A Year of Purpose in Review

It's time to look back on the last year and how my One Word has played out.  For 2017 that word was PURPOSE.

In anticipation, I expected I would approach things with purpose.  That I would more consciously choose what I did and choose things that had a real purpose.  A purpose of value.  That instead of running around putting out fires, which my life has so often been, I would take a breath and choose.  I would ponder, if only for a minute, what was the proper use of my time and energy.  And that did happen.  Some.

But often it played out differently.  I had something I wanted to do or needed to do and tried to find a deeper purpose in it.  I need to go to the library to pick up a book for my daughter.  But what is the greater purpose for this.  My daughter is currently house bound.  I'm going to the library as an act of service.  I am doing something for her that she can't currently do for herself.  There were many instances of that.

Or I tried to give something purpose.  I'm going for a run.  This run is to build my running base.  Or I dedicate these miles to a friend who is struggling.  Things such as this.

But most often it happened in the middle of something I was doing.  I'm on hour three of a Netflix binge.  Why?  What is my purpose for spending so much time this way?  It's an effort to avoid the struggles of my life.  It's an attempt to dull the things I'm feeling that I don't want to feel.  It's a weird way I can feel like I'm accomplishing something, as I check episodes off.  There was way more of this type of analysis than usual.

I'm big on examining my motivation for things.  But this was a bit different.  Looking for a purpose.  And asking myself if my purpose was a healthy one.  Was it good for me?  Did it serve a larger purpose?  What general direction were these choices taking me, and did that lead to my bigger purpose?  To the broader goals, the long-term goals, I have for myself.

I can honestly say I sometimes did well with this and sometimes didn't.  Finding out what my purpose for doing something was sometimes stopped me in my tracks and made me change direction.  Other times not so much.

I think this one will stick with me.  And it leads well into 2018's word.  Coming soon.

Transitions

Seriously, who the crap am I?

Transitions are tough.  Even when the new state of being is positive.  Even when the other side is wonderful.  The change can be difficult.

I remember reading that transitions are especially dangerous mental health territory.  Well, I already have mental health issues.  And now I'm in the middle of several transitions.  What a surprise I'm having a tough time.

My youngest child just graduated.  I was so focused on all the pain-in-the-butt things that were going away that I didn't look much further ahead.  And now I find myself on unsolid ground.  Not sure of my footing.  Staring at a bunch of building materials with no idea what I want to create.

My oldest will be twenty-six in a few months.  For over twenty-six years (I'm including my pregnancy), my whole life has been focused on my kids.  Their safety.  Their happiness.  How to help them be good people.  That's a long time in one job.

My youngest will be eighteen in a little over a month.  And as my kids have become adults over the last few years, my role has changed somewhat.  They're in charge of, and in control of, more of their lives.  They're responsible for their choices, whether they act responsibly or not.  In a little over a month, I will not be legally responsible for anyone but myself.

And I'm having some trouble processing that.

The transition has happened slowly, in theory.  One child at a time.  A couple years in between each one.  So why does this moment feel so shocking?

Because she's the last one.

I've been a stay-at-home mom for most of their lives.  Significantly longer than I was single and childless.  When I no longer have minor children at home, but still choose not to work, what am I?

And what do I want to be?

See, here's the thing.  I have all the choices in the world.  My husband has no desire for me to work, for both physical health and mental health reasons.  Although he would support me if I chose to work.  Because he supports me in pretty much anything I want to do.

And that's the key phrase.  What I want to do.  And I have no idea.  What do I want to do?

My health is better than it's been in years, but it's still a day to day thing.  There are still days I can't get out of bed.  Still lots of fatigue and pain.

But there are other days.  Days when I feel pretty good.  Days when I feel powerful.  Days when I believe I can conquer the world.

I'd love to be able to plan out my life.  I'd love to live by schedule.  I'd love to know how I want to spend my days.  To write it all down and live by it.  But with the freedom to set it aside if a friend needs me.  And I'm just not sure how to balance that.

