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.

A Year of Seeing

It's time to look back, just for a few moments, and evaluate how this year has gone.  Have I used it well?  Have I accomplished what I intended?  Have I grown and become more me?

I chose one word to guide me in 2013.  I chose the word SEE.  I knew what I meant but wasn't sure how to put it into words.  It turns out, words didn't matter all that much.  It wasn't about words.  It was about opening my heart.  My heart communicates very well, but it doesn't use words.

So let me tell you some of what I've learned.

I've learned that when I get caught up in the running around and getting stuff done mode, I don't see much.  But I've also learned that I can step out of that moment and into another one.  I can quit doing and start seeing.  And when I do I am more me.  My heart is more at peace.  I don't do it nearly enough, but it can be breathtaking when I do.

I've also learned that sometimes life does it for me.  Sometimes things come to a crashing halt and I freak out because things aren't going the way I planned.  But then I find that it's because I wasn't being true to me, or life wasn't, and the universe decided to put me back on the right road.  I mope and cry and kick against the pricks.  And then I sit for a bit.  And I look around.  And I ask, "What now then?"  And I find a way that is me.  And it's a happier path.

And sometimes, because I've expressed a willingness to open my heart even when it's scary, God pauses everything.  And He shines a spotlight on just one thing or one person.  And He shows me a little of what He sees.  Without my asking, He shows me things that are glorious, things that are divine, because knowing this and seeing this makes me more me.

It's still tough to put into words.  I hope I've come close so you can feel it a bit.  The next time you and I have a private moment together, I will try to communicate it to you if you'd like.  From my heart to yours.  I will take your hands in mine.  I will look into your eyes.  And I will open my heart.  If you're willing to hear it, I believe my heart can talk to yours.  (It could possibly result in tears and a hug.)

If you are someone I will never meet, please try to hear it.  I am sending it.  My heart is bursting with it.  And it's for you now.

Rerun: A Pebble or a Pea?

I was recently going through old posts, from very early on in my blogging days, trying to clean up all the spam comments.  I found myself reading some of them and remembering how much I liked them.

My readership has grown a lot since the early days, so I have decided to share a few of my favorites from times gone past.  And if you've been following my blog from the beginning, just consider them reruns.

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A Pebble or a Pea?

Let me take you back to your childhood, the days of fairy tales. 

Remember the story of The Princess and the Pea?  Maybe like me, you remember it as told by "Kermit the Frog" reporting.  While the details change in the retelling, the basic story goes like this.  In an effort to determine if a young girl is a real princess, so that she is suitable for the young prince to marry, a bed is prepared for her as a test.  The bed has many mattresses.  And a secret.  Underneath the mattresses is a single pea.  If the girl is a true princess, she will be sensitive enough to notice the pea despite all the padding.  Morning comes.  The girl hasn't slept because there was something hard in her bed.  She IS a real princess.  Happy ending.  All is well.

Only, let's think about it.  Now that we have lived a little life and had our share of troubles.  How do you see the princess now?  I'm afraid she is now a joke.  Someone who has had such a blissful and pampered life that the smallest difficulty is so troubling that she cannot sleep.

And let us consider another difficulty of similar size.  A pebble.  On the path in front of you it is nothing; inside of your shoe it is everything.  It's about the same size as a pea, but few would argue that you were wrong to be troubled by it.  It would bother most anyone.  Of course it is a problem.

So how often do we confuse the two?  I think that sometimes I'm the princess.  Things have been going well and the smallest thing ruins my perfect picture so it becomes a big deal.  Other times I am so involved with everything else that I try to ignore the pebble in my shoe.  It just doesn't seem like that big of a deal.  But it does take its toll.

Sometimes the pebble is an easy problem.  I take off my shoe, dump it out, put my shoe back on, and am back on my way.

Other times the pebble is disaster.  It was the thing that pushed me over the edge.  I sit down, take off my shoe, throw it, curse it, and cry.

I would like to be better at discerning between pebbles and peas in my life.  And since I have difficulty with my own problems it would stand to reason that I would have even more trouble judging someone else's.

I will try to remember this the next time I see someone I think is a princess wallowing over a pea.  Maybe it was really a pebble in her shoe and she has been walking with it a very long time.

The Doctor Who Didn't Listen

Oh, how I wish I'd known then what I know now.

Ten years ago, in the spring of 2001, the world fell out from under me.  I was hit with unbelievable exhaustion.  No matter how I ate, how much I exercised, or how much good sleep I got I was so tired I couldn't function.  I couldn't parent.  I went to bed for about a year and a half.  More on that story another time.

