When I Don't Get What I Want

Sometimes I don't get what I want. 

I'd like to be all mature and say that I see these moments as growth opportunities and I'm happy for the person who did get what I wanted.  I'd like to say that I roll with it and get all zen and peaceful and wish the universe well in its grand plan.  I'd like to say all those things, but then I would be lying.

Oh, I've learned to be a good sport when I lose at a game.  Or when we don't go to the restaurant I want.  Or even when someone wakes me up when I wanted to sleep.  (Not all the time, but usually.)

But sometimes I stare the universe in the eye and say, "I want my life to be like THIS.  Exactly like THIS.  Pay attention to what I'm telling you -- make it like THIS!"  I feel like the universe and I understand each other.  I see the universe nodding in agreement.  And then the universe goes and does whatever the heck it wants.

Seriously, it sucks.

I thought the universe and I were friends.  I thought the universe had my best interests at heart.  I thought we were in this together.

But I didn't get what I wanted.  I feel ripped off and picked on.  By the entire universe.

And you know what's worse?  Do you know what the real slap in the face is?  That stupid universe is right.  Like, every single time. 

It never fails.  I am sure I've got it figured out.  I am sure I know what is best for me.  I'm sure I've got the upper hand in my battle with the universe this time.

And before too long I am looking at the universe with its slight, Mona Lisa smile.  And the universe knows it has won again.  It does not brag.  It doesn't need to.  Its power is evident for all to see.

And I am forced to not only humble myself and say, "You were right."  I find myself bowing my head time and again saying, "Thank you."  (But I still mumble under my breath, "Stupid universe.")

Standing in Holy Places in Difficult Times

This will be a long post.  Please feel free to skip it without fear of offending me.  Also, it's a religious post.  It's taken from a talk I gave in church a couple of weeks ago.  It contains scriptures from The Book of Mormon in addition to scriptures from The Holy Bible.  It's based on a scripture from The Doctrine and Covenants (another book of scripture in the Mormon church):  D&C 87:8 "Stand ye in holy places, and be not moved."

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As we’ve discussed standing in holy places this year, we’ve talked about many important places.  We’ve discussed the temple and church.  We’ve talked about dedicated sites and memorials.  We’ve also talked about how we can make any place a holy place if we are striving to keep ourselves holy. 

I’d like to expand on that a little bit.  Sometimes a holy place is an actual place.  Sometimes it’s a state of mind.  And sometimes it’s a lot of work to find a holy place within myself during a difficult time.

To me, a holy place is anywhere I am physically or emotionally that allows me to connect with God.  A place that I can understand His will and strive to do it.

2 Nephi 2:25 says, “Adam fell that men might be; and men are, that they might have joy.”

This life, this experience, is supposed to bring us joy.  God’s will is that we have joy.

Many people read this and see it as an excuse to play more.  Others read this and see it as a reason to not worry so much.  Still others read it and want to get into the ever-ongoing debate between happiness and joy to prove that “wickedness never was happiness.”

Sometimes when I read it, I take it as an assignment.  One that I have a tough time with.

I struggle with clinical depression and PTSD.  I have for most of my life.  And sometimes when I read that scripture – “men are that they might have joy” – I feel like a failure.

I believe this is because I’ve bought into four powerful lies Satan uses:

1.      It’s my fault.
2.      It’s beyond my control.
3.      I have to do it alone.
4.      I should be happy all the time.

The first one, it’s my fault.  I spent many years thinking I wasn’t trying hard enough.  If I were more righteous I would be happier.  I should be able to choose happiness (because everyone says happiness is a choice).  If I were only stronger or more positive, I could force myself to choose happiness.  I could have peace in my heart all the time.  I would no longer find myself trapped in the darkness.  I believed it was my fault when I went into a depression because I wasn’t a better, stronger person.

Please let me say, I do believe happiness is a choice.  Most of the time.  But I also know that our bodies are complicated things.  Chemistry is powerful.  And genetics matter.  Clinical depression and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder aren’t my fault any more than multiple sclerosis is someone’s fault.  It’s not a sign that I’m not righteous enough.  It’s not because I’m a bad person.  It’s not because I don’t have enough willpower to snap out of it.  Those are thoughts and beliefs from fifty years ago that just aren’t true.  It’s biochemical.  It’s physical.  It’s environmental.  Much of it is beyond my control.

But not all of it.  And that brings me to the second lie, it’s beyond my control.

I often don’t see it coming.  I am good one day and the next I am so completely not.  My heart is overtaken by a darkness so deep it seems to swallow me whole.  Or I am fine one minute and the next I am filled with fear and have no idea why.  I want to hide, even from the people I love.  Even from the people in my life I know are safe.   It is so intense, so powerful when it overcomes me.  No matter what I’ve tried, it keeps happening.  I believed the only choice I had was to surrender and wait for it to pass.  I spent years thinking it was beyond my control because I didn’t know how to stop it.

But the fact that I didn’t have any answers didn’t mean there were no answers to be had.  I still can’t stop it entirely, but sometimes I can make it less powerful.  I can do things to protect myself.  Let me tell you what I’ve learned.

·       The most important thing I need to do is plan.  I need to write out a plan when I am well.  Because when I am not, it’s too late.  I can’t think clearly enough in those moments to choose well.  But if I have a written plan of healthy coping strategies, I have something to direct me, to help me make better choices.  Choices that will help me heal, not make me feel better for a moment but ultimately drive me deeper within the darkness.

·       I also need to take care of my soul.  D&C 88:15 says, “And the spirit and the body are the soul of man.”  I need to take care of my body.  I need to eat healthy foods.  I need to get enough sleep – for real.  I need to stay hydrated.  And I need to exercise.  It’s easy to think that these things are less important than working on what’s in my mind, but depression and PTSD affect the whole soul.  I can’t neglect half of it and expect to be well.  I also need to take care of my spirit.  This means reading scriptures, praying, attending church, fulfilling my calling.  The basics.  It’s easy to think that working on therapeutic things are all I need to do to feel better.  But my spirit is part of my soul.  If I am not taking proper care of it, I will not be strong enough to continue the fight.  And I will not be close enough to my Heavenly Father to receive the help I need.