I yearn for structure.  I've always been a planner.  But when my health fell apart eleven years ago, I had to stop committing to things.  I had to stop planning.  Because it just felt so bad when I let others down, when I had to cancel at the last minute.  When I couldn't do that one thing I'd so looked forward to and worked to make happen.

I'm scared to plan again.  I'm not sure why.  And I guess I've planned all along, just on a different level.  I'm not sure why this feels so different.

Yes, I am.  I don't want to waste.  I don't want to use my time badly.  I don't want to just pass through day after day.  I don't want to look in my rearview mirror and see emptiness.  Days of nothing.

Before now, even if I did nothing else all day, I still parented.  I still did something productive, just by keeping people alive and on task in their lives.  When that's not my job anymore, what value do I have?  Especially if my days are spent just doing whatever I want.

I know I'll find my footing.  I always do.  And it will be great.  And I will be happy.  But right now I feel like I'm dancing on quicksand.  In an earthquake.  With a tornado approaching.

And I have to decide whether to hunker down or face the storm.

With Purple Hair

On December 2, 2014 my family and friends received a bit of a shock.  Without telling anyone - not my husband, best friend, or children - I dyed somewhere between six and eight inches of my hair purple (actually, my amazing hairdresser did).  Bright purple.  Troll doll purple.

Troll doll with purple hair

Me with purple hair

Reactions varied.  My husband and my best friend both loved it.  My kids had mixed reactions; mostly I think they just needed time to adjust.  My son worried that it increased the chances that I would hurt myself (I had received a diagnosis of Bipolar 2 shortly before this, although I'd had symptoms for years, and have a history of self-harm).  We got through that.  They adjusted.  Everyone adjusted.  And even though people were surprised, there seemed to be a general, "Oh, that's just something Robin would do" attitude.

They asked why.  I said it was just time.

The reasons are many.  First let me say, I'm color-blind.  I've done various things in shades of red in my hair many times in the past.  It has to be very bright in order for me to see the red in my brown hair.  When it fades, which it does very quickly, I can't see it anymore.  Other people can and they still comment on how great it looks, but I can't.  And that bothers me.  I dye my hair for my own entertainment.  For my own pleasure.  Because I like the way it looks to me.  That effect is nullified when I can't see it.  And that's a lot of money to like what I see for only a few days.

Also, a part of me has always wanted to do something bold and shocking with my hair.  I'm generally only rebellious in subtle ways.  I'm not really a whole-head-purple or shaved-head person.  I'm more of a comes-out-with-a-couple-washes purple-streak-for-Halloween person.  But for some reason, it was just time.

And purple has never been a favorite color of mine.  But since my daughter was diagnosed with a Chiari malformation a couple of years ago and purple is the color of Chiari awareness, it's grown on me.  Purple has a special place in my heart now.

My hair has gone through many phases as it's faded.  My hairdresser told me it would, but I wasn't quite prepared for it.  When it lost the very intense brightness I was sad.  But then I saw all the variation emerging and it became fun on a different level.  It became My Little Pony purple.

My Little Pony with variegated purple hair

Me with variegated purple hair

Truthfully, once it got to this stage I still only saw it as purple.  My husband would point out where it was purple, where it was blue, and where it was pink - but it just looked purple to me.

And, see, that's part of the point.  While I couldn't see all those colors, I could see the purple.  Every step of the way I could see the different color from what it used to be.  That made me happy.

Then it faded more and my friend told me it looked like Meryl Streep's hair in Into the Woods.

Meryl Streep

Me

Seriously, how can you go wrong when you're being compared to Meryl Streep?  Even if it's when she's playing a witch.  (By the way, that's one of my favorite semi-recent photos of myself.  My hair looks good.  You can't see the bags under my eyes or my double chin.  It'll be my profile picture for a good, long time.)

