to a rockstar host who busts his butt to make sure that the house looks great and there’s plenty of food and our guests feel at home.

But there comes a point when people arrive and there’s no time left to clean or cook. Friends offer a hand and the drinks get poured and the food gets served and the party begins. The laughter reverberates. The kids begin to run and shout and spill and crash and the adults dish up pasta and referee arguments and sip on wine and tell stories. And those moments are reserved for enjoyment. There are no bills to be paid or calls to be made or papers to be graded. There will be no vacuuming or folding or dusting. There is a simple objective in that moment- to enjoy each other. We appreciate the talents and quirks and passing stages of our friends and family. We remember that we are loved and we have people to love.

In my mind, that’s the purpose of a party. It reminds us to stop taking ourselves so seriously and to be grateful for our abundant gifts. It reminds us to pause and be joyful.

 

 

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All the feelings….

Yesterday, I felt ALL the feelings. Do you ever have those days? Maybe my emotions were just particularly close to the surface; maybe the day’s events were just more intense than usual. Regardless of the reason, the journey through all of these emotions left me feeling reflective. And tired.

Here’s my day, in emotions:

Joy, pride, excitement. My youngest was eager to participate in our town’s “Turkey Trot.” He ran in the kid’s fun run; we had never participated before and weren’t sure what to expect. Even with a few unexpected twists, he was positive and enthusiastic and persistent. I loved having the chance to spend this one on one time with him. My baby is growing up so fast.

Gratitude, admiration, love. After a bit of guinea pig drama this week, it was decided that Lee would work with his dad to build a new and improved pen for them. There were power tools and male bonding and an awesome finished product. Watching my husband and son work together on this project made my heart swell. I’m grateful to be married to such a wonderful man and father, and I love watching my son look up to him as he grows into the young man he is meant to be.

Faith, peace, joy. Sometimes it’s hard to get our daughter to emerge from her room for long enough to spend a little quality time with us. Today, Bea requested that I pick up chocolate chips at the grocery store. I did her one better and got M&Ms, which she turned into homemade cookies, which she then turned into ice cream sandwiches. This kid rocks. Working alongside her, I had a moment to admire her persistence, her ingenuity (we left the mixer at church), and her grace. Every day she becomes more and more a part of our family, and every day I thank God for bringing her to us.

I spent the afternoon cooking, cleaning, and enjoying my family, with an overwhelming feeling of peace and contentment. And then there was a shift. About halfway through our cookie-making, I got a call from my Aunt.

Anger, grief, loss. A little history: My Grandpa passed about 7 years ago, and after that, we weren’t often in touch with his wife. It was a strained relationship. Well, sadly, his wife just passed, and our family didn’t know. The contents of my mother’s childhood home were being emptied into a large dumpster in front of the house. My Grandpa’s fireman’s jacket was in there; my Aunt pulled it out. Likely, his dogtags and my Grandma’s antique clock, and their old 45s were also in that dumpster. It was a sad moment. All those memories had been tossed like so much trash, and we were grieving the loss of my grandfather all over again.

Fear, panic, shock. My sister called me, on my husband’s phone. This was a bad sign. I got on the line, and she was obviously upset. “It’s Dad,” she said, and my heart stopped. I couldn’t breathe. I mentally replayed our last conversation. I had a brief, terrifying moment of imagining the rest of my life without my Dad in it. And then, about ten years after those first two words, she finished her sentence. “He’s okay, but…” I started to breathe again. He was in the hospital, but it wasn’t his heart. He was conscious and strong and getting IV fluids and he was going to be fine. But that infinitesimal moment was enough to shake my world and leave me feeling unsteady.

Helplessness, heartache, love.   I was still reeling from that call when I got another call, this time from an old friend. This woman has dried my tears, held my hair back after too much tequila, laughed with me until we cried, and seen me through some of my hardest times. She was my college roommate and is still one of my dearest friends. And now she’s in pain. She’s struggling to get through something immeasurably hard and I want to hug her and fix it for her and say all the right things. But all I can really do is listen and love her. So I send her all of my strength and love through the phone lines and I remind her how cherished she is and I pray with all my might that this paralyzing grief will end for her because she desperately needs to feel joy again.

As I sat with my friend and my family heavy on my heart, my son approached me. “Hey, mom. Can we make those pilgrim hats now?” And now it was my moment to find joy again. As we cut and glued and traced and adjusted paper hats for his classmates, I settled back into that same peaceful feeling from this morning, and I started to reflect.

