On friendship and (more) healing.

I've come to the realization that, just because I know something intellectually, does not mean I know it emotionally. A fair number of people told me "you have to just let this go" and "these things just happen." Easy to say, not so easy in practice, when it's your it's your heart that hurts.

Also, I've learned that just because I think I've concluded a healing process, I probably haven't. And somehow I'm always surprised when another missing piece of the equation pops neatly into place.

I wasn't coming out of as dark a place as the last time this subject surfaced, but for the past couple of months, a similar tune kept presenting itself to me, in various places and voices. I would read and mm-hmm, then click the little x to close the tab and move along to something else. 

All these bits and pieces simmered quietly in the background of my brain, as my thoughts are wont to do, shifting around, trying to fit here, rearranging and trying somewhere else, like some amalgamation of a mental Rubik's cube and a game of Tetris. Over and over, the thoughts tumbled, in some unconscious corner of my mind, until I read a blog post on Tuesday and click!, the picture came clear.

Liz was writing about something a friend told her once. (If you don't read Liz's blog -- Can't Never Could -- I highly recommend. Her writing speaks to me.) Her friend told her: “Nine times out of ten, when people get upset at you, it’s a lot more about them than you.” (Seriously, read her post, the one that I first linked to in this paragraph, because if this basic lesson doesn't apply to your life right now, it either has in the past or it's going to at some point, unless you never have any sort of relationship with anyone, ever.)

Back to what her friend told her: “Nine times out of ten, when people get upset at you, it’s a lot more about them than you.”

Have you ever held your breath for as long as you're able? Eyes starting to bugle? Head getting a little goofy? You know that first big gulp of oxygen? That. I read that sentence in that blog post, and it was like that first big gulp of oxygen, that missing piece I didn't know was the next part of the getting-over-it process. One by one, these jumbled thoughts and quotes that I'd mulled, both intentionally and subconsciously, glittered with an astonishing clarity. Angel choirs sang and light bulbs glowed and crowds roared with applause.

I thought about the quote I found on Goodreads:
"Introverts treasure the close relationships they have stretched so much to make." ("Introverts in the Church: Finding Our Place in an Extroverted Culture," Adam S. McHugh)

And I realized why *I* had been so deeply injured. It's work for me to let new people into my inner circle, so to be rejected so unceremoniously, so abruptly, in essence, yanked a treasure out of my hands that I had spent so much of myself on grasping. It made me feel worthless. But: “Nine times out of ten, when people get upset at you, it’s a lot more about them than you.” Someone else's actions, no matter how they affected me, weren't about *me* or my worth. It was someone else's fear of something to which I was not permitted access, but, as Liz later writes, "We all see life through our own very special filter. And that filter is skewed. That filter is made up of hurts and joys unique only to us."

Well...huh.

And then there was the quote I read in a blog post:
The hardest breakup of my life was with a friend. (Annie Downs)

And I realized why *I* had been so deeply injured. You see, I think we realize that romantic breakups will happen. After all, we are all only supposed to have one romantic relationship at a time and so most of those relationships aren't designed to last. But friendships? We can have as many of those as we are individually pre-programmed to carry. Therefore, we don't *expect* them to end. I can't speak for you, but I've had my share of romantic breakups, and none of them were all that pleasant, but this whole friendship breakup knocked me square on my backside. It hurt in a way no former boyfriend had ever caused. *Ever*. And I'm sad to say that there were a good number of people who passed judgment on this particular breakup. Assumptions were made, but I can say for certain, very few people actually asked *me* what was going on. But this? Wasn't about me either. I didn't initiate it. I can't speak for the hows and whys and whens. But just because there were skewed filters here, in disguise as judgments and assumptions, didn't make them true.

Again...huh.

And *then*, there was a portion of one of my daily devotional readings:
I wonder how many of you have walked through betrayal. It is awful. You’re powerless to stop the pain and you keep wishing in vain that it could somehow be a different story.