That was about a month ago now.  It's faded a lot more.  There is definite white showing through.  Since we had to bleach my hair in order to dye it, just letting my hair go back to its natural color isn't going to happen.  Without the color my head would look like the hoof of a Clydesdale.

Clydesdale hooves

My bleached hair before the purple

It's time for something new.  Tomorrow I'll be getting it colored again.

So I thought today would be a good time to reflect on what I've learned in the last two and a half months.

As much as I pondered this, (and it was planned for more than two weeks before I did it) I didn't think through all the ramifications.  I was prepared for the way my family, friends, parents, neighbors, and ward (parish) members might react.  I wasn't prepared for the way strangers would react.  They either stared or refused to look at me.  Except the younger ones.  The ones my kids' ages and younger would come right out and comment on it or just move past it.  The ones my age and older either glared at me (seriously?) or glanced and then turned away quickly (while sneaking secret looks when they thought they were out of my field of vision). 

I get it.  Especially when it was bright purple it was a bit shocking.  But some of the looks I got, many in fact, felt like judgments.  Like me having purple hair meant I was a certain type of person who believed a certain type of things and acted in a certain type of way.  And worse, like it was something to be embarrassed about.  My daughter (who shaved her head almost two years ago in support of her sister who was having brain surgery) said she went through similar things.  In fact, she was flat out told to hide her head more than once.

Let me tell you something, judgy-judgers, most of you would be hard pressed to find more conservative people than me and my daughter.  We are both very active in our church and attend every week.  Neither of us has a tattoo.  Neither of us has ever done drugs or had illicit sex.  Neither of us has been to jail.  We both vote in every election and take that right/responsibility seriously.  In fact, neither of us has even ever had a ticket.  By most measurements of the world, we are quite boring.  We just did something fun with our hair.

The other thing I wasn't prepared for was how I would feel about these reactions.  It's not that I care so much about how others feel about how I look, although the first time (when I was completely unprepared for it) I felt very self-conscious and couldn't wait to get back to the safety of my own home.

No, the reactions of other people served to point out how public this experience was.

Okay, so that should have been obvious before I did it, but it wasn't.  I dyed my hair the way I did for me.  I wanted it to be distinctly different from my natural hair.  I wanted the lift it would give me in the middle of winter.  I wanted the fun of that little bit of rebellion.  But I was irritated by the fact that I couldn't do this fun thing - that I couldn't play - without the whole world watching.

I went to a high school basketball game a week or so after I had it done.  I don't know how many people fit in our gym, maybe a couple hundred.  But as I walked in and felt the eyes of so many people on me I realized I was the only person in the room with purple hair.  I don't think I've ever felt so much in the spotlight as I did in that moment.  And it was not something I enjoyed.  I prefer to blend into the crowd.  That moment kind of freaked me out.

But I've adjusted.  I've acclimated to the new temperature of the waters.  As I prepare for the next color, I'm ready for whatever it brings.  Because I've been there before and the personal joy it brings me is well worth the cost.

An Alternative to Self-Harm, an Anxiety Attack, and Just Yuck

So, I'm seeing a new therapist.  He and I are finding our way.  I felt like we were floundering for a bit (turns out, so did he), but I feel like we have a plan now.

I have gone to therapy for many years, off and on.  I've seen several therapists.  And sometimes I feel like I'm in therapy to keep a grasp on reality when my life is crazy.  That my therapist is my anchor.  Because sometimes the waves are so far over my head and I can't even find a piece of driftwood to cling to.  Therapy has been the lifeboat for me many times.

Other times therapy is my mental gym and my therapist is my personal trainer.  His job is to help me strengthen my weaknesses.  To prepare for competition or just to feel my best.  This time is one of those.

This therapist (Jason) is my coach.  His job (and my job) is to help me fight.  His job is to help me win.  In my fight against self-harm.

Which is kind of an uphill battle because I'm still not sure I want to give it up.

I know that doesn't make sense to most of you, and I'm happy about that because it means this isn't a part of your life.  But some of you will get it.  Self-harm is a drug.  It's soothing.  It's numbing.  It feels good.  It stops the pain.