And that leads me to the third lie I bought into, I have to do it alone.

We live in a society that glorifies independence.  And I’m not just talking about the world.  We in the church sometimes get this wrong.  We teach self-reliance and think that means we shouldn’t have to ask for help.  If we’re doing everything right, we shouldn’t ever have to ask for help.  We help others.  We give.  We serve.  But so often we are ashamed if we ever have to receive.

We are meant to be with others.  We need each other.  We are supposed to.  How selfish it is to only serve and give but to never open our hearts and lives to others and let them serve us.  How prideful to only show the wonderful things in our lives to the world and to never let on that we have weaknesses, too.  What a loving thing it is to occasionally show the dysfunction in our lives so others know they are not alone.

Thinking we have to do it alone is one of the most dangerous lies we can believe.  It is a lie Satan uses to keep us from leaning on our Savior and partaking of the atonement.  John 14:6 reads, “Jesus saith unto him, I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me.”

Without the atonement we are lost.  We would all remain in a fallen state.  Always separated from our Heavenly Father.  Satan pushes the idea of independence on us so that we will not turn to God or to one another.  How dangerous it is to think we can do it alone.  How grateful I am for the struggles that have shown me this is a lie.

We are not meant to be independent.  We are meant to be interdependent.  To do all we can for ourselves and then turn to God and to each other.  We are told to "gather together oft" (Alma 6:6).  We are constantly asked to strengthen each other, to lift each other up. 

·       Mosiah 2:18 “Behold, ye have called me your king; and if I, whom ye call your king, do labor to serve you, then ought not ye to labor to serve one another?”

·       D&C 88:118 “And as all have not faith, seek ye diligently and teach one another”

Would we be told to serve and lift each other if God wanted everyone to “pull themselves up by their own boot straps?”

We are frequently prompted to turn to God, to ask for help.

·       Proverbs 3:5 “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.”

·       JST, Matthew 7:12 “Ask of God; ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.”

Would God tell us these things if He wanted us to become fully independent of Him?

We are meant to turn to each other and to God.  In my case, turning to God brought me further wisdom and more resources.  I was directed to therapy.  And to my bishop.  And to trusted friends.  Sometimes we don’t know the answer, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t one.  Asking God doesn’t always mean He will give us the answer.  Sometimes He will direct us to the person who knows the answer.

And sometimes, even after all of this, I am still not happy.  Sometimes all of this still isn’t enough to fend off the darkness.

That brings me to lie number four, I should be happy all the time.

This is a world of sorrow.  Sad things happen.  Grief is important.  And sometimes biochemistry takes over.  Being sad in a moment, or for a few days, doesn’t mean I am doing something wrong.  It doesn’t mean I’m choosing poorly.  It might just mean this is my time to be sad.

The beautiful chapter of Ecclesiastes 3 (vs. 1) says there is a “time to every purpose under the heaven.”  Even, “A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.”  There are times to be sad.

And sadness has led me to some of the most holy times of my life.  Sadness drew me to my Heavenly Father when my heart was breaking and I didn’t know how to go on.  Sadness drew me to the Savior and to partake of the Atonement as I learned to forgive others and myself.  And those times when I am able to visit with someone whose heart is breaking, who thinks their life is over, who sees no light through their dark world – those are some of the most holy times of all.  Sitting with a friend on my healing porch as her soul aches is a very sad time.  But it is also a very holy time.

Because sometimes it’s time to be sad.

I am not trying to discourage anyone from seeking happiness.  I am encouraging you to forgive yourself for being sad sometimes.

This is a tough world.  But it is also a holy place.  This world has a divine purpose and we have a divine purpose in it.

I am a happy person.  I have a wonderful life.  And even in those moments of darkness, there is peace because I know God is there.  I know He has a plan for me.  I know He loves me.  I know He knows me well enough to send exactly the right trials to strengthen me, to make me who I am meant to be.  I am grateful for depression and PTSD in my life.  They have taught me important lessons I wouldn’t have learned otherwise.  They have kept me connected to God.  And that is a holy place.

Your trials might not be the same as mine.  But you will have trials.  And I hope that no matter what they are, you will find a holy place within yourself to help you through them.  I hope they will bring you to God.  I hope you will allow them to change you and strengthen you.

And please remember verse five of the thirteenth psalm, “Joy cometh in the morning.”  The joy will come.

Simple Joys: Tiny Bubbles

Since we got rid of most of our dishes over a year ago I do most of my dishes by hand.  It's a more pleasant experience.  The warm water.  The suds.  Instant gratification.

And the tiny bubbles.

I don't remember seeing these before.  I've done dishes by hand many times in the past.  I think it might be the bottle.  Nearly every time I pick up or set down the bottle of dish soap, tiny bubbles shoot out of it and float around the sink.  About the size of my fingertip.  And it makes me happy.

Bubbles are one of life's miracles, if you ask me.  They're just magical, no matter how old I get.  Watching them float.  Wondering if they will survive the landing.  Trying to catch them without popping them.  They are a wonder.

They take me back to a simpler time with my children.  Every time I see them I remember the summers spent blowing bubbles so my children could chase them.  I remember helping my children learn to blow them.  I remember when the magic of bubbles was enough to solve most unhappy days.  Long before dating woes, driving stress, and worries about grades and graduation and college.  Just me, the kids, bubbles, and sunshine.