After a few months (when I knew it wasn't getting better, and after much prodding from my husband and other friends and family) I finally went to my doctor.  I told him how tired I was.  I told him I couldn't get anything done.  His words are forever burned into my mind.  "You have five small children; of course you're tired." 

And that was it.  Since nothing showed up in a cursory glance, in a routine physical, there must not be anything wrong with me.  I had tried to explain that it was more than that.  It was more than tired.  I was not a human anymore.  I was a shell, a pile of skin and bones, walking around trying to participate in life.

He didn't listen to me.  I felt chastised, like how dare I waste his time?  I felt diminished, like a small child told to get over it because life is hard.  I felt like I'd been told to quit whining.  To suck it up and get back to work.

I would never stand for that now.  I would insist that he listen, I would repeat myself, I would tell him he misunderstood.  And if he still didn't listen, I would leave him and take my business elsewhere.

I was incredibly vulnerable at that time and did not know how to fight for myself.  I did not know I could insist on certain tests.  I did not feel safe questioning what he told me.  I believed doctors truly knew more about my body than I did.

I have had many incredible doctors.  Doctors who listened and cared.  Doctors who were more concerned about making me feel better than I was.  I have friends who are doctors.  I have a brother who is a doctor.  I have great respect for doctors.

But I no longer think they know more about my body than I do.  When I say something is not right, then it should be respected.  Even if I can't prove it or put it into words.  My doctor and I are supposed to be a team.  We are supposed to work together to find the solution.

I will never know if he could have helped me.  Maybe if we had run a blood test at that time something would have turned up.  Maybe I wouldn't still be fighting the debilitating fatigue 10 years later.  Maybe there were answers then that were too far gone by the time I found a doctor who would listen to me.

I will not allow myself to be ignored by a doctor again.  Ever.

Shopping in My Pajamas

As I hop from blog to blog, I frequently run into people whose lives are completely different from mine.  People who value different things and focus their energies in other areas.  For the most part, I enjoy this.  I like learning about other people and seeing a way of life that differs from mine. 

But every now and then I run across someone who irritates me.  Not because she is different, but because she is superior, snotty, and judgmental of those who are different from her.  In her world, she is right and anyone who sees things in any other way is wrong and stupid and doesn't deserve the good things in life.

This happened recently.  Through a blogging community, I found myself at the blog of a woman with whom I am fairly certain I have almost nothing in common.  We are both women.  We both live on the planet earth.  I'm guessing we both breathe oxygen.  I'm pretty sure that's where our similarities end.

She is single, lives in London, and focuses much of her attention on fashion.  And I offend her.

I know I offend her because she said so.  In the post that bugged me she said that anyone who shops in their pajamas offends her.  She said that I had no business in the grocery store in my pajamas.  That there is no excuse, no matter how tired or lazy I am.  She said shopping in my pajamas is a statement about my low self-esteem.  She then proceeded to tell me the proper way to go to the grocery store.  The GROCERY store!  Seriously?

I understand that this post was meant to be comedic.  She was going for snarky/funny.  And from the comments on her blog it looks like her audience liked it.

I found it ridiculous.

If we are going to ban people from coming to the grocery store dressed offensively then I have a few things to add:  ultra-short shorts (the kind that barely cover their cheeks); wife-beater shirts; intense cleavage; and any clothing that is so tight or revealing as to be inappropriate for public viewing (since I am making the rules, I get to decide what is inappropriate).

From now on we will all shop in uniforms.  All pants/skirts must reach the knee.  All necklines must reach the collar bone all the way around.  Your clothes must be loose enough that you can easily put them on even when you are wet.  And I want them to all be olive green.  That way, people won't clash as they walk past each other -- because that offends me.

What an incredibly lucky young woman the author of said post is.  Her life must be flowing along smoothly and without any major problems if she has time and energy to worry about this.  She must be generally healthy and have plenty of money.  And thank heavens she decided to make sure we know what is and is not appropriate to wear to the grocery store.

I guess she has never run to the store in a hurry to try to get there before it closed because her child came down with a fever and she needed medication (after she'd gone to bed).  I guess she was never told at 10:45pm that her child had a project due the next day that would make or break his grade so she decided to sacrifice her sleep to run to the store to get what he needed and stay up all night helping.  I guess she has never been so ill she didn't know how she would make it to work and had to run to the store for anti-diarrhea medication so that she didn't get fired for missing work.

And besides all this, I guess she is so worried about what other people think of her that she feels she must put on a show every time she steps out of her house.  Some of us are actually self-confident enough to be seen in whatever we happen to be wearing without caring if the people around us approve.

I sometimes shop in my pajamas.  Sometimes because it takes every last bit of energy I have to get to the store so my family has milk.  Sometimes to get a treat for my daughter who had a difficult day.  And sometimes just because I am comfortable in my pajamas.