Anyway, all of that was just an introduction to where I am now and what I experienced today.

In therapy we discussed what happens when I get triggered.  There are many things in my past that have been traumatic.  When something happens that reminds me of one of these, I can be taken back.  I go into fight, flight, or freeze.  (Which is something I'd surprisingly never connected with self-harm before - good job, Jason.)  I can be a child again.  Or a teen.  Or even a toddler, depending on which trauma is triggered.

So, in my last session I had a particular trigger in mind, because I almost self-harmed a couple weeks ago and have been craving it a lot since.  I figured that was a good place to start.  Jason asked me how old I feel with this trigger.  Five.  I am five years old.  Didn't have to think about it.  I am a helpless, powerless, scared little girl.

As we talked more, we discussed the place in our brains that thinks logical thoughts and the place in our brains that thinks save-your-butt thoughts.  The animal brain that's ready to fight the saber-tooth tiger.  When a person has PTSD, and is triggered, the thinking part doesn't get to play.  It gets completely bypassed.  The run-so-you-don't-die part takes over.  It's visceral.

And through all these years of therapy I've learned so many techniques to deal with those moments.  I know behavior after behavior that is healthier and longer lasting as a fix.  To get me through those moments.  But those are not habits for me yet and they are in the thinking part of my brain.  The ones I've used for years, the unhealthy ones, the ones that are habits are in the get-me-through-this-alive part. 

Those unhealthy behaviors are the ones in the path of the trauma brain process.  Trigger - freak out - make the pain stop.  It's very automatic.  Again, visceral.

So my therapist introduced a novel approach.  Skip the thinking.  We're not going to think our way through this.  We're going visceral.  Since your brain isn't going to take the thinking path, we won't either.  We're going very basic.

We're going to use my senses to shock my body out of that moment I feel trapped in and back into the real moment I'm in.  My new mantra is "new moment-new experience."  This moment isn't that moment.  And more importantly, I am not that little girl.  I am a forty-five year old woman.  I have forty more years of experience than she does.  I am strong.  I can make my own choices.  No one else has control over me.  I don't have to do what I don't want to do.  I am powerful!

So how do we slap my brain in the face and tell it to wake up and see that it's a new moment when it's on the path to destruction?  We're going to use my senses.  Like smelling salts, we're going to smack my brain and tell it to wake up.  To break that spell (from Sleeping Beauty) that's got me mesmerized and is calling me to the spinning wheel to prick my finger.  And I think it's a good plan.

My assignment for this week and next was to find five things that are very unpleasant to me (that attack my senses) but that aren't harmful and don't relate to or bring up any trauma.  And for extra credit, I could try them for real.

I figured out several things I could use, one or more for each of the five senses.  I have a couple of them in place and am working on the others.

I tried one of them earlier this week.  I was triggered by something that has frequently led to self-harm in my past.  And then I grabbed the lavender oil.  I HATE the smell of lavender oil.  It makes my muscles cringe.  I used it like smelling salts.  And it was enough to remind me of my mantra.  New moment-new experience.  Then I took a few deep breaths.  I smelled it again.  Ick!  And I reminded myself that I am not that person anymore.  I can face this.  A few more deep breaths and I was better.  The problem wasn't gone, but it wasn't beating me in the head and punching me in the stomach anymore.  It was just there and I'd get through it and it will pass and soon it won't matter anymore anyway.  That was a good moment.

Sometimes when I'm in therapy, and we come up with a new plan of attack, I'm so sure I understand how to use it.  And then I leave and get into the real world and realize there were a couple points of clarification I didn't get.  But I often don't realize that until I use my new behavior wrong.  And that can turn out bad.  Like today.

