Category: Reflections

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.

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.

***********************************************************************************************

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.”

**********************************************************************************************

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.

I read voraciously. I inhale books like some people devour popcorn or sunflower seeds; quickly, by the fistful and without stopping until each tiny morsel is gone.

I don’t recall the first time I came across the word ‘melancholy’ in print. I do know that I didn’t look it up. I used context clues to make a reasonable guess and kept reading. Over the next few years, I encountered it enough to feel confident that I knew its meaning, and it became one of my favorite words.

Not too long ago, I had cause to look up the actual dictionary definition of melancholy, and I was shocked. This word did not mean what I had always thought. The dictionary tells me that it means ‘depression’ or ‘sorrow’ or ‘intense sadness.’ I had always understood that the word described a certain type of sadness, but another definition; ‘a pensive sadness,’ was a bit closer to how I had always thought of it. In my mind, melancholy has always been a beautiful sort of sadness.

It’s a ‘sitting on the floor surrounded by old photos that make your heart ache’ kind of feeling.

It’s the beauty and release of a long, ugly cry into the soft fur of a beloved pet.

It’s the scent of grandma’s meatballs, bringing a shocking swell of grief in the back of your throat where the taste of the garlic should be.

It’s your child hugging you through his tears when his best friend finds a new best friend.

It’s a sadness that understands its own value.

I’m not sure if it’s our culture or our human nature that compels us to escape pain as quickly as possible. We don’t often allow ourselves to sit with our sorrow. And it’s even more unusual for us to dwell in the pain long enough to find peace there; to bask in melancholy.

I don’t even care that I’ve had it wrong for all these years.  In my mind, melancholy will always be sadness clothed in wisdom and patience and beauty and peace. It’s not a sadness to avoid; it’s a sadness to embrace.

Is there anything as soothing as the sound of rain outside your open bedroom window as you fall asleep?

Call me crazy, but I love the rain. Today, a friend and co-worker was griping about the terrible weather. Typically, I agree wholeheartedly with this amazing woman’s perceptions and insights. But this ‘rotten weather’ comment had me sheepishly admitting, “I kinda like it.”

Hear me out.

Crappy weather is forgiving in a way that sunshiny days just aren’t. Sunshine screams, “Come out and play. Bring the kids to the park and the beach. Walk the dog. ENJOY EVERYTHING!” Rain gently whispers, “Sit down for a while. Relax. Don’t be in such a hurry.”

Rain makes it permissible to sit in your car, long after you’ve parked and turned off the engine. You’re just waiting for the rain to let up, after all.

Rain allows you to throw your hair in a ponytail. Because it’s just going to get ruined anyway.

Rainy days turn comfort foods from an indulgence to an expectation.

Rainy days are the perfect excuse for a good book or a cup of tea or a long nap. Throw in a good thunderstorm, and I’m in heaven. There’s nothing better.

Until our first snow day, of course.

I don’t have an excellent filter. It’s not unusual for me to find myself in a group of people, realizing that I just made everyone slightly uncomfortable by disclosing something inappropriate. It’s my blessing and my curse. Sometimes I wind up embarrassing myself. Sometimes I end up alienating people. But other times, I end up initiating awkward, powerful, difficult conversations.

Let me back up. I’m aware that it’s generally considered impolite or in poor taste to talk about money. So I usually only bring it up if:

1. I desperately need a small loan and I finally muster up the courage to ask one of my parents.
2. I’m making a self-deprecating joke about my inability to manage or hold on to money.
3. I’m subconsciously panicking about some financial issue and I subsequently have too many glasses of wine.

And it’s that last circumstance that’s led me to an interesting revelation. Every time I’ve brought up money concerns that were probably too personal or too honest or too revealing, somebody in the room approached me afterward to commiserate or share or confess. Someone else was compelled to share something about their financial circumstances that they surely would not have admitted, had I not had that third glass of chardonnay and over-shared to begin with.   What I’ve learned through these interactions is that EVERYONE I KNOW is worried about money.

Some of us are worried about our retirement accounts. Some of us are worried about how to buy a new car when the engine finally goes. Some of us don’t know how we’re going to pay for our kids’ college. Some of us are scraping together quarters for a gallon of milk, or selling jewelery to buy diapers. There are certainly different circumstances… but we’re all worried.

And for some reason, we’re not allowed to talk about it. Why do we do this to ourselves? Ladies, we share recipes and birth stories and work stresses and arguments with our spouses. We talk about our medications and our babies’ bowel movements and that time we tucked our skirt into our nylons at the airport. But money? We can’t talk about this? WHY NOT?!?!?

Well, I have a theory about that. We don’t talk about money because we have so much of our identity wrapped up in it. Are you a “Money doesn’t grow on trees” kind of person? Or a “Save it for a rainy day” kind of person? Were you taught that success was based on finances? Did you grown up without a penny to spare? Are you determined to have more than your parents? Are you determined not to spoil your kids? Do you believe “You can’t take it with you” or do you want to “Leave something for the kids?”

You see… the thing is, it doesn’t even matter; because ALL of those people worry about money. I’ve talked with friends who I consider to be ‘well-off’ who were afraid of losing their homes. I’ve spoken to empty nesters who thought they were prepared for retirement, only to find out that it wasn’t enough. I’ve listened to women who counted on vouchers to feed their families and women who were trying to deliberately expose their children to hardships because they wanted them to understand that their wealth wasn’t something to take for granted. We all worry about this. So why are we so afraid to talk about it?

I guess I can only speak for myself. Personally, I’m afraid to express my financial worries for lots of reasons. Here are three of them:

1. I’m afraid to be judged. I’m afraid if I admit that I have money concerns, I’m opening myself up to have my priorities questioned. Half the time, I’m questioning my own priorities. I don’t need anyone else to be doing it for me.
2. I WANT to be grateful for all I have. I want to acknowledge my blessings and remember that I have so much to be thankful for… so it feels somehow ungrateful to worry about something as inconsequential as the car payment.
3. I don’t want people to think I’m asking for money. What if I complain about the phone bill and my friend offers to pay it? I don’t want to be a charity case. I don’t want to ruin the friendship. I don’t want to owe anyone anything.

Okay, so maybe they’re valid concerns. But certainly, I can find two or three friends who I can trust …

1. … to not question my judgement. These friends should believe I am a competent adult, capable of making my own decisions (and sometimes mistakes).
2. … to listen to my concerns without questioning my faith or my gratitude or assuming that this worry is somehow a character flaw.
3. … to ask thoughtful questions and be supportive in whatever way they can. These friends would never use money as a weapon or a tool for manipulation.

I don’t need to over-share at every dinner party. But I can lighten the load by finding a confidant and simply talking about it. After all, “A burden shared is a burden halved,” right? (Written by T. A. Webb, for those of you who are sticklers about citations).

I guarantee, if you try this, people will confide in you. You’ll find yourself in strange new relationships where it’s not taboo to talk about finances. You might find you have the chance to help someone out. You might find yourself wondering if you should accept help. But you will not be alone. I promise.