We feel all of these emotions, one at a time. Sometimes we’re enveloped in bliss; others we’re drowning in despair. Each single feeling ripples out to touch another. Sometimes they come at us in rapid succession, and some days we wallow in a single emotion until we forget about the existence of others. And while the joy and the bliss and the contentment may sometimes feel out of reach, there’s comfort in knowing that they never disappear. While your grief is ebbing, the tide of joy is still out there, engulfing someone you love. In time, it will be your turn to feel it again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Badass

Nothing makes me feel sexier than shooting pool. The hubs and I went out last weekend. We went to a nice restaurant for appetizers, and then we found our way to our favorite dive bar for hot wings and billiards. We shot some pool and listened to a lot of country music and a little bit of really bad karaoke. This is my favorite kind of date.

I started playing pool when I was about 16. The local pool hall was the closest thing to a bar that we could legally frequent, and it made us feel all grown up. We didn’t really know what we were doing, but we were enthusiastic.

Later, in college, I dated a guy who played for money. He taught me how to shoot a decent long shot and put a little English on the cue. I thought I was hot shit. I never really got good, but I played well enough to surprise people. And, God, how I love that feeling. You know; when somebody underestimates you and then you prove them wrong and you get to gloat a little while they rearrange their preconceived notions of who you are? That’s a freaking awesome feeling.

Throughout college, I had a few other little tricks that made me feel kinda badass. I could tie a cherry stem in a knot with my tongue. I could throw back tequila shots with the best of them. And after college, I acquired my favorite bad-ass accouterment, in the form of a Suzuki Marauder 800. I was officially a biker.

My motorcycle is still my favorite claim to badassery. Just last week, someone saw it in the garage and started asking my husband about “his bike.” To be fair, my husband is the super sexy, muscular, tattooed, shaved head stereotype of a biker. And I LOVED it when he looked at this guy and said, “Actually, that’s HER bike.” Don’t get me wrong. My husband rides. But first he has to ask to borrow my bike.

But I digress. I don’t get a lot of opportunities to feel like a badass anymore. I make a pretty mean chicken pot pie and I’ve been known to kick ass on a Principal’s observation, but it’s not quite the same. I’m a mom and a wife and a teacher. I crochet and go to book club once a month. Granted, I’d probably still be voted, “Most likely to drop an F-bomb at bible study,” but I love my comfortable suburban life, and I think I’m doing things that contribute to my community in a positive way. I’m officially a grown-up. Nowadays, I mostly rock my Honda Odyssey around town. When I’m feeling really risqué, I’ll blast a little Eminem or Pink from the stereo… with the windows down.

And when I really want to feel like hot shit, I challenge my husband to a game of pool.

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Redefined

Who am I? Each of us works our whole lives to cultivate the answer to this question. We want to define ourselves in the context of the world in which we live. We want to separate from some and unify with others. We yearn to be unique, yet are comforted by similarity.

We read books, we travel, we study, we experience, we try new and unfamiliar things; all in an attempt to “find ourselves.” This process of discovery, this becoming, compels us toward a definition of self.

Some of these identities are tried on and discarded. In my younger years, I was a flutist, a hackey-sack player, a choir member. These were dismissed readily and with cause.

Some definitions are worn for a season. Disney fan. Soccer player. College student. Newlywed. We anticipate their passing, even as we reluctantly let them go.

As we grow into ourselves, we develop our personal style; a sense of self that begins to become inseparable with how we present ourselves to the world. I am an intellectual. I am a Christian. I am a mother. I am a teacher.

What about those definitions that we’re not proud of? I am an addict. A victim. A failure. Can we integrate these into our definitions? Or do we bury them and deny them until they become a festering wound?

Regardless of our process, we are defined by our own perceptions of self.   We invest countless hours and days and years into becoming a person, and we cling desperately to our own perceptions. We spend our lives cultivating a persona.

So it’s no wonder that our psyche starts to crumble when faced with cognitive dissonance about our very being. What happens when the very thing we used to define ourselves ceases to be true? What of the executive who loses his job? What of the child who finds himself without parents? What of the parent faced with an empty nest? The devoted wife in the throes of divorce? We all go through a period of cognitive dissonance when we’re forced to redefine ourselves. If you haven’t, don’t worry. You will.

Perhaps equally difficult is the task of revising our perceptions of those closest to us.

How do we resolve the cognitive dissonance of an unfaithful spouse? A Priest accused of the unthinkable? A transgender child?

Do you know what research tells us about people’s responses when confronted with evidence contrary to what they believe? We dig in our heels. We become more adamantly entrenched in our beliefs! We consider ourselves to be rational beings; however, our personal beliefs and opinions are so emotionally powerful that they have the ability to hijack all rational thought. We only begin to shift our perceptions when we can no longer bend the truth to fit our own patterns of thought.

When it finally happens, the shift is seismic.   These types of thought revisions can create immeasurable spiritual pain. How do we move on when we discover a flaw in what we believed to be fundamental truth?