I've been on edge for a while now.  Three or four days.  No, I guess it's been longer than that because I was feeling it before I went to therapy Monday.  So at least a week.  It's a difficult thing to describe.  It's like all the nerves in the periphery of my body (especially my arms and shoulders) are on hyper-alert.  It's hard - even painful - to have people close to me.  Like closer than about three feet away makes me cringe internally (although I try not to show it if I'm in public; I don't want to be rude).  If someone touches me, my body starts to whimper.  It hurts in a psychological way.  But the feeling of wanting to climb out of my skin is very much a physical thing.  When I am alone again I find myself shaking my arms trying to make the feelings stop.

Today I was hit by this when I was alone, but stronger.  Out of the blue and without a trigger.  I've heard restless-leg syndrome described and it kind of felt like that, but through my whole body.  I felt like I just needed to shake my whole body, like a dog after a wash, hoping whatever was hanging on that was hurting (and kind of electrified) would fling off.  And I could settle.

So I thought I would try one of these new behaviors.  I got my piece of newspaper out (which I absolutely HATE the feeling of) and rubbed it between my finger and thumb.  I opened it up and started to glance through it, while paying attention to the way it felt in my hands.  My anxiety climbed higher and higher until I felt like a balloon that was over-filled and ready to pop any minute.  I couldn't touch it another second.  I threw it away from myself.

Very quickly I went from wanting to crawl out of my skin to feeling like I was going to explode and wanting to crawl out of existence.  I found myself with my head in my hands, rocking back and forth.  Pretty strongly and swiftly.  Trying to dispel this energy which was attacking me.  I was deep crying.  I added Lamaze breathing.  Kept rocking.  And I turned on the stopwatch on my phone.  I had the sense that this moment was a panic/anxiety attack and have heard that they pass much more quickly than we expect in the moment.  More quickly that it feels like.  Estimating the amount of time from when it hit hard before I turned on my stopwatch, and including that time, I think it lasted about five minutes.  Five horrific minutes.  But I got through them.  And it helps to know how long it lasted.

At that point I still felt like crawling out of my skin but no longer felt out of control, held hostage by my body.

So it was yucky.  Lots of yucky.  But I learned a lot.  I learned that moments pass.  Even the horrible ones.  I learned that there are other tools in my mind and body that I can use that my body will sometimes lead me to if I will listen.  And I learned not to use my new shocking tools for a panic/anxiety attack (I'm not sure if there's a difference between those two and don't know which it was).

Rough day.  Still crawling out of my skin.  Still want that three-foot bubble.  But no longer screaming internally.  I'll take it.

An Awfully Proud Mama

This is our oldest daughter, Jessica.  And today she graduated from Brigham Young University.

Attending her commencement and convocation exercises was amazing.  I can't even begin to describe my pride in her achievements and in the incredible young woman she is.

We don't have much money.  We live paycheck to paycheck and always have.  At times of job loss we've been on food stamps and church assistance.  My husband and I both attended some college, but neither of us finished our degrees.

Jessica loves learning.  She's so smart and works hard.  She always wanted to go to college and I've known for most of her life that we couldn't afford to send her.  I remember telling her that if she wanted to go to college, she'd need a scholarship or would have to work her way through.  Turns out she needed both.

She earned a full-tuition scholarship for four years through good grades and test scores.  Some of her abilities are genetic, to be sure.  She's a quick learner and has been blessed with a mind that works the way the school systems are set up to test.  But she also had to put forth a lot of effort.  She had to sacrifice things she wanted, which sometimes meant her social life.  But she did it.

But there was still the cost of books.  And for a time there was the cost of living away from home.  And there was the expense of her trip to Russia to teach English to young children for four months.  She paid for these things herself almost in entirety.

For the first two years of her schooling she worked a 4:00am job as a custodian.  For the next year she worked a 6:00am job as a custodian.  And near the end she finally got her dream job - doing custodial work in the evening.  (Just kidding about that being her dream job, but the timing sure was better.)  All of this to pay for her books and other things she needed, because we couldn't.  And she worked these jobs while carrying a full-time load of classes.