They also take me further back in time.  Every time I see them I hear the song "Tiny Bubbles" in my head.  I remember the first time I heard that song.  It wasn't Don Ho.  It wasn't on a ukelele'.  It was an old man on a guitar.  With his partner on a banjo.  I went camping with my grandma to an annual gathering called The Blackhawk.  As the summer evening was winding down, people were socializing and relaxing.  People were playing music together, rocking in lawn chairs by their trailers, singing.  And these two old men created heaven.  A moment that still brings me peace when I think about it.  Just a still, quiet summer evening filled with the beautiful harmony of two old friends.

A time when I had no worries.  There was nothing left for the day except to enjoy the company of those around us until it was time to go to bed.  I was with my grandma, my angel on earth.  And with people who had all the time in the world just to be.

Washing my dish makes me happy.  It brings me joy in a most simple way.  (And just in case it is the bottle -- it's Dawn and it works best when the bottle is mostly empty.  I want you to find happiness washing your dish, too.)

Simple Joys: My Bed

I was the only girl in my family, so I was the outlet for anything feminine for my mom.  Decorating.  Shopping.  Clothes.  Whatever.  And that's why I grew up with a beautiful canopy bed.  Dark wood.  Yellow and white canopy, bedspread, and pillow sham.  It was beautiful.  With or without the canopy, it was the only bed I used from the time I was four until I got married.

When we first got married we tried using his twin mattresses and my twin mattresses to make a bed on the floor.  That didn't work out very well so we ended up buying some very used queen mattresses (kind of gross now that I think about it).  We were grateful for them, even on the floor. 

Through the years we got a frame, a headboard, new mattresses, and eventually a big beautiful bed.

This bed was glorious!  Queen size mattresses, but the bed itself was larger than a king size.  I remember when we saw it on the showroom floor.  Dark red wood.  Very regal.  Throne-like.  Imperial.  I liked it; my husband loved it.  Then we got it home and realized our bedroom was no where near as big as a showroom floor.  It fit, but there wasn't much room to spare.

It kind of became an albatross around my neck over the years.  But my husband still loved it so we kept it and just tried to arrange the room around it.

A few years ago when we decided we needed separate rooms, I wanted him to have that bed.  But his room is in the basement and there is just no way it would fit.  So I kept the bed I didn't really like because it seemed the practical thing to do.

And then I finally came to a place where I was ready to be true to myself, practical or not.  I didn't want the bed.  I still wanted to use my queen mattresses, but wanted something much less gaudy.  Something you could barely tell was there.  And I remembered an old bed in my parents' basement.  My bed.  My first bed.  The one before the canopy bed.

It's iron, painted white.  Chipped.  It was a full-size when I had it as a small child.  At some point it had been given to a neighbor who promised to give my parents first dibs if they ever got rid of it.  A few years ago they were ready and contacted my mom.  She said she'd love to have it back.  And it turns out that they'd altered it so it was now queen size.

My parents used it for a while in a spare room, for when family visited.  But they have since downsized and didn't have a place for it.  It was just being stored.

My mom was thrilled when I asked for it.  I think it belonged to a great-aunt or something (the story is debated).  And it's perfect.  A supportive iron frame connected to a sparse, white iron headboard and footboard.  Almost invisible in the room.  And I recently acquired a chenille bedspread similar to the one I remember stroking as I lay on it as a child.  It brings me tender joy every time I see it.

Fortuitous, destiny, divine intervention.  However it came to be, I'm just glad to have my bed back.

Counting My Blessings

My best friend is sick.  Not a little sick.  Really, really sick.

It started about six weeks ago.  She'd been sick for about two weeks before I even knew she was struggling.  Part of that was because she is a private person and didn't really let anyone know.  Part of it was because I was pretty sick at the time.  And part of it is because I take her health for granted.

Two months ago she was the healthiest person I knew.  She's a little older than me, but much healthier.  She had more energy.  She was a doer.  She was always on the go, ate well, never got sick.  I just assumed I hadn't heard from her because she was busy.  And I was too miserable to worry about anyone else.

Then I found out she was sick.  That kind of rocked my world.  She doesn't get sick; how is this possible?

I was on my way out of an illness.  I tried to check on her every day, calling or visiting.  Little by little she got worse.  She lives alone so there was no one there to monitor every day at first.  As we realized this was for the long haul, her friends started stepping in.  Weeding her garden.  Doing her shopping.  Washing her dishes.  Cleaning her house.  Preparing her meals.  It was a beautiful chorus of service.  All of us doing what we could to help.

I did a little.  I wanted to do more.  I wanted to move in and take care of her.  But that wasn't possible.  I wasn't well enough and it wasn't what she wanted.

Another friend did step up and take over the lion's share of the load.  I will be forever grateful to her for that.  She gave with her whole heart and soul to a woman I love as dearly as if she were my own sister.  Every act of service she performed felt like it was for me, because she was doing for my friend what I couldn't.

My best friend continued to decline.  She doesn't believe in traditional western medicine and was taking a more natural approach.  It was difficult to watch her not heal faster and respect her feelings on her care.  She was hurting a lot.  Swollen.  Sleeping 20 hours a day.  Losing her appetite.  Losing weight.  Severely fatigued.  It broke my heart to see her because she was so altered.

Then she started to improve.  For a couple of weeks she seemed to be getting better.  The pain and swelling went away.  She was able to move easier.  As gradual as it was, it seemed to be getting better.  And we continued to respect her desires for her care.  (There were some who tried to convince her to see a doctor, but those of us closest to her supported her.  Out of love and the belief that she has the right to choose for herself.)

But last week she took a turn for the worse.  An obvious downturn.  And it was scary.  And when it got to a certain point, the person she sees for her healing told her it was time to consult a doctor.  The doctor told her she needed IV fluids and lots of tests, but she could choose to do them on an outpatient basis or be admitted to the hospital.  The decision was hers.  She chose to be admitted.

So I have spent the last two days in and out of the hospital.  Helping her get admitted and settled.  Speaking on her behalf because it's just so hard for her.  And trying to comfort her, if only with my presence in the room.