And I realized why *I* had been so deeply injured. I didn't want this story. I didn't want this outcome. I didn't want this breakup. I didn't want to feel this hurt. Because I had tried everything in my power to prevent it, to mend it, to redirect it. But you've got it: this was also not about me. I *didn't* ask for any of this. It was the unique filter of another human being and there's a story there, but it isn't mine to know, or to tell, even if I did.

It's all slowly coming into focus.

And finally, I read another piece of writing, where Ali Martell, shares about her own friendship breakup:
She saw things one way, which incidentally was full of inaccuracies and things she had decided were true. And I saw things one way, which, at the time, I felt was the right way to see things.

And when it wound itself in and around Liz's words, something in me said "yes, YES!" We see things through our own unique lenses, crafted out the the experiences we've had and the lessons we've learned. In fact, this very situation has likely tweaked my own filters in some way or another, because that's the way of it. But at the end of it all, how someone else sees things, and whatever inaccuracies that includes, it isn't about me. It isn't about the way I see things or how they came to see things differently than I do. What they decide to be true and how they decide to react to those truths is about them.

And suddenly, I breathed. I felt free of those weighty questions and the internalizing and the "what did I do?" of it all, because: “Nine times out of ten, when people get upset at you, it’s a lot more about them than you.”

Funny thing, last night, I was sitting in church, because it's Lent and that means a Wednesday evening service full of contemplation and introspection (sounds grim, maybe to some, but I actually look forward to it). At the end of the message was this thought: Don't be hardened because grace is extended and not returned, or worse, outright rejected. Simply offer grace without expectation. 

As I sat in the pew, with the sunset casting glowing colors on the walls before me as the light flooded through stained glass windows at my back, I thought: That's what I want for *my* story, to extend grace, even when it's ignored, even when it's absorbed without acknowledgment, even when it reaches out into a vacuum, and even when it's thrown back at me. I want to feel glowing and light and filled with pure, rich oxygen. That's what I want to be about me. That's how I want my filter to be tweaked by this event in my life.

Today, I feel a little more whole.

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Glass jar on a shelf.

The other day, I was thinking, about, oh, I dunno. The same random stuff that flits through my brain on any given day, in no way fit for print. Wait. That makes it sound like it's inappropriate or profane or something. It's not. It's just random and boring and sometimes not even comprised of fully formed thought. (Glad we cleared that up.)

Anyway, I was thinking and one train of thought morphed into another until I reached this one: I know some pretty amazing people. Engaging. Funny. Talented. People who make an impression.

Sometimes that makes me feel...well...unremarkable.

When you're the "quiet sort," it's easy to feel...not invisible, but...transparent? Like you just blend in with the background, so that you're visible but only barely, and only if someone actually pauses to really look. Imagine looking at an empty glass jar on a shelf -- it's like that. It's easy to be overshadowed or overlooked. Not even on purpose. It just happens.

This isn't anything new for me. In some ways, I'll be honest, I rather prefer it. I flew under the radar all through school. I had no enemies and I could get along with anyone. I was just flexible enough to fit in where ever I needed to, without the pressure of people expecting me to be the pretty one or the popular one. (It still surprises me -- in a funny way -- when people from high school remember me! I don't think I could have blended into the scenery any more than I did during those years.) I've never been a fan of the spotlight, never craved being the center of attention. I think it's served me well. As Megan's mother once told her, on Mad Men, "The world cannot support that many ballerinas." Some of us, simply put, must exist on the periphery in support roles.

You see, I may not leave an indelible mark on your memory, but I go out of my way to be kind. To quietly offer help in whatever capacity I am able. To be the type of loyal that always has your back, even when you don't ask for it, without fail. To lay open my soft heart with compassion. To speak soft words of encouragement. To express genuine gratitude and sincere compliments. To uplift with the positive attitude that hasn't always come naturally to me, but for which I have worked long and hard. In a world where people are quick to judge, quick to complain, quick to criticize, quick to tear down, I like to think that, maybe, these qualities actually make *me* a little more remarkable than I often see myself.