Everyone has their own path in life.  Not everyone will go to college, nor should they.  I don't think success is measured by whether or not a person has a degree or how much money they earn.  I don't think a person will be happier just because they have a bachelor's degree.

But what I do think will make a person happier and what does constitute success is an ability to have a dream, to want something with all their heart, and to have the drive to make it happen.

These last two days I got to see my daughter realize a dream of hers that she's worked so hard for almost all her life.  And it was an absolutely amazing experience!

Coloring is Hard for Me

Quick side note:  The last couple of weeks have been very difficult for me mental health-wise.  I'll write about it soon.  For now, I welcome any good thoughts or prayers offered in my behalf.

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Coloring is easy, right?  Coloring book, crayons, relaxation.  That's how it's supposed to be, right?  And sometimes it is for me, too.  But other times it just really isn't.  Especially when I'm working on a project I'm going to give to someone.

There may be all kinds of reasons it's tough for me, but the primary reason is because I'm color blind.  Yup.  I'm one of the very rare women who have that luxury.  It's estimated that close to 10% of men are color blind but only 0.5% of women.  That's half of one percent.  Lucky me.

So all my life, color has been tricky for me.  I learned all the rules about color.  I know which ones work together and which ones don't.  I know about complementary colors and triadic color schemes.  But I still often have to ask my daughters what color something is (my son is color blind, too) and whether or not I can use this color with that one.  And since I am color blind, I really have to follow the rules of color or things get nasty.  Some people can break them with beautiful results, but not me.

So I was kind of thrilled to find out that true Zentangle is done in black and white -- not color!  Many people add color, but my tangling efforts could be complete and acceptable if I never colored anything.

Then I made a piece for a friend and he asked me to color it.  Ugh!

I was sure I would ruin it.  I had no idea how to do it.  And my coloring supplies were minimal.

So I stressed out about it.  A lot.  So much for the "zen" in Zentangle.

I thought I'd try watercolor.  I bought a nice set and watched several YouTube videos.  I knew I could do it.  Except it wasn't the same when I did it as when they did it on the videos.

So here are the steps to my first colored piece:


my practice page

I had done the piece on watercolor paper.  I had planned to color it until I got it done.  Then I liked it a lot in black and white (check out my last post to see the black and white version) and didn't want to mess it up.  Until my friend requested color.

Watercolor paper has a lot of texture.  It's also very heavy.  I liked the weight and texture of the paper but wasn't sure how it would affect the coloring.  I drew a few simple shapes with a touch of tangling on a separate piece of watercolor paper.  I also drew two smaller versions of the original piece (without the skull because that took forever) to test out color combinations and do a couple of trial runs.

I did some watercoloring on my practice page and decided I was ready to give it a try.  This is how my first test run on my mini-version tuned out:

mini-version, watercolor, first trial run



You may notice the page curled a bit.  That didn't bother me.  I was sure I could fix that if I needed to.  But I wasn't happy with the result.  Not even happy enough to finish it with some shading (I might still go back and add that later).

Then I gave up for about a week.  I didn't know what I was doing.  I was super stressed (that bad mental health struggle I mentioned).  I needed to step back for a bit and leave it alone.

Yesterday, I decided to attack it again.  Not having it finished was causing me extra stress.  I needed to finish it so I could get that monkey off my back.  I decided to use colored pencils.

I bought a set of watercolor pencils a few days before, thinking maybe I would still watercolor but in a different way (I never did end up adding water).  And I had a large collection of Crayola colored pencils from years of art projects with my kids.  I tested them out a bit on my practice page and decided just to go for it on my second mini-version (after watching a three part tutorial on YouTube about using colored pencils).

This is how the second trial run went:

mini-version, colored pencils, second trial run

There were things I liked about it and things I didn't.  But frankly, I was so tired of this hanging over my head, I kind of said "screw it" and dove into the real project.

I used mostly the Crayola pencils, but I did use one or two watercolor pencils.  I did some smudging here and there.  A bit of shading. 