When I mentioned this to my friend, she pointed out that when super models are trying not to be noticed they walk around without makeup on and in sloppy clothes.  (I guess that's because they're so insecure, right?)

So I would say to the author of that post, next time you see a woman shopping in her pajamas just pretend she is a super model in hiding.  Maybe that way she won't be so offensive to you.

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No question, this was a full-on rant.  I was not proud of how I handled myself and addressed it soon after in A Difference of Opinion.

It's Just Stuff, part two

Minimalism is about so much more than getting rid of clutter.  It's about a mindset, a life philosophy.  But it usually starts with clutter.

So I've been following a bunch of minimalist blogs lately.  I love their thoughts and hearing about their progress.  I love feeling like I've found people who understand how I feel.  And they inspire me.

One of the ideas I am trying to implement is to not have anything in my life that I don't use or love.  No more hanging on to things just in case.  No more keeping the old one as a backup after we've got a new one.  No more keeping things I don't like just because someone gave them to me.  No more storing things in the cupboard for a special occasion when that special occasion never seems to come.

Shortly after high school I was somehow convinced that I needed to get china, stoneware, and crystal.  It was expensive.  I begged my mom into helping me purchase four settings of each.  They are beautiful!

Now ask me how many times I've used them.  Um.  Hm.  I'd bet it's fewer than five times.  And I've been married twenty-one years.  For twenty-one years they've been sitting in my cupboard.  I've packed and unpacked them every time we've moved.  I've dusted them.  I've displayed them.  And I do love them.  But we just don't use them.

So as I was planning to gut my kitchen cupboards (just planning, the true gutting hasn't occurred yet), I saw those dishes.  And my heart seized up.  I never use them.  I should get rid of them.  But they cost so much money.  We never use them.  But I love them.  Okay, then use them.

My kids are older.  Theoretically we should be able to use fragile dishes and not break anything.

This was just before the Oscars.  We like to do a family evening for the Oscars.  Special treats.  Everyone completing a ballot before hand.  Prizes for the winners.  So I decided to make the night extra special by bringing out some of these precious dishes.

Actually, I used some glass tea trays (which we also never use) and the crystal.  They were placed on the table with the snacks.  My kids' faces lit up when they realized they were going to get to use them.  It was fun pouring Sprite and Diet Coke into wine glasses.  Even more fun drinking out of them.  I was glad I'd done it.

The night was going well.  I was winning (I always do).  Everyone was having a good time.

Then I heard a crash.  A very distinctive crash.  I knew instantly that it was one of my precious wine glasses.  The light blue ones that we displayed at our wedding.  The ones we drank fake champagne out of to celebrate our first anniversary.  The ones I loved.

My heart seized again.  But only for a moment.  I saw my kids' faces tighten as well.  They were waiting to see if it was going to ruin our night.  And I wasn't going to let it.

As it turns out, the cat had gotten up on the table and knocked off one of the glasses.  It was my fault for placing them there.  And as I cleaned up the crystal my focus was different than it would have been in the past.  There was the momentary "if only," but that passed quickly.  I wanted to get it cleaned up so I could get back to my family.  It was only a thing.  I wanted to be with my family having a good time instead of worrying about a piece of glass that I only see when we move.

I got it cleaned up and got back to the party.  It was never mentioned again.  The evening ended on a good note.

I call it a rousing success; three cheers for me:  Huzzah!  Huzzah!  Huzzah!

But then I was tested again when my daughter hit a pole with the new car.  That is a story for another time.

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.

It's Just Stuff, part one

I grew up with the mentality that if I had something that I didn’t need or wasn’t using, and someone else did need it, I should give it to them (or at least lend it). It was just a thing. Getting rid of things was easy.

I also grew up in a home where we had enough. I never worried about having food or a home. I never worried about my parents being able to afford to pay for the things I needed. My parents may have struggled and sacrificed when they first married, but by the time I was aware of money they had more than enough for me to be able to do the things I wanted. If something broke, we had enough money to fix it or replace it. If someone were injured, we had good health insurance and enough money to see that they were treated. If an unexpected expense came up my dad might grumble, but there was enough money to cover it. If there was a school activity or sport I wanted to participate in, I only had to ask. I do not remember ever being told that we couldn’t afford something. I do not remember ever going hungry because we didn’t have money for food. I don’t remember hearing much about money except when my dad complained about how much my mom spent shopping. On worthless stuff.

So I came into my marriage believing that stuff was of little value. That it wasn’t worth worrying about.