I'll never command your attention. Which makes me realize I need to be grateful for the people who have actually made the effort to see me. I don't always make it easy.

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38 has been weird.

I've made no secret of the fact that my thirties have been my favorite decade of life so far. I found my footing, a quiet sense of confidence my teens and twenties decidedly lacked, and the kind of love that startles you with its depth and leaves you a sort of grateful you didn't know you could feel for the mere presence of someone being in your life. This has been a good decade. *Really* good.

38, though, has been...weird.

When I was a naive and floundering young lass, I picture-planned my life, right down to the smallest detail. We all know how *that* plays out. Finding someone...later in life than I had scripted for myself changes some of those Big Life Plans. And you know? I'm ok with that. Truly. When you wait a lot longer than most people to find the kind of love that is real and lasts, it doesn't leave much room for being ungrateful. Not when you know what a gift you've been given, when you've gone so long without it. I am "fall down on my knees, feel tears of gratitude drip off my chin" levels of thankful for who I've been given to love.

And here's where it gets difficult to translate raw thought into actual words. Because 38 has been weird.

I'm at the age where having a child isn't a given. (Is it ever, really?) On the one hand, life is good. I don't feel pangs or longing or regrets for what isn't, because I'm too busy being amazed by what *is*. That man is enough for me. Enough in the way that says "I don't even deserve this, but here it is and it's mine."

But as the clock starts to slowly wind down --because that's how time works, no matter how we'd like to pretend it doesn't -- there's this...whisper. I don't even notice it, unless I'm still and listening intently. But in those quietest moments, I pause, as one ought to, for contemplation, and wonder what it would be like to see that man hold a tiny little piece of himself and it about knocks me over. (Honestly, it darn near kills me dead when I see him holding one of his nieces' babies, because there is something about the contrast of soft, new, little person being held by a man with strong, work-toughened hands. What I'm saying is that I can only imagine it amplifies from there.) There are days I give the possibility a serious Side Eye...and other days I want my life to remain just the way it is.

I know that what mostly holds me back -- what mostly holds *any* of us back from anything, if we're deep-down truthful with ourselves -- is that scene between Charlie Brown and Lucy in "A Charlie Brown Christmas": 

Lucy Van Pelt: Or maybe you have pantophobia. Do you think you have pantophobia?
Charlie Brown: What's pantophobia?
Lucy Van Pelt: The fear of everything.
Charlie Brown: THAT'S IT!

Fear. The kind of fear you can't even necessarily name and, when you do, you sound silly or selfish, so you just leave it unnamed. It's something and nothing and everything.

Also, selfishness. We can do things like renew our Disney passes without batting a financial eyelash, or decide at the last minute that it's date night without needing to find a sitter. I can shower in peace, don't have to share "a bite?" of everything I eat, and no one is leaving bodily fluids on my clothing. I can pack my suitcase and get on a plane to visit a friend without needing to tote along a child or feel guilty for leaving my husband to solo parent while I play. I can spend my Saturday mornings lazily browsing the internet, watch anything I want on tv, have ice cream for dinner, or declare that right now is "me time," because I don't have to feed a healthy breakfast or prevent someone entirely dependent on me from damaging themselves. After 38 years, I like to think I'm not selfish toward the people already in my life, but I'm old enough to be set in my ways, and the thought of disrupting my easy lifestyle is unsettling, even in theory. See? Selfish.

Selfishness and fear. Not the qualities one hopes to display as a parent, right? It's not that think I truly couldn't, if I had to. I could. And I have no doubt that I would love and care for a child quite well. I *like* kids. I just also like my life the way it is and I know a child would change that. I look at the things that my parent-friends bemoan and get cranky about...and I catch myself thinking "but my life is so easy..."

38 has been weird. It offers this strange middle ground perspective of being able to appreciate exactly what I have, while acknowledging that there are miracles of life I could also appreciate, if they came to be.