And the feeling I am overwhelmed with is gratitude.  I am so grateful that I am not that sick.  I am so grateful that her caretaker was humble enough to ask for help.  I am so grateful she was willing to take a new direction, one that was so hard for her, and that the decision was hers.  I am so grateful for all the people who have helped her every step of the way.  I am grateful that all the medical personnel now involved have been respectful of her choices up to this point, never chastising her for waiting to involve traditional medicine.

But the thing I am the most grateful for is that I am well now.  I couldn't be there in the beginning and not much in the middle, but I can be there now.  When it's the darkest.  My health and life are allowing me to spend hours and hours by her bedside or running her errands.  My family supports me and hasn't complained of my absence once.  I get to be with my friend.  The way I want to be.

And she is improving.  I am so, so grateful for that.  I will never take her for granted again.

Sewing on Patches

I'm so glad I got my boy; I'm also glad I only got one.

I used to say this all the time when my son was little.  He was so different from my girls.  It was fun watching the world through his eyes, but it was also difficult.  He seemed to be on a search and destroy mission.  It seemed like every room he walked into was new territory to conquer.  He scanned the area for weakness and then unleashed an incredible force for one so small.  He broke more things than his four sisters combined.

Not that he was intentionally destructive, he just had a different way of exploring and discovering.  And he didn't have a natural tendency to control his strength.  He got so excited about things and ran head first into them, sometimes literally.  Then, when he saw them broken, he felt so sad.  He didn't mean to.

I can still see his little two-year old face, round, with a pouty lip.  Big tears welling up in his eyes.  Because even though he was powerful, he was tender.

Maintaining that balance has been a goal of mine.  Stay powerful, but be tender.  Sometimes it's gone well; other times, not so much.

But raising a man isn't easy -- and that's what I'm doing.  If I can remember that in the tough moments, then I can get through it.  And so can he.

I remember when he was a cub scout.  As his birthday approached, he still had a lot to do to receive his patch (whichever year, it was always the same).  We'd begin a drive to finish in time.  He'd start with energy and before long decide he didn't want to do all the work and it would be fine to just not get it this time.  But it wasn't fine for me.

My brothers didn't do much in scouting.  Neither did my husband.  There was no big family push and I had no clue what I was doing.  But I felt like it was important to finish what he started and to believe in himself.  I felt like it was important for him to learn to do hard things so that he could be proud of his efforts. 

So we'd push through.  And he'd finish just in time, sometimes yelling, crying, and fighting with me all the way.  And then, when he was done, my little boy would thank me for making him do it.  I can still see that face, too.  My grinning eight-year old smiling at me as he received his award.  An award he earned.  An award he was proud of.

There have been many times since when he wanted to quit things.  I'd be lying if I said I pushed him to finish all of them.  But I push when he's expressed a desire and then tries to back out because it's hard.  He says he wants to get his Eagle.  I will do whatever I can to make sure he follows through.

The other night I sewed his Star patch on his boy scout uniform.  This shirt is so much bigger.  He's fifteen now and practically a man.  He did so much more of the work under his own direction.  He doesn't need me as much as he used to.

But I still sew on the patches.  And I do so with honor and pride.  I am so proud of the young man he is becoming.  I want him to be proud to stand in that uniform.  As proud as I am to see him do so.

He speaks of joining the Marines one day.  There's a long time before that could happen, but I can already see it in my mind.  I'm not going to lie, if he changes his mind before then, I'm probably not going to try to talk him back into it.  The idea scares me.

But if he doesn't change his mind, I will be honored.  I will support his decision.  I will sew on patches or pin on badges as long as he will let me, until some young woman takes my place.

And I will know that I've raised a fine young man.

Thank You for Touching My Life

The other day I was privileged to participate in a two-day activity for our church youth group called Youth Conference.  Over the course of those days there were many activities, from physical to spiritual.

One of those activities involved a partner.  Everyone in the room partnered with someone else.  We stood facing each other, within about half an arms reach.  Then we followed instructions as led by the speaker.  The last instruction really got me.  "Look this person in the eye and imagine what you would say to them if this were the last time you were ever going to see them.  Tell them."

I was caught off guard by the emotion this evoked in me.  My partner was a lady from our neighborhood who has become a good friend of mine.  She has been supportive and understanding in a way most people aren't.  She truly cares about me and doesn't hide it.  She is genuine. 

And in that moment I truly thought about losing her.  My eyes welled up with tears.  I had difficulty speaking clearly.  And I thanked her for touching my life.  If we were never to see each other again, I would want her to know she made a difference.  And I am grateful.

I am grateful for many things.  I live in a time and place where most of life's basic hardships aren't a factor.  I have food, shelter, heat, money, a bed, clothes, electricity, clean running water, access to health care.  I have so many things that so many people in the world don't have.  And I am grateful for those things, even though I don't notice them most days.

But what I do notice are the people in my life.  I notice them every day.  I feel their impact every day.  They shape who I am.  They enrich my existence.  They are the whipped cream that makes my life sweeter.  They are the duct tape that keeps me together when I am falling apart.

I am incredibly blessed to have had so many wonderful people touch my life at one time or another.  And I am grateful for all of them.  For the ones who are still around and the ones who just passed through.

To all of you -- thank you for touching my life.  I am better for it.

Watching Clouds Dance -- Smartly

I have a new essay up on Smartly.  It's a moment out of time, a moment of freedom.  Of peace.  Blue sky and one little cloud.  Spend some time with me Watching Clouds Dance.

Redefining Mother's Day

I hate Mother's Day.  I have for as long as I can remember.  As a child/teenager?  I'm not sure.  But definitely most of my adult life.

I believe Mother's Day was created with good intent, but I believe it tends to do more harm than good in too many cases.  It reminds so many women (and probably more than a few men) of painful things.  An inability to have a child, children who have severed relationships with parents, men who don't live up to our expectations, loss of a loved one.  So many things.  I hate that it causes people pain.