When we got married, we were poor. We had debt. We couldn’t live like we had when we'd lived with our parents. If something broke, we may or may not be able to replace it. We couldn’t afford to do all the things we wanted to do and still pay our bills. This was an adjustment period for me, to be sure, but luckily I was not an overly materialistic person. I didn’t need lots of stuff. I wasn’t a big shopper. We didn’t have a lot, but we were okay. For a while.

Then we went through periods of unemployment. Over the course of twenty years of marriage my husband was laid off ten times; he was our only source of income (I was a stay-at-home mom). That makes it difficult to build any kind of base to work from. The longest time he was out of work was seven months. We had been keeping our heads above water before this. Then the bottom fell out. He got a severance package and we tried to manage that well. We hoped for this time of unemployment to be of short duration like in the past. It wasn’t.

Before long we were in a difficult place. If we didn’t change things soon it was going to get ugly.

We sold an old, small motor home we owned. We sold our boat. We cancelled the satellite service. We quit eating out. We got rid of any extra expenses that we could. This helped, but it wasn’t enough for long. We eventually ended up turning to others for help. Our parents. The governenment. Church welfare. We had to have others help with our debt and pay for our food. We used food stamps, Medicaid, and other services. We did without. (As difficult as it was to ask for and accept help, I am so grateful it was there.)

I believe that when you have to do without it sometimes changes your perception of stuff. You no longer take stuff for granted because you don’t know if it will last. You hate to let anything go out of fear that you might need it again in the future and don’t know if you will be able to replace it.

These difficult times altered the way I saw stuff. When someone offered hand-me-downs I never considered refusing. I knew we couldn’t afford to buy new clothes, so we’d better accept what was offered. People frequently gave us stuff because they knew we were struggling financially. I found myself accumulating more and more even though I wasn’t shopping. Accumulating didn’t seem so bad when I wasn’t buying it.

But then we found ourselves in a position where we had enough. In fact, we had more than enough. Maybe not financially, but materially. We were overflowing with stuff.

And my old feelings reasserted themselves. I saw all the stuff and how it was taking over my life. I felt suffocated by it. I didn’t need it. I didn’t want it. I didn’t even like most of it. Why was I letting it into my life?

I’ve been systematically trying to change those behaviors. I’ve been trying to get back to my minimalist mentality toward stuff. I’ve been trying to get rid of all the stuff that’s come into our lives over the years. It takes time.

And I have noticed that when I try to make a major change in my life, when I’m sure of my choice, something always happens to challenge that decision. To see if I will stick to my guns. It happened this time, too.

I Wanted to be a Cowgirl

It's safe to say that there were parts of my childhood that sucked.  No doubt about it.

But there were also parts that were idyllic.  One of those was my life on the farm.

I don't know if every family has this, but growing up our family had another family that were our best friends.  Our parents were friends and there was a child to be a friend for each of us.  We spent lots and lots of time together.  And they had a farm.

I spent a lot of time on this farm.  As much time as possible.  And it truly was a heaven on earth.

Whether I was playing hide and seek in the old chicken coop, climbing on top of or in the silo, climbing the giant apricot tree, or sitting and reading in the white birch tree I was happy.  It felt like a step back in time.  I felt like I was living Little House on the Prairie.

I got to have all the perks with very little work.  My brothers hauled hay and moved sprinklers.  They helped drive the cattle and brand all sorts of animals.  Not optional.  Anything I did was because I wanted to, because I was a girl.  One time when a sexist mentality served me well.

Between this farm and our house with the pasture I spent a lot of time with animals, animals my kids haven't really gotten to know.  Horses, cows, mules, ponies, chickens, ducks, turkeys, sheep, pigs, and lots of work dogs (blue healers for the cattle and German shorthairs for hunting).

Just thinking about this place makes me happy.  It was a different pace there.  Relaxed.  Accepting.  Valuing.

Cowboys, and I mean real cowboys not just guys who try to look the part, are different.  They are hard workers.  They don't feel the need to impress people.  They are not easily impressed.  Nor are they likely to be judgmental.  Everyone is accepted.  I loved my time with cowboys.

And I wanted to be a cowgirl.  I wanted it desperately.  But I always felt a step away.  Like a visitor.

I knew how to saddle, bridle, and ride a horse, but I never shoed one.  I watched calves and colts being born, but never assisted.  I played in the alfalfa fields, but I never participated in the harvesting.  Little things like that.  I felt like I fell short as a cowgirl because I didn't live on the farm and do all those things.  I didn't have horse toys (the expensive kind) or the little John Deere tractors.  I didn't know the names of all the different horse breeds.  And I wore tennis shoes when I rode a horse.

I recently took my family to the rodeo.  It was so much fun.  I felt like I was reliving a part of my childhood, a good part. 

As I mentioned the rodeo to others, I found that many of my friends have only ridden a horse once or twice -- some not at all.  They really didn't know much about horses, cows, or tractors.  It got me thinking.