And people have their opinions, which they're more than willing to share. Anxious to, even, pouncing on even the smallest opportunity, sometimes to the point of manufacturing one. "When will you have kids? You're not getting any younger..." (I'm aware. Thanks for stating the obvious.) "Just do it, you'll never regret it." (I'm not concerned with regret, but I'll never be convinced *that* is a good reason to make oneself responsible for a whole new human being.) "It's the best decision I ever made." (Yes, *you*, but I am not you, I am me, and I assure you that our lives are quite likely very different, as the trajectories we took could not be more opposite, so I can't make my life decisions based on what was best for you.)

38 has been weird. It feels like do-or-die time for decisions I don't know how to reach. Many days, I think "oops" would be the only way I'm ever propelled in this direction, because "oops" takes the need to make a decision out of my hands (as much of a decision as it can be anyway), and oh dear Lord, I'm so very bad at decisions, and the days of  "oops" are dwindling. The thing is, I can't figure out if that makes me relieved or sad. I come back, again and again, to one of Charlotte's lines in the "Sex and the City" movie: "I have everything I ever wanted. I am so happy that I'm terrified. Nobody gets everything that they want."

But the probing curiosity, however genuine and heartfelt, and the admonitions not to allow fear to be a factor? They don't actually *help*, if you can understand what I'm saying. Maybe this will put an end to all the wondering people seem to be doing about the topic, some vocal, some more passive-aggressive. I don't have an answer and I'm not looking for anyone to tell me what to do. What will be, will be, and there will either one day be a wee person...or there won't. I am at peace with that much, for myself, and I rather hope that you can be as well. If you asked me point blank, my unequivocal truth is that I will be grateful however my life continues to unfold, because it's already given me so much more than I could have hoped for.

Speaking of terrifying, I suspect I'll stare at that orange publish button for a long time before I work up the nerve to click it. I so rarely make myself vulnerable with thoughts and emotions that are tender and profoundly personal. It's so far from my comfort zone of "hold my cards close to my vest," that my comfort zone isn't even on the radar at this point. My comfort zone, in case you were wondering, would be to type this all out and then save it as a draft. But, you know, 38 has been weird, might as well embrace it. Because it's been a *good* weird.

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Beauty is...

Sometimes it is easy to see beauty. A brightly colored bloom. The sparkle of a bride. A freshly arrived newborn baby. A dazzling sunset. We know where to look for this sort of universally acknowledged beauty. That doesn't make them any less beautiful, but they are expected.

Other times, I need to look a little more carefully. I need to train my eyes not to move so quickly. I need to pause and observe and marinate. The world holds beauty that, while less obvious, is no less stunning.

A stark winter day: Its crisp lines and shades of black and white. Its state of suspended animation, as if the whole earth is holding its breath in anticipation of a spring that will burst forth. It speaks of that moment when what's coming is known and desired, but cannot be rushed. The vibrant flower will come, we know this, but at the expense of that breathless waiting. There is beauty in savoring that delicious sense of expectancy.

Commitment: Brides glow, but even more breathtaking is watching the vows spoken, promising to be husband and wife, unfolding into days and years and a lifelong commitment. Two people weathering life, side by side, good days and difficult, holds an even more timeless beauty in its many details as the wedding day when those promises were shiny and new. Life has shown me, again and again, that it is far from easy to maintain, much less grow, deep commitment. When the fragility and vulnerability of marriage has been exposed, as I have watched marriages unravel and struggled to make sense of it from outside its circle, the beauty of a lasting commitment has started to feel like a rare and priceless work of art.

Old hands: I have marveled over newborns. They are miraculous, these wee humans. The birth of a new family is precious. It is easy to overlook the other end of the timeline, to dismiss the years of winding back down, no longer new. But I remember, with startling clarity, my Gram's hands. They were simultaneously rough from hard work and soft as butter. They were wrinkled and the knuckles were gnarled. Their beauty showed careworn, loving and raising and growing up two generations of offspring. They were not new and unblemished by time, but had a beauty created over the span of an entire life.