And for so many years I knew it would cause me pain.  I came into marriage believing that it was a father's job to teach his son how to make Mother's Day special for his wife, like something from a Hallmark commercial.  I'm not sure where I got this belief.  I watched my dad work hard to make the day special for my mom.  Sometimes he got it right.  Sometimes not.  But I expected my husband to know how to make it a special day for me.

Over the twenty-one years we've been married we've had a few good Mother's Days.  Not great, but not ending in tears.  But there have also been horrible ones.  The ones full of yelling and slamming doors.  Lots of crying.  So many unmet expectations on both sides. 

I can see now that neither of us knew what we were doing.  Frustration manifested itself in different ways, but that's what it was more often than not.

As Mother's Day approached this year, I felt the all too-familiar dread.  I felt obligations pulling on me.  I felt the expectations start to creep in.  I began bracing myself for another miserable holiday.

And then I stopped.  I decided that I'd had enough miserable Mother's Days.  If I wanted to have a good day then I was going to make it happen.  I knew I had to change my way of thinking and decide what I really wanted the day to be about.

I hate to have the focus on me.  Everyone watching me to make sure I'm happy and I approve of everything.  I feel like I am supposed to perform for everyone.  Not this year.

This year I decided that I would make it a peaceful day.  Fewer expectations.  Less stress. 

I visited my mom on Saturday and gave her flowers.  Since I live in the same town as my parents I have been with my mom every Mother's Day.  Whether I felt well or not.  Whether things were good for me emotionally or not.  Sometimes because I wanted to, other times out of obligation.  My mom and I are in a strange place right now and there's just too much unpredictability.  So this year I decided Sunday was for me and I would not feel guilty about it.  That part worked out great.

I also took the initiative to make things happen around my home like I wanted.  I assigned chores to be done Saturday and followed through on them instead of leaving them up to my husband.  It is my job to make myself happy -- I wish I'd learned that sooner.  I instructed my husband about what I wanted (clean house and yard and someone else making dinner).  Then I made it happen.

My mental change was so important, too.  Instead of waiting to be appreciated and celebrated, I celebrated being a mom.  I reveled in my children and all that they did for me.  I enjoyed my husband's company and all the work he put into it.  I chose to have a good Mother's Day.  I chose to celebrate womanhood, to remember all the women who have touched my life or the lives of my children.  Women rock!

And then something wonderful happened.  My family gave me the best gift they could possibly give.  Besides cleaning and cooking and being extra nice, they recognized me as I am.  They accepted me and found a way to make the day mine.

Two of my daughters came to me with an idea.  They suggested that since I hate Mother's Day but love Halloween we should have another Halloween.  I loved the idea.  I loved it the most because they were respecting my feelings.  They were telling me that they understood who I am.  They were able to look past what society says Mother's Day should be and celebrate who I am.  No tangible gifts, to respect my minimalist desires.  Thinking outside the box.

After a wonderful day at church (in which one daughter gave a talk with a beautiful little tribute to me), we came home and just enjoyed each other.  We had candy corn, m&ms, and pumpkin pie.  We watched Halloween movies.  We hung out together.  Two of my daughters sneaked out the back door without being seen.  The doorbell rang.  We answered to see these two teenage girls dressed up in costume (a nerd and a pretty, pretty princess).  "Trick or treat," they chorused as they held out their bags.  It totally made the evening.  I giggled as I put candy corn and m&ms into their bags.  They thanked us and left.  When they came back in the back door they acted as if nothing had happened.  It was so much fun.

I am so blessed.  I have an incredible family.  And I had the best Mother's Halloween Day ever. 

Happy Womanhood Day!  May we use this day to celebrate women everywhere for who they are.  And may we, as women, define and create our own happiness.

To Do the Will of God

I would like to share some spiritual thoughts.  To throw out some ideas for you to ponder or to chew on and to do with as you will.

For this exercise to work properly you should know where I stand, what I believe.  I believe in personal revelation from God.  I believe that He speaks to each of us.  In our hearts.  In our minds.  Through a feeling of peace when we hear truth spoken by others.  I believe that He speaks to each of us differently, knowing us as He does, in a way we will understand.

And I believe that many of us choose not to listen.

We turn to Him when we have a question or concern.  Sometimes we even remember to turn to Him in gratitude, just because we feel blessed.  I wonder how often we turn to Him as a servant, a disciple.

We ask what we should do at this particular time, within the framework of our current life and situation.  We ask what direction we should go or path we should take to meet our goals.  We read His words in the holy scriptures or hear it from His servants and look at our life.  We interpret what He would have us do and ask how we should do that.

These are good things.  These are honorable questions and choices.

But I wonder how often we lay it all on the table.  How often we say "Thy will be done" and mean it with our whole heart and life.  We mean it in this instance.  With this situation.  Do we mean it with all that we have and all that we are?

And so I would ask (rhetorically) what are you willing to sacrifice to do the will of God?  Do you ask what He would choose to make of your life if you offered it freely to Him?  And if you ask, do you sincerely listen to the answer and follow through on your offer?

Imagine you are young, say 25, and you ask this of God.  And He communicates to you that He has a very important work for you, but that in order to do this work you will have to be blind.  If you accept this assignment your eyesight will begin to fail and you will be blind before you are 30.  Then you will be ready to do His work.  Would you accept?

Or you are newly married and eager to begin your family.  You ask God how He would use your life and your talents.  He tells you that you will be a leader among women and touch many hearts.  But to qualify you for this role you will be asked to do hard things.  You will get pregnant many times but will not carry a child to term.  You will never hold your living child in your arms.  Would you be willing to carry this burden to serve Him?

What if you are well established in your profession, a giant in your community, and He asks you to give away everything you have and start a new life of simplicity?  Having little materially and working hard to serve others?  Could you let all that go if you knew it was what He wanted?