So I reevaluated.

I have ridden horses more times than I can count.  On the mountains, in the fields, through the town.  I spent most of my childhood in a pickup truck instead of a car, sometimes in the cab but more often in the bed.  I crossed many dirt roads, very bumpy dirt roads, on a regular basis.  I had to get out to open the gate.  And close the gate.  I bottle fed lambs and a calf.  I herded sheep.  I fed horses.  I've seen, touched, and tasted a salt-lick.  I've been to many, many rodeos.  I know the proper way to shape and store a cowboy hat.  I've helped butcher elk.  I know how tall horses are and how long they live.  And I spent many Saturday mornings and afternoons at the auction, in awe of the auctioneer and the entire bidding process.  Watching as men nodded or tipped their hats to buy this lot of cattle, this horse, or that saddle.

I had so many experiences that others didn't.  Incredible experiences.  Joyful and miraculous experiences.  That I didn't appreciate at the time.

But all things are relative.  And looking back I can see that, compared to most, I was a cowgirl.

Mama Bear Goes Crazy

I tend to be a very logical person.  I'm not super emotional most of the time.  I don't get flat out angry very often.  I get irritated.  I get frustrated.  I snap at my family.  But it takes a lot to provoke me into a full blown chew out of someone outside of my own home.

(I am a very direct person, so I think people feel like they are being chewed out by me more than I do.)

But every now and then something happens that I just can't let go.  I process it.  I stew over it.  I can't stop thinking about it.  If I can't let it go, I believe it's only fair to the person to let them know that it bothered me.  That way, if there's been some kind of mistake or miscommunication they can clear it up.

When this happens I try to really think about it first.  I try to make sure that I can communicate my feelings accurately without attacking or accusing them.  I try to find a place of peace in myself.  I try to communicate with love and a desire that everyone involved grows from the experience.

And then there's Mama Bear.  Every once in a while something will happen that I sense is a threat to one of my children.  Maybe it's a physical threat.  Maybe it's a spiritual threat.  Maybe it's a psychological threat.  Whatever the case, if you cross this line -- WATCH OUT!

This is when I lose my mind.  This is when I say something that is pure vile.  Totally mean.  With every intent to make the receiver incredibly penitent.  And sometimes I even take that jab in that tender place that I know will hurt their feelings.

My weapon of choice is generally email.  Words are my strength so I hit hard.  And that way the tears of anger I'm crying don't weaken my position or make it so that I can't speak clearly.

In an intense heat of fury I rattle off a scathing email.  I can almost feel the fire under my fingers as I type.  I feel as though I am channeling a demon out to destroy.

And I have that moment.  The moment when the email is finished, fully composed, and I have that little voice that tells me to think a little more before I send it.  Wait just a while.  You might regret this.

But my darker angels win and I hit send.

It is usually within a day that I begin to regret it.  And I compose another email.  This one says, while I still mean what I said about the problem, I do not think you are the devil incarnate and I hope we can still be friends.

I am not proud of this behavior.  It is animalistic at it's purest.  And so far people have been understanding and we've been able to work things out.

But I have learned one very important rule:  You'd better respect Mama Bear.

This is Just a Crisis

So, I got some great words of wisdom from a dog recently.  Okay, it wasn't really from a dog.  It was in a book written from a dog's perspective.  But this was a very wise dog.

In a difficult moment for his owner he said, "This is just a crisis, a flash in time."

I loved it.

When we hear crisis it is never connected with the word just.  Saying that it's just this seems to downplay it.  And that was the point.

It's easy to let a crisis take over our lives.  It's easy to get lost in the crisis, to hold onto it, to carry it with us.  But it's just a flash in time.  It's temporary.  Usually really, really temporary.

So if it's such a small part of life, why does it have such power?  I think it's because it's almost always painful.  We are always more aware of pain than lack of pain. 

Unless you've been in pain for a very long time I doubt you get out of bed in the morning and say, "Wow!  I'm not in pain today."  But I'll bet all of us have gotten out of bed and said, "I don't feel good" or "Ouch, that hurts."

I certainly do not mean to minimize crises.  They suck.  They hurt.  They can be devastating.

But we don't need to give them anymore power than they take.  And I think sometimes we do.  I know I do.

There have been times in my life when I was in deep personal crisis, I mean deep enough that my therapist wanted to see me twice a week and called me at home to check up on me.  And then something happened, something out of the blue, that distracted me for a while.  For a brief while I was not thinking about myself and my situation.  And the dark sky got a little lighter.

The problems didn't go away, but I seemed to have a slightly different perspective -- a little more power to go on.  It's not a cure, just another tool to fight with.