Storm clouds: Sunsets, and to some degree, sunrises receive an awful lot of attention. The sun paints the sky with layers of color, gentle to start the day, blazing at its finish. When clouds build, it's so easy to miss the sunlight, to wish and watch for its return, lamenting the diffused grey as dismal. If I change my perspective, though, there is beauty in the dimension of the storms as they roll in. The clouds billow and darken. Like the sun, their rains are necessary to sustain life. Their silvers and charcoals and purples and blues are a different sort of beauty, but no less so than their pastel and fiery cousins.

There are so many ways to view the world. So many details to miss if I focus only on the obvious beauties. Beauty is more than surface value. Beauty can be found in more subtle variations. It may require effort or a change in attitude. It will not demand attention. It doesn't need to seen. It will not wait patiently until it is noticed. Beauty is a fleeting gift given a thousand times a day, but the only way to possess it is to choose to seek it out, to be still and show it profound appreciation to allow it to astound and amaze.


For the days I want to write but need that extra push, and, just as much, for the days when the prompt inspires me, all on its own, whether I need extra motivation or not.

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The stars make no noise.

There's something about being far away from city lights and looking up at a sky full of stars. There is a stillness as they twinkle silently far above, their determined little light traveling across a space so much larger than we are capable of comprehending. They don't have to make a sound to lend their beauty to the velvet black of night. Like the whisper-softness of sparkling snowfall, they shouldn't be audible and yet...it almost seems as if you're just quiet enough, still enough, and listen intently enough, you might actually hear what twinkling sounds like.

The stars, like the snowfall, make no noise, but they are what peace sound like.


For the days I want to write but need that extra push, and, just as much, for the days when the prompt inspires me, all on its own, whether I need extra motivation or not.

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Leap

A hundred thoughts in my head. Swirling around, bumping into each other, shooting apart again, like billiard balls on a table.

Some are silly. Some are random and mostly pointless. Some are bigger, heavier. Some require answers or choices.

They bounce and crash and rearrange, sometimes quietly, sometimes with sharp noise. Around and around, back and forth, until finally one slips down into the pocket.

Will I ultimately dismiss them or will I leap?


For the days I want to write but need that extra push, and, just as much, for the days when the prompt inspires me, all on its own, whether I need extra motivation or not.

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Left Unsaid

There are some thoughts and stories I've left unsaid. Many by choice.

But not all.

There are some things left unsaid, because they would fall on deaf ears. I say this, not out of assumption, but because there are some things that may as well have be left unsaid for that very reason. That leaves me wondering if the owners of deaf ears have things left unsaid as well...or if they just have nothing to say.


For the days I want to write but need that extra push, and, just as much, for the days when the prompt inspires me, all on its own, whether I need extra motivation or not.

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Human beings are complicated.

Earlier this month, I read the book My Husband's Sweethearts by Bridget Asher. As with any book, I imagine it could go without saying (yet here I am, saying it) that when I picked it up, I hoped I would enjoy it. I ended up being surprised just how much it has lingered with me, though. There were quotes and chapter titles that have really resonated with me.
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He stops, puts his elbows on the table, and leans forward, closer to me than I expect. "Human beings are complicated," he says softly, as if he's confessing to his own faults.

I read that sentence and then I just stopped. I mean, it isn't like it takes a dictionary and some heavy duty thinking to understand that group of words, but...it just felt like this profound revelation. Even more than that, though, it's a really good reminder -- especially for me, lately.  Human beings *are* complicated. There is so much more going on than most people will tell us, even those we know (or think we know) best. The surface is merely that and often the complex emotions and circumstances are hidden beneath the surface, which so often is more reflective than open to the depths hidden beneath. It's not just others, either. *I* am complicated as well. Complicated doesn't have to mean "drama," but there are complex layers to everyone, myself included.
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At Some Point Each of Us Is Someone Else's Bad Guy