And this is how it turned out:

almost there

It was acceptable.  I wasn't thrilled with it, but it was done and I was so ready to be through with it that I just didn't care that it wasn't perfect.  For a few hours.  Then it started to bug me again and I knew it needed a little bit more.

So I colored in the Widgets (the things that look like little alien robots) with some strong bright colors and darkened the red and blue on either side of the skull.  I also colored a few of the yellow dots orange.

No more tweaking.  I promise.  This is the final product:

the final product

Do I love it?  Not really.  Although it has grown on me.  When I put it away for a few hours and then come back to it, I like it more.  But I am calling it done!

A few tidbits.  You may have noticed that in each piece, the peace symbol is green.  That's not because I really loved the way it looked.  It's more because it's my own little joke that brings me a weird joy -- GreenPeace (tee hee).  Also, I did the space to the right of the skull red and to the left blue because that's the way they are colored on the Grateful Dead album art.  And since it's very much a hippie-inspired piece, I wanted to incorporate some tie dye if I could.  Hence, the rainbow border.

I'm trying to get over the fact that it didn't turn out the way I imagined it in my head and just try to love it for what it is.

I won't give up on coloring.  I want to get some different supplies to try, primarily some Tombow brush markers like I had years ago when I was a demonstrator for a stamp/scrapbook company.

But whether I love it or not, I am proud of myself for tackling something that's hard for me and not giving up.  Yay, me!

Surrounded by Rattlesnakes

When I was fourteen, our family spent a week on a houseboat on Lake Powell, a beautiful man-made reservoir in the desert of southern Utah.  My mom, not to be deterred from her traditional schedule, got up each morning and went walking/hiking through the rocks and sand and sagebrush.  She had to go early because it got very hot very quickly.

As she was walking one day, she heard a sound that stopped her in her tracks.  She heard the distinctive warning of a rattlesnake.  She knew the sound.  She knew what it meant.  She immediately froze to assess her situation.

One step in front of her was a rattlesnake, sunning itself on the warm rocks.  She pivoted to find a better direction to go and found another snake.  And another.  She was surrounded.  She has no idea how she got into that spot without being bitten.  But she knew she had to get out of it.

Very cautiously, she made her way back and out.  And straight back to the houseboat to share her story.  And the next day she changed her walking practice: telling others which way she was going, carrying a stick, walking a little more slowly and alertly.

I thought of this story as I was pondering the things that keep me frozen.  I have something I need to do or a decision to make.  I don't know how to handle it or if I am even capable of handling it.  But I feel like I have to do it before I can get on to other things because it's so important.  But I don't know what to do, so I freeze.  I do nothing.  Sometimes for a long time.

I freeze as surely as my mom did when she was surrounded by rattlesnakes.  My fear of making a decision can be just as powerful as her fear was in that moment.  She had a very real fear for her life; programmed by nature for her safety.  What am I afraid of?  Where did that programming come from?  Does it protect me?

Wouldn't it be great if I could answer all those questions right now?  Well, I can't.  I'm still working on it.  But I think that by asking the questions, I can make progress.

One thing I've found that helps when I am stuck like that is to make a different decision or tackle a different problem, one I feel capable of confronting.  That allows for movement.  It keeps me from being frozen.  And the tiny high I get from having done something -- anything -- can be enough to keep me moving sometimes.

But first I have to realize I am stuck.  And I have to force myself to trust that the thing I don't know how to do isn't a rattlesnake and I'm not surrounded.  I have to look for another path out instead of staring at the scary thing hoping it doesn't kill me.

I workin' on it.

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.")

I WILL Change the World

As a kid, there were times I wanted to be famous.  I wanted everyone to know who I was and believe I was wonderful.  I wanted to make a grand discovery or create something breath-taking or just be so incredible that everyone had to know me.

I no longer have that desire.  Partly because I have seen what fame is like.  I truly believe most famous people are miserable.  They are still searching for approval.  They are still trying to fill that hole in their heart that says they're incomplete.