I ask these questions and put forth these possibilities because I think this is what prevents us from asking.  I believe most of us do not ask, do not offer our whole lives, because we are afraid of the answer.  We have a plan for our life.  Our goals are righteous.  Our hearts are pure.  We will ask His direction as we work toward our goals, but we know what we want to do with our life.

Do we know what He wants to do with it?

My Beautiful Neighborhood

Tonight, as I let the dog in, I took the opportunity to admire my neighborhood.  I stood on my porch and looked at the homes within my immediate view and was overwhelmed with love and gratitude.

I am incredibly fortunate to live in my neighborhood.  I love the location.  I love the view from my porch.  But most of all, I love my neighbors.

There are some younger than us, some older than us, and a few of the wise and wonderful generation.  And each of them has touched my life in some way.

Our immediate neighbors have been incredibly understanding and forgiving during times when the volume between my husband and me was intense.  And again when my children held a picnic on their porch and didn't clean it up.  They have been kind and helpful.  They have watched over us.  They have been an emergency contact for my children when we were away; I felt comforted knowing they were there for my kids.

The ones on the other side I don't know as well.  The parents only speak Spanish and I don't.  We haven't really connected verbally.  But they have been polite and friendly.  We wave at each other with a big smile.  Even without many words, there is a tenderness there.  An understanding that we are neighbors.

Across the street is my neighbor who is 95 (give or take a year).  He frequently walks across the street and visits with me and my kids when we're in the yard.  He brings us produce from his garden.  He talks to my kids about the activities they are involved with.  He tells me about his family and all that they are up to.  And he loves us.  In the way he talks to us and smiles at us, I know that he does.

And all along the street I can see people who are kind to me.  People who have helped me.  People who look out for me and my kids.  People who see when I'm having a bad day and give me a hug.  People who look past the irritating things we do and are still our friends.  People who've had hard times and learned lessons and shared them.  People who speak with love from their heart.  People who are open to connecting and aren't afraid of being loved.

I hear of people who don't get along with their neighbors or who live in unsafe neighborhoods and I am sad.  I wish everyone had a neighborhood like I do.

Each of these people has touched my heart.  Each of them has served me at one time or another.  And if asked each of them would probably say that they didn't do much.  But isn't that the point of a neighborhood?  If we all do a little to take care of each other, everything important will get done.

When Disaster Strikes

It's been two days since the world turned upside down for thousands of people in Japan.  Two days of the rest of the world watching, with so many hoping and praying.  So many people wondering if their loved ones were okay.  Waiting for news.  Hoping for the best.

I only know one person in Japan.  A man I knew shortly after college.  A man I had a flirtation with.  A very sweet, tender-hearted man.  And through the magic of facebook we have been able to reconnect.  We exchange very little, but I am able to get small glimpses into his life every so often.  I feel like he is still my friend.

Today I found out that he and his wife are safe.  And I exhaled.  Because in a very real way I had been holding my breath for the last two days.  Checking facebook more often than usual just to see if he's posted.  Offering many prayers and thinking of him.

Because that was all I could do. 

And when disaster strikes that is often all any of us can do.  Wait.  Hope.  Think.  Pray.  And amid all the horror that has been happening (and will for some time to come) there has been beauty.  Beauty in seeing the rescue efforts under way.  Beauty in nations offering help to other nations.  An unknown brotherhood discovered as earthquake and rescue experts from California travel to Japan to help their family in need.  And the incredible outpouring of love and concern.

There are people who are oblivious, I suppose.  Who don't know what's going on or take time to care.  There may even be those who think it's a good thing because of some prejudice they have or a hard-heartedness about human life.  But I don't have time for those people.

The ones I see are those whose hearts are breaking open full of love and concern.

And while the word disaster generally makes us think of massive things, disasters can also be tiny in scale.  It can be a disaster even if it only affects a few people.  The loss of a child.  Receiving a diagnosis of a terrible disease.  Watching Alzheimer's transform someone you love into someone who doesn't know you.  So many things.

I hope we remember to allow our hearts to be broken open for those disasters, too.  Because while we can't save the world, we can touch lives. 

I can't fix the buildings that fell down.  I can't give everyone clean drinking water.  I can't bring back the people who were lost. 

So I offer what I can.  I offer my prayers because I never run out -- I have enough for everyone.  And I offer my heart.  Because no matter how full it is, no matter how many people I hold in my heart, there is always room for one more.

Thanks for the Sting

Every now and then I receive a comment on my blog that bugs me.  I can't really put my finger on why.  What is it about that comment that irritates me so?  Makes me feel like I need to defend myself?  It wasn't mean, exactly.  So why did it sting?

Well, today I think I finally found my answer.  I got my first truly snotty comment.  It was on an older post.  And a fairly popular one.  It felt like a slap in the face.  A moment of shock.

But there was beauty to it as well.  You see, it was written in a way that helped me figure out what had been bugging me about those other comments.  And in such a way that it showed the insecurities of the woman writing it.  It was obviously her issue and she was projecting.  I am grateful for that.  Because it was so evident in hers, I can see it in others' as well.

So what was it?  What is it that bugs me so much in those comments?  It's someone else assuming that they know what my motivations are.  It's someone else telling me how I feel.  It's someone else putting words into my mouth.  Basically, it's all the childish arguments I've had over the years with people who would rather attack me than argue their point.  It's not debate.  It's not stating your opinion and backing it up.  It's saying, "You don't agree with me so you're stupid!"

I've had way too much experience with this kind of arguing.  Too often I don't see it when it happens.  I am hurt and can't figure out why.  I feel defensive.  I feel like a little girl being chastised for not being good enough.  I feel like I'm being told that everything that's wrong is my fault.

And those are my issues.

But because this woman took the time to comment, in all her snarky glory, I was able to see it.  I was able to see that when a person attacks like this, it's not about me.  It's about them.  And just because they blame me or think I am stupid it doesn't mean I am.  They may throw the label out there but I don't have to choose to wear it.