This one was a hard one for me to look at. I don't like to think I've been a "bad guy" for anyone, but if I'm honest with myself, there are times I know exactly for whom and how I was a bad guy. It doesn't have to be intentional or even known by me for it to be true. And maybe I've been a bad guy even more than I am aware. I am certain there are people who've been bad guys to me and never had the first clue. It's a humbling thought. Just another way that human beings are complicated, I guess...
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We Are the Stories We Tell and the Stories We Don't Tell

I've been thinking about this one a lot, as it is particularly relevant to what's been going on in my world over the last year. I've thought about the stories I've told and those I haven't, and *why*. Why do I choose to tuck some stories out of view, rather than share them? Am I hiding it? Treasuring it? Afraid to be vulnerable? Worried I'll be judged? Waiting for a better time? And why do I choose to share some more readily? These are not new thoughts for me. I know I tend to hold my cards close to my vest on many occasions. But I've recently become painfully aware of the stories of others -- those that they choose not to tell, those they choose not to tell *me*, and the effect this bears on the relationship. That's a lot of heavy thought to contemplate.
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We need to love each other again, with all that love entails -- even the hard things, like forgiveness and acceptance.

Sometimes loving people is easy. We have good times, make good memories, there's laughter and happiness. But, here it is again: human beings are complicated. Sometimes the "biggest" loving comes in the form of forgiveness, of accepting a decision we don't understand or like, of putting aside our feelings temporarily to listen with an open heart. Love isn't just good days, it's hard times too...or it isn't love.
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We each say what we have to say, and we will spend this long afternoon crying and laughing at the same time, so much so that I can no longer tell which one is the truest form of grief.

This is so beautifully composed. I've attended enough funerals and the associated events to know that there are equal parts healing to be found in both laughter and shedding tears. They relieve different types of emotional pressure. They are opposite ends of a spectrum and yet, at the best of times and at the most difficult, they can become entwined. But it isn't true just of funerals. I've found that most difficult situations can be tackled with a combination of laughter and tears, feeling the hurt, while remembering the good.
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There were some unexpected life lessons, things to chew on, hidden in the pages of that novel. Some things I'll turn over in my brain for a good long time, I suspect.

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Gram.

I miss her.

It's been twelve years and I still miss her. I might even miss her more.

I miss her apple pie.
And her fashion sense.
(She wasn't afraid to get dirty and she had plenty of work clothes, but oh could she dress up.)

I miss the warmth of her hand -- hands that worked hard and showed it, yet still had a softness -- and the way she'd squeeze my fingers.

I miss her smile.
And her soprano singing voice, hitting every high note in "How Great Thou Art."

I miss her ridiculous "threats" when we'd get on her last nerve and she'd toss us out into the yard to get us out of her hair.

I miss the way she called me her Sweet Bug.
And that she'd never hang up the phone without telling me she loved me.

I miss long chats and her Sunday dinners and that she always had room for me in her home.

I will never not miss her. But I am grateful I was born into her family. That I had the gift of so much time growing up in her house. That I have a wealth of memories and photos to warm my heart. What a blessing she was to this world.

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Reminiscent.

I cannot seem to stop scrolling through my (thousands of) photos this week.


Every folder filled with images, snapshots of my world, both large and small, as if my memories are being projected straight out of my head in vivid color.



Each of them precious, no matter if they were from days long gone or still fresh this week.



My life is so incredibly full of good.


I am so grateful, I feel like I could burst.

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Words for Gram

Gram's birthday was on February 4. I kept waiting for the inspiration for a birthday tribute post to hit me. I started and stopped, typed and deleted. Nothing felt right. Nothing felt "enough" for this lovely lady who played such a key role in my life. Sometimes it's difficult to find words worthy of someone so special. They all seem so very inadequate, especially if you weren't lucky enough to have actually known her, able to know what I fail to convey.