So, in my next personal crisis, I will try to remember that it is just a flash in time.  The sky will clear again someday.  Birds will sing.  And I will laugh.

Little Miss Persnickety

You know her.  She's your niece or your neighbor that you agreed to watch for the day (or maybe several days).  It's time for a meal.  You prepare the food.  Everyone sits down.  They all start eating.  Everyone but her.

If she's been drilled to be polite, she just looks at the food and pushes it around on her plate hoping to find enough that she likes to no longer be starving.  If she hasn't learned manners well yet you'll likely get a big EW!

Boy, if that's not flattering of your cooking.

She's such a brat.  She's so picky.  Nothing will make her happy.  Her parents have spoiled her, overindulged her.  Fine.  She can go hungry then.  She'll eat it when she gets hungry enough.

Maybe.  And maybe not.

I would like to introduce myself.  I am Little Miss Persnickety.  I eat like a five-year old.  I refer to the food you eat and I don't as grown up food.  I know people find me irritating.  I know they judge me.  I've had to learn to live with that.  But there is more to it than you might know.  Have you ever really considered it from the child's point of view?

I have been picky about food my whole life.  There are so many things I don't like.  It might be the taste.  It might be the texture.  Who knows?  In fact, sometimes I don't like food at all.  Any of it.  Sometimes just the thought of food makes me gag.  But it's necessary.  I get weak when I don't eat.  My headache escalates.  I have learned to see food as medicine to keep me healthy.

I spent my childhood being chastised for it.  I didn't understand why people got so upset.  I was the one going hungry.  It's not that I don't like YOUR potato salad -- I don't like potato salad.  I guess people take their cooking pretty seriously and get highly offended if you don't like it.  I have offended many people.

But I am so jealous of people who like food.  When I go to a restaurant with others I watch them scour the menu.  So many options.  So many things look so delicious to them.  They are so excited.  They are eagerly anticipating.  And when the food comes they revel in it.  Other people get so much enjoyment from food.

I scour the menu for a different reason.  Is there anything here I can eat?  Will the meat be done?  How irritated will my dining mates and waitress get if I send it back?  What if I send it back more than once?

Seriously, I avoid eating out with certain people just because I can't take the judgment.

It's my money.  I am paying for the food.  Shouldn't I get to have something I like?

I don't ask people to prepare special food just for me.  If I don't like what you're serving then I just won't eat.  Why are your knickers in such a twist?  It's just food.

I don't know why I'm so picky.  Maybe it was the only thing I had even a little control over as a child.  Maybe it's because my sense of taste and smell seems to be stronger than most.  Maybe I'm just an irritating little brat who wants my own way.

Whatever the reason, I accept it about myself.  I'm okay with it.  If you are that sensitive about whether I'll eat your food or not then don't invite me for dinner. 

I'm sure there are foods you don't like, too.  I'm sure there are things that would make you gag to even think about eating.  My list is just longer and contains more foods that most people eat.  But I don't.  I don't like eggs, cheese, bananas, mayonnaise, barbeque sauce, meatloaf, sloppy joes, onions, onion rings, hot dogs, fry sauce, and many more every day things.  I want my meat well done, no pink at all.  And I don't like processed meat.  I don't like hamburger, although I will sometimes eat it under the right circumstances.  I want my meat to look like the striated muscle tissue that it is.  I want it in the form that it came off the animal, only a lot more cooked. 

There are so many other things, an endless list.  I have learned to eat bananas even though I don't like them.  And I now eat spinach in my salad.  But that's it for my growth for now.

But maybe you could do me a favor.  Next time you have someone who doesn't like what you're serving, instead of feeling hurt or thinking them a brat, maybe you can remember that thing you don't like to eat -- and cut Little Miss Persnickety a little slack.

**********
To read more about my food issues, go here.
To read about my psychiatrist visit connected to my food issues, go here.

There Was a Time

There was a time when -

* I ran everywhere I went because I had so much energy.
* I was afraid all the time.
* After a long car ride someone carried me to my bed.
* I spent my summers on horseback, in a tree, or on the mountain hunting for monarch caterpillars on milkweed plants.
* I dreaded going home.
* I felt new life move within me.
* I was sad all the time.
* I bottle fed lambs.
* I danced.
* I was happy all the time.
* I slept over at my grandma's house.
* I felt anything was possible.
* I wanted to kill myself.
* I never stopped talking.
* I was afraid to speak up.
* I went to bed for a year and a half.
* I found hope.

Everything is transitory in this life.  I need to remember that more.  To help me endure the difficult times.  To help me treasure the beautiful times.

That Dreaded Box

Have you ever been stuck in the box?  Can't seem to come up with any new ideas?  Can't see things a new way, from a different perspective?  Stuck in a rut?