So if any of you have the need to tell me how I feel, you may.  And I will not argue with you.  You can just be wrong.  And I can be right.  And I don't have to prove to you that I am right or defend myself.  It's okay if I'm the only one who knows.

To that wonderful woman who gave me this gift this morning, thank you.  It may not have been what you intended, but it turned out great for me.  Good luck to you as you work through your insecurities.  I hope some day you can receive a similar slap in the face that helps you become the person you want to be.  And I said that in all kindness and sincerity.

Thanks for the sting.

An Update

Thank you for all the kind expressions of concern and support.  It was very sweet and touched my heart.

I got triggered over the holiday.  Multiple times.  By different people.

I have kind of lost my sense of self recently, my self-definition.  I regressed to letting others define me.  To feeling like I am worth less because others didn't approve.  Because I didn't measure up.

It was a gradual thing, so I didn't really notice it until it had gotten pretty bad.  I was isolating myself.  I was unable to write.  I was no longer talking to people in any meaningful way.  I was not leaving my house unless absolutely required.  For over a month.

I felt like I was disappearing. 

And then the holidays hit.  There were some really good things which I'd hoped to write about.  But then there were a couple of situations that sent me back in time.  I was not self-assured.  I had no power.  My boundaries were difficult to maintain.  I didn't feel like a whole person.  And my anxiety began to climb.

I didn't understand what was happening.  I couldn't pin it down to just one incident.  Or even to just one person.

But I was suddenly full of fear.  Paralyzed with fear.  Always on the verge of tears.  Several sobbing fits with so much emotional pain.  And I didn't understand where it was coming from.  For a couple of weeks.

On the bright side, I made it through the worst of it without injuring myself.  That's progress.  And I found a way to stand up for myself once I figured out one of the problems.

It's not gone.  I'm not through it.  Sudden waves of fear and/or anxiety still happen.  But I am making progress.  Understanding that it is PTSD because I was triggered helps.  Even though I don't know the specific cause, I do have coping strategies -- healthy ones -- to deal with it.

So right now I am trying to pull it together.  To figure it out.  But at least I am finally able to write.  That alone makes me feel like I might be real.

With Wonder and Awe

I listen to the birds outside my window.  It is almost Christmas, there are several inches of snow on the ground, and those birds are still here.  Still chirping away.  And I wonder.  What kind are they?  What keeps them here?  How do they survive?

As I've gotten older I'm afraid I've lost much of my ability to wonder.  Things just don't amaze me like they have in the past.  Is it age?  Is it depression?  Who knows.

But there are still moments.  Moments when time stands still. 

When I hold a sleeping newborn.  I look at this being.  I behold this creature.  And I am filled with awe.  I gaze lovingly.  I glory in its magnificence.  I am overwhelmed by its very being.

I sit on my porch at midnight on a summer evening.  All is quiet.  Except for nature.  Nature composes the most incredible symphonies.  And she plays them in the dark of night.  The crickets.  The wind.  Leaves rustling.  An owl.  And the stillness.  The stillness is a player in the orchestra.  The stars play their chords.  It is breathtaking.

A moment of clarity.  In a room full of people.  During a busy day.  All has been rushed.  Then something clicks.  A look.  A word.  A phrase.  A thought.  All is made clear in my mind in that moment and I am awash in peace.  Clarity.  Calm.

These are the moments when I know I am more.  We are more.  More than we can possibly understand.

You're Much Happier in Person

Recently, as part of an improve-your-writing challenge, I asked for feedback on my writing.  A few brave souls trusted that I meant it (I did) and offered some.  Kudos to you for your bravery.  And thank you.

To me, feedback is like telling someone they have spinach in their teeth.  It might be awkward, but it helps them avoid future embarrassment.  I believe you should ask a person if they want feedback before offering it (unless they ask you for it).  And I believe feedback and criticism are two very different things.  It's not feedback if you are telling them about something you don't like that they have no way to fix.  It's not feedback if it's meant to hurt or tease or make you look better than them.

One thing that a couple of people told me was that I seem much happier in person than I come across in my writing.  That my writing seems darker than I really am.

Being the introspective person that I am, I thought about this.  Is it true?  Am I misrepresenting myself in my writing?  Am I misrepresenting myself in person?  Why don't these two personas align?

Like most things in life, it's complicated.

While I would like to be incredibly genuine at all times, sometimes I still put on a happy face when I'm out.  Not as much as I used to.  Not to people I trust.  Usually just in passing or with people I don't really know.  Or if I'm not up to talking about what's bothering me. 

And then there's the fact that if I'm outside of my house, I'm probably feeling better.  If I feel better then I'm happier.  It's that simple.

Plus, being with people, especially certain people, makes me happier, too.

I can also be more intimate in my writing than I can in everyday situations.  There just aren't that many opportunities to sit and chat for hours with a friend.  Privately so I can get it all out without worrying about being judged or others overhearing.  Writing serves that purpose for me.  Writing is very intimate.  I can say what I feel without anyone else's emotions coloring it.  And things come out in my writing that I might not have known about myself, that I might not have even known I was feeling.

When I don't feel well I stay home.  I stay in my room.  Just me and my computer.  That leaves more writing time.  When I feel well I am out and about and don't have as much time (or need) to write.

I also feel a need to capture the dark times.  For me and for others.  It's so difficult to communicate those feelings to others.  It's difficult to remember them when they pass.  But it's important to try, if only so others know they are not alone.

All of that said, I know my writing has been darker for a long period of time (until maybe the last week or two).  I have been in a darker place.  One that won't break.  But even in the midst of this I don't feel sad most of the time.  People sometimes think that because I write about dark feelings I am sad.  That's not always the case.  I have sad moments and happy moments, just like everyone else.  Some are just longer than others.  I don't think my life is horrible or tragic.  I also don't think it's peaches and cream.