I have to believe that, as we change and evolve, we never go backward. We can’t lose pieces of who we are… those lost definitions and past phases all get rolled into this great big jumbled ball of humanity that is each unique individual. We don’t ever become less… we become more, for better or for worse. We become greater.

So even those traits we’d like to deny; even those mistakes we hate to admit; even those trials we wish we hadn’t faced; each of those becomes a thread in our fabric. The weave becomes stronger and more beautiful. The snags and the pulls and the missed stitches still hold strong together.

And perhaps the most beautiful thing is that each day presents a chance to redefine our selves. Each morning is an opportunity for evolution; for one’s own REvolution. That’s what keeps us growing. That’s what keeps us going. That’s what gives us hope.

 

 

 

 

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Abundance

It’s been one of THOSE weeks over here. You know, the kind of week when you feel like you’re going a million miles an hour and not doing anything WELL? I hope I’m not the only one who has those weeks.

This week, there was a TON of work to be done at work. On top of the usual shaping of young minds and curriculum development and trying to be more interesting than a cell phone video, there was also a ton of meetings and evaluations and paperwork. These things suck the life out of me.

This week, I talked with ALL of the kids’ teachers via email, because my children are amazing, complicated humans with challenges that we should definitely talk about, but please-can-we-have-the-conference-next-week because I do not have the energy.

This week, I spent hours on the phone with doctors and insurance companies. And then I took my amazing, strong, funny, brave kid to a hospital where we spent half our time correcting the staff who can’t get his name right, and then the other half wiping his tears or his vomit or rubbing his back because this damned injection is so painful.

This week, my husband’s truck became unsafe to drive and not worth fixing and I postponed some payments and sold some stuff so we could make a down payment on a new one, and he’s relieved and safe but I wish it didn’t require so much juggling.

This week, I was mean to my husband. The man isn’t a saint, but oh-dear-Lord-he-deserves-a-medal-for-tolerating-me-this-week. Every time he tried to talk to me, I was so anxious/crabby/distracted that I barely responded. Or if I did, it was in single syllables or grunts or tears.

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Today, I got up early and lay in bed, chatting with my husband. I felt the weight of his arm across my waist and his breath on my neck and I thought to myself, “Breathe this in. Notice this feeling of safety and peace. You have this blessing in abundance.”

Today, my son and I spent the morning at the hospital. Then we went out to lunch, just the two of us. We laughed and talked and I thought to myself, “Remember this moment. Remember the laughter, the connection, and the pride you feel. You are abundantly blessed.”

Today, the gorgeous weather called me outside and my hammock called my name. As I lay there, I looked up at the view of the leafless trees and breathed in the fresh air on this oddly warm November day, and I thought to myself, “Save this picture in your mind. This is the soothing beauty and calm of nature. This is available to you in abundance.”

Today, I picked up a package from the post office. My mother sent me a box full of beautiful things that made me smile, and I thought, “You have family who cares for you and loves you unconditionally. You are abundantly loved.”

Today, I got a card in the mail. It was unexpected, from someone I respect and admire, whom I haven’t seen in decades. She reads my writing, and she sent me a gift. I cried as I read her card, and I thought to myself, “You have been supported by amazing people throughout every age and stage in your life. You are abundantly blessed.”

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My biggest anxieties arise from perceived scarcity. There’s always a fear that there won’t be enough; there won’t be enough time, or enough patience, or enough money.

But we live in a world of abundant blessings. Even as I write that, I realize that I sound like a Pollyanna who doesn’t live in reality, but hear me out. When we reach out to others, when we love abundantly and we give generously and we exude gratitude, it impacts the people around us. When we notice each and every simple blessing, it helps us to put things in perspective.

Feeling stressed about getting dinner on the table? Notice the leftovers in the fridge. Or the cereal in the pantry. Be grateful for the abundance.

Feeling impatient with the kids? Notice their lengthening limbs and admire their artwork and listen to them read. Remind yourself that they are blessings. Smelly, loud blessings, but blessings nonetheless.

Worried about the car payment or the cable bill? Pay attention to the clothes on your back and the roof over your head and be grateful for this moment instead of fearing a future that may or may not come to be. And what will happen if they turn off the cable? You’ll have to play board games with your kids and read books and build a fire in the fireplace. It will be okay. They will survive without wifi. Or you can all go to the library. Imagine that!

This shift affects the people around you. When you notice blessings, you become a blessing to others. When you focus on fears and anxieties and worries, you radiate fear and anxiety and worry. It is contagious.

It is also a cycle. I received a lot of blessings today. I will put them to use. I will enjoy them and appreciate them. When the time comes, when it’s my turn, I will pass them on to others, with peace and joy and gratitude.