I hope I'm getting close with those statements, because I'm not a hundred percent sure I know what it means to be in the box.  I've heard of it.  I may have even been accused of being in it once or twice.  But with any suggestion that I am stuck in the box I begin to picture myself pantomiming (probably not a real word).  The walls.  The ceiling.  The scared look because I can't escape.  Very Marcel Marceau, let me tell you.

When my kids were little, I remember their kindergarten teacher (yes, they all had the same fabulous one) telling me that they were very out-of-the-box thinkers.  She said this with glee.  She beamed with pride.  She praised me.  Please let me be honest when I say that I didn't really know what she meant.  I knew they were creative and smart, but I didn't really get the whole in/out of the box idea.

Until recently.  It happened in a psycho-education group.  I know, big surprise.  Another thing I learned about myself through therapy.  A couple of years ago I was attending a weekly class with a group of women learning various things that you don't learn when you are raised in a screwed up environment.  I had shared with the group leader an interaction that I'd had with someone.  As I explained my approach, another woman in the group lit up.  She said that she'd never thought of it that way.  She and I became friends.  She says she loves it when I share my writing and interactions with her because I see things differently. 

So it was that moment, a couple of years ago as she explained to me what I'd done to help make things clear for her, that this idea became clear for me.

I've listened to other people.  I've observed other people.  And I've found that I do tend to see the world a little differently than most.  A little quirky.  A little twisted.  But also, full of options.

I don't know why.  The things I see are so obvious that I always assumed that others would see it too if they just looked.

I guess it's like my color blindness.  You can see colors the same way as everyone else.  I can't.  No matter how hard I try, I cannot see the red spray paint on the green grass.

But that's okay, because I can see the box.  I can play with it.  Stand on it.  Tip it over.  Run around it.  Ignore it.  And sometimes, just for fun, I climb inside it. 

And pretend it's a spaceship!

Mornings Suck!

I'm sorry to be so crass.  I could sugar coat it.  I could say that mornings aren't my favorite time of day.  That they are a struggle.  But it wouldn't change the fact that mornings suck!  And I mean bad!

I hear people talk about the joy of watching the sunrise.  I hear people talk about that blissful time in the house when they are the only ones up, private time to enjoy before they wake everyone else.  I hear people talk about being so grateful for another day.  Welcoming it with excitement and vigor.

I hate these people; they're so irritating.

These are the people who schedule early morning games for my children ON SATURDAYS!  These are the people who decided that my kids should start school at 7:30 a.m. -- even though studies show that children aren't really awake enough to learn productively at that time of day.  And can't you just hear some snotty, bright-eyed morning person saying, "The early bird gets the worm,"  with that big, I've-been-up-since-five grin on their face?

Well, maybe that's true.  Maybe the early bird does get the worm.  But I stay up late and I get cookies.  Which would you rather have?

I can enjoy the quiet time, when I'm the only one awake, at two in the morning.  I can watch whatever I want on hulu without interruption from my sleeping family.  I can be grateful that another day is over and I didn't kill anyone.  I can revel in my internal rebellion against the clock of modern society.

I haven't always been comfortable this way.  I tried to conform.  Especially while living with my father, who has always gotten up at 4:00 a.m. without need of an alarm clock.

But I'm a grown up now.  Or at least, a legal adult.  I get to decide when to go to bed.

If only I could really decide when to get up.  I still have kids who are school age, who still haven't mastered the art of getting up and out the door without me. 

But there will come a day.  There will come a day when I don't use an alarm clock.  When I sleep until my body tells me to get up.  When I finally feel rested.

Okay, I may be delusional, but it gets me through.  I have to keep believing that there's beautiful darkness and quiet at the end of the tunnel.

Until then, mornings will continue to suck.

Of Books and Women

What is book club? 

My eleven-year old asked me this recently.  She asked if we each take turns and just read to a certain spot like in her reading circles at school.  I smiled as I imagined us reading Gaskell's North and South together as a group.  If we read for two hours each meeting it would take us about a year to finish the book.

So I explained to her that we each read the chosen book on our own and then get together to discuss it.  She seemed to get it.

This question was asked because of my griping.  I am not thrilled with the book chosen for book club this month.  I keep referring to it as my homework.  I keep complaining about having to read it.

And I have been told more than once by more than one person I live with, "So don't read it then."

But I can't.  I have to read it.

I don't always read the books.  Sometimes they just don't interest me or I can't get one in my hands soon enough.  Or I had other things to do that were more important to me.  This time I just flat out disagree with the author of the book.

But my reason for attending book club is not what it used to be.  I used to go as an excuse to get out of my house for the evening.  Or to spend some time with adults having real conversations.  And those things still apply.