Realizing that my writing has been dark, I have asked myself if I should write more positively anyway -- in spite of how I feel.  No one has asked me to do this.  But some people do miss my positivity.  (It didn't feel like criticism, just that the other me was missed.)  Maybe my dark writing will drive people away.

Trust me.  I have thought about this a lot.

And this is my conclusion.  I will watch for this in my life.  I will watch for more positive things.  I will look for happy.  And I will make it a point to try to write when I am in a better place.

But I won't fake it.  As much as I love having other people read my writing, it's not really for you.  It's for me.  If it is meeting your needs and not mine, then it's just not worth it to me anymore.

And that's another thing that's beautiful about feedback.  You can examine it, weigh it, and decide what you want to do with it.  Implement all, some, or none of it.  Without this freedom it loses it's power.

Nectar of the Gods

Ever have one of those days?  A day when everything goes wrong?  When everyone hates you?  A day that seems to be neverending?

It's finally over.  You've made it home, to your refuge.  Your haven.  Your day has been horrible, but you've done your time and now you get to relax.

You go to the fridge and see that lovely bottle.  Just holding it in your hand eases the tension.  It's cool; it will bring relief.

You twist the top and hear that sound.  The sound that promises to quench a thirst deeper than physical.  That promises to drown the day's sorrows.

So you take a swallow.  That first precious swallow that tastes better than anything humans have a right to enjoy.  That swig that burns all the way down.  Followed by a sigh of relief.  You have just partaken of the nectar of the gods.

Diet Coke.

And life is good again.  You're going to make it through the night.  All is right with the world.

*ahhh*

Letter to a Friend -- Take Two

I think it's safe to say that I am in a heavily therapeutic place right now.  Focused on healing so much that I miss a lot.  One thing that proved this to me was my last post.

I don't think it was overly negative or anything, but it didn't even occur to me to write something positive.  Something praising.

Today it occurred to me.  So I want to try again.  There are so many people who have touched my life.  So many who saved me.  From myself.  From bad situations.  Whatever.

This is for them, with one in particular in mind.

**********

Dear Friend,

My heart is overflowing.  I have so much gratitude I don't know how to express it.  When I think of you, and the time we've spent together, I am ovewhelmed at my fortune.  I know God brought you into my life.  I am sure of this.

Do you know that you are God-like in your nature?  Do you know how much you radiate His love?  His tenderness?  His compassion and acceptance?  Do you know that hugging you is like being wrapped in His arms?

You make me feel safe.  You make me feel valued.  You make me feel wanted.  Do you know how rare that has been in my life?

You are amazing.  You fill me with awe.  I look at your life, at all you've been through, and wonder how you became so radiant.  How were you able to endure the darkest things in life and still shine so brightly?  It was your light that got me through some of the darkest times in my life.

You are such an example to me.  I aspire to be like you.  Sometimes when I'm trying to figure out what to do I ask myself what you would do.  I want to be like you.  You are one of the most Christ-like people I have ever met.

The way your face lights up when you see me.  It's overwhelming.  It floods me with love and value.  And I've watched as you give this gift to others.  Like whoever you are with is the most important person in the world.  Like there is nothing you would rather do than sit and be with this person.  With me.

Do you know your power?  Do you understand your greatness?

And no matter how long we are apart, I am welcomed back with love every time.  Never judged for staying away, for being busy, for not staying in touch.  Just loved.

Do you understand how rare you are?

I love you.  I love you so much it makes my heart hurt.  I love you for what you've done and for who you are.

And I praise God every day for bringing you into my life.  Thank you for being willing.  Thank you for letting Him guide you.  Thank you -- for everything.

Love,
Robin

The Person

Everyone has one.  That pivotal person.  The one who changed your life.  The one who helped define you.  The one without whom you wouldn't be who you are.  Hopefully, the one who taught you to believe in yourself.

For me, that was my grandma.  And today would be her 100th birthday.  I miss her.

Octoboween

Huzzah!  The day has finally arrived.  The day I've been waiting for all month long.  It's the first day of Octoboween and I am so excited!

Seriously, not a lot of things excite me.  But the first day of October does.  It really, really does.

For most people, one day of Halloween is plenty.  For some it's too much.  But not for me.

I love the dark and scary stories.  I love the rats and spiders.  I love the macabre.

I grew up on scary movies, some much scarier than my children have yet to see.  Edgar Allen Poe movies with Vincent Price.  Stephen King.  All the original scary movies of the '80s (Halloween, Nightmare On Elm Street, Friday the 13th) and then some.  Plus lots of Hitchcock.

I don't go in for the hard stuff anymore.  Nothing R.  I just can't stand the gore.  And I've found that a good scary movie doesn't need it.  A really scary movie can freak you out without showing you anything.  It lets your mind scare you.  That's where the fear happens.

So a few years ago I decided I wanted more out of Halloween.  Thus, Octoboween was born.  Every day in October we watch a Halloween movie.

Halloween movie is a somewhat loose term.  If it has ghosts or monsters, it qualifies.  If it has Halloween in the title, it qualifies.  If it's scary, it qualifies.  So we end up with quite a broad range.

We will watch several M. Night Shyamalan movies (Signs, The Sixth Sense, The Village, Lady in the Water); probably a few Hitchcock movies (Rear Window, Rebecca); some more recent classics (Young Frankenstein, Labyrinth, Disney's Haunted Mansion, Ghostbusters, The Addams Family); definitely some Vincent Price (Fall of the House of Usher, Pit and the Pendulum); some original classics (Dracula and Frankenstein from the '30s); possibly Monsters, Inc. and Jaws; and we will end with Disney's Legend of Sleepy Hollow on Halloween.

It will be fun.  It's a great family bonding time for us.  Some days it will be just us; other times we'll have friends over.

It's the way we welcome fall.  It fits our family.  We revel in the ways we are weird -- together.  And isn't that what family traditions are all about?