I'm not.  I am complete.  I am content.

But I WILL change the world.

I used to think I had to be famous to change the world.  Or that if I changed the world it would make me famous.  Neither of those things is necessarily true (although it can happen).

The best part of being sick (I call myself sick even though we can't figure out what's wrong; my body doesn't function the way it should -- to me, that's sick) is what I have learned.  I have learned to slow down.  I have learned to spend time with people.  I have learned to look them in the eyes and listen.  I have learned to hear the pain in their hearts.

And that's how to change the world.  Touch one heart.  Lift one burden.  Comfort one soul.  And the world is changed for the better.

I don't need to reach millions; I just need to reach one.

Dinner Training -- an Experience in and of Itself

A while back I wrote about my struggles with food.  Food and I just don't get along.  I understand that it's necessary for life, but it's hard for me.

Now take that and imagine being a mother.  Someone who is theoretically in charge of keeping others alive.  In charge of feeding them.  Ugh.

It was tough enough when they were little.  Three meals a day, plus snacks, actually spoon-fed to them.  All grocery shopping - mine.  All preparation - mine.  All clean up - mine.  And they would eat most of what I offered.  When they were small.

But as we all know, growing up tends to allow us to form our own opinions.  Even about food.  Pretty soon they were refusing what I offered.  I was cooking to make them happy.  I wanted them to eat so I prepared what they liked.

This wasn't usually too hard for my husband.  He'll eat almost anything.  He's just glad when someone else makes the food for him.

For me it was tough.  I wanted them to have balanced meals, but I don't really like meat.  So they would have meat, vegetables, fruit, dairy.  I would have a potato.  Or corn.  It was more important to me to feed them than to feed myself.  And easier because they liked food.

Now they are teens (yes, I just promoted my baby by a year).  They are practically adults (one is).  Shouldn't they be feeding themselves?  I thought so.

So we divided up the week.  Each of us has one day a week that we are in charge of dinner.  Choosing it.  Purchasing the food for it.  Preparing it.  Serving it. 

Doesn't that sound lovely?

When it works, it is.  At least one day a week they know that they will like what is prepared.  If they don't like it, they are in charge of feeding themselves.  I don't care if they eat cold cereal, ramen noodles, or just tater tots.  As long as they take care of it.

This sounds like a great way to teach them tolerance and understanding of what it's like to be in charge of the food.  Or a great way to teach them to cook.  Or shop for groceries.  Whatever.

But we have cheaters.  Rather than learn to cook or actually do any work, they want Little Caesar's.  Or they buy turkey, rolls, and cheese and announce that we're having hoagies.

And I am just too tired to fight it.  Which is why I gave them the responsibility in the first place.  I'm just too tired to care about food anymore.  We're not quite at the if-you-want-to-eat-you'd-better-go-kill-something stage, but we're close.

It's not without flaws, but it's functioning for now.  Barely.  It will get us through for a bit.

And every once in a while we have a magical moment when one of them comes to me and wants to cook an actual meal.  "Mom, can you teach me how to make chicken enchiladas?"

It's a glorious moment.

And then I remember that I really can't cook.  But that's another story.

Changed My Mind

I'm going back to blogging when I feel like it.

I've done the five days a week thing.  It just didn't work for me. 

Yes, I can write that often.  Even when I don't feel like it.  I can push myself.  I can set my own schedule and stick to it.  It was good to know this about myself.

But I don't like it.  I feel rushed.  It doesn't bring me the same joy.  I'm a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants, make-it-up-as-I-go, bohemian type.  I don't like feeling obligated.

Turns out, structure isn't really my thing.

I want to feel what I write instead of feeling like I am doing an assignment.  That's why when I want to learn something I read about it or study it instead of taking a class.

My days of answering to someone else are over.  I don't need grades to tell me whether I've learned something or not.

And I don't need consistency.  Not in this.

Back to the unpredictable -- where I am comfortable.