However, my main drive for being part of book club now is to share in others' opinions.  To not only be exposed to literature that I wouldn't pick on my own, but to see how others see what we read.  How they feel.  What they learned.  Not only do I grow as a person, but I get to know my neighbors so much better by looking through their windows on the world.

And I have been told that I am an important part of book club precisely for the reason that I am often the dissenting opinion.  They want to see things differently, too.

Imagine that.  I have finally found a place where my disagreeability is a good thing.

Energy Vampires and Soul Suckers

Have you ever noticed that there are some people in life who are just draining?  Any interaction with them will leave you feeling depleted.  With some people it takes a long conversation full of their needs and ignoring yours before it hits.  With others, it's as soon as they enter the room.  As soon as you see them -- whoosh!  Energy drain.  It's almost like you can feel the life leaving your body.

Sometimes a person is truly in crisis.  They need to talk and if you can listen and give of yourself, they will get better.  It's a momentary crisis.  And they give back when it's you who are struggling.  They listen.  They give.  This doesn't seem to be so draining.  Partly because they refill you when you need it and partly because you are giving willingly.

But other people just take.  They corner you and utilize you.  They barrage you and then leave you in a crumpled heap.  You are glad it's over, but you know they'll be back.

Giving of yourself is charitable.  It's the Christlike thing to do.  I can hear the arguments.  And you're right; it is.  But what about the cost to you?

I think of Little Shop of Horrors.  Seymour tries to appease Audrey II with his own blood.  He soon discovers that he can't satisfy Audrey II's appetite.  And think of the Skeksis from The Dark Crystal.  They drain the Gelflings to fill themselves.  In both cases, it is all about meeting their needs and they are indifferent to their food source.

Some people are like this.  They have a hunger that cannot be satiated.  You can give and give, and when you are lying dead on the floor they will move on to someone else because they are still hungry.

I don't know about you, but I am still trying to figure out how to protect myself from energy vampires and soul suckers.  I believe that it is an important skill to learn.  As sovereign beings, we are responsible to set our boundaries to protect ourselves.

And luckily, not everyone we interact with is a soul sucker.

There are others, people who give.  Sometimes it's a two-hour conversation with both of you crying.  Other times it's a smile from across the room when you really need it.  These people are soul healers.  These people are well fillers.

I want to be like them.  But I'm a beginner.  I still vacillate between the two.  Sometimes I drain.  Sometimes I give.

But someday I want to be like those rare gems who are true healers.  These people can fill you up even when they are in crisis.  They receive more by giving.  Somehow, they have learned to protect themselves and still give away as much as is needed.

These people are the angels who walk among us.  And most of them don't even realize it.

You Can't Handle the Truth!

How are you?

No, really.  How are you?

I would ask two questions in regard to the above inquiry.  First, how often do you mean it when you say it?  And second, how often do you answer honestly?

This questions bugs me.  It bugs me because it's another example of the sloppiness of the English language.  Most of the time it isn't an actual question as to how your life is going or how you are feeling, it is a way to say hi.  I don't like it when words are used in a way that they don't really mean what they say.  Clear as mud?

I try to mean it when I say it.  Partly because I like to be precise in my communication and partly because I think everyone needs a whole lot more listening ears and hearts in their lives.

So, onto the answering part.

This question has posed problems for me.  I would say that it got especially difficult when I started working with a bunch of therapists, and they meant it.  It was probably the first time in my life that I really felt like anyone around me wanted to know how I was out of true concern for me, not out of a desire to assess whether or not they could ask me to do something for them.

And then it got worse when I started seeing a therapist professionally.  And worse when I got my never-ending headache.  At this point I had no idea what this question really meant or how I should answer it.

Let me clarify by saying that I believe in being honest.  I try very hard to be honest in every situation.  (Partly out of the perfectionism issue.)

So suddenly people were asking me how I was and fine was no longer a default answer.  Often I wasn't fine, but I also wasn't sure who really wanted to know.  I confess that I erred a great deal here.  I tend to over-share.  I gave out more information than many people wanted.

I think I've improved some.  I think I fliter a little better.  But I still sometimes offer the truth even when I know people don't want it.

My favorite place is in the checkout line at the grocery store.  It goes something like this:
"How are you?"
"I'm really tired and cranky and trying not to kill people.  How are you?"

Now, some people barely notice and move on.  Others admit that it's the most honest answer they've heard all day.  And others say that they are, too, and we share a moment of bonding.  They have just been given permission to be honest, to drop the smile and be true to themselves in the moment. 

And then I am a little better.  Funny how sharing true emotion for just a second with a nearly complete stranger can be so cleansing.  You should try it.

So, how are you?