Recently, I read these words on The Pioneer Woman's blog as she shared her grief over losing her beloved grandmother. Words, strikingly beautiful and filled with raw emotion, with which I identified.

The tears I’ve cried have been a combination of grief over losing her and gratitude for having been her granddaughter.

Most of the time, I can’t distinguish between the two.

(The Pioneer Woman, "Things I've Learned")

I think I was trying too hard.

It's no secret that I don't have my grandparents' natural ability with plants. I've had to give up on more sad, unsalvageable former green things than I wish to count. Not Gram. She could coax life from a dry stick. Her gardens overflowed with vibrant blooms, from the first brave bluebells and snowdrops that poked through the lingering snow crust in the shady spots to autumn's final triumph of  warm-hued mums as they echoed the fiery leaves above, on the trees, and scattered in crunchy drifts on the ground. I am sure the butterflies and honeybees and hummingbirds felt her flowerbeds were a slice of Heaven.

Since we bought the house, I've kept telling myself that I wanted to learn. What to plant where and how to keep them from turning into shriveled brown piles of plant death. It took me nine months (and a husband who matter-of-factly stated we were going to get some plants) to find the nerve to start. It doesn't seem like it should be such a big deal, but my soft heart feels guilty for killing defenseless vegetation. But you can't learn if you don't start, and I resigned myself to more failures.

A full three months after gracing the edges of the landscaping around our house, all six plants, mums in a variety of colors, are still doing this:

My shock is palpable. I stare at them openly at least three times a week. (I'm sure my neighbors think I am crazy, but my flowerbeds look better than theirs, so I'm ok with their judgment.)

I have watched them grow. I have deadheaded them from spent blooms to make room for new growth. I have observed in utter amazement how new buds appear and then blossom, again and again. I water and tend. I trim and fertilize. I am learning. I actually felt confident enough to add more.



I am even proud to report that these same herbs

are STILL ALIVE. Since July. The parsley just keeps sending out new shoots and the basil needs to be scrapped and started fresh, not because I've driven the life from its stems, but because basil stems simply get tough and woody over time, especially in a climate that doesn't freeze, and it stops being as productive. (It's also kind of outgrowing its home anyway.) But the fact remains that a plant has actually grown too much and for too long in my care.

I won't make any claims about knowing what I'm doing. It's all a giant experiment. But I can say for certain that I'm learning. And as I move, ever more comfortably, among my plants, I feel my Gram there. I feel closer to her there, yet feel her absence more poignantly, than any other place. Perhaps, in addition to carrying her in my memories, she continues to be present, tending my gardens through me, their quiet guardian angel.

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Peace

Late last night, I was washing up some dishes and reloading the dishwasher. T had long since gone to bed. The television was off. The house was softly lit and quiet. As I went easily about my tidying, I kept catching views of the tree, standing in the dining room, at various angles. Its beauty actually stopped me several times, as I would catch myself paused in suspended animation, staring at its glow. A half dried pot in my hand, dish towel extended but still. I was mesmerized by the reflections in all directions. Instead of making yet another mental note to "photograph the Christmas tree at night," when I turned out the kitchen light, I picked up my camera.





And in these photos, I have captured the peace I feel in the wonderment of simple things.

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Voice.

I have political opinions, though you wouldn't know it to follow me on social media. I keep my thoughts and rants to myself, save for a few individuals in my very inner circle. The beauty of this country is that we're allowed to have differing points of view, to support different candidates, to choose the issues and values that are our top priorities.

I don't care which candidate gets your vote, nor do I care if you don't like where I place mine.

What I care about is how I see you treating one another in a very public forum. I see how you represent yourself, your views, your values. Discussions and debates have not been polite. And yes, I am quietly forming opinions, as I observe how you treat those whose opinions differ from your own. Because if you're busy shrieking how intolerant everyone in support of the other candidate is, if you're intent on hurling insults and leaping at the opportunity to cut others down with a snide or condescending tone, simply for not voting the same way you do or might or will, if you've spent your time being ugly to those around you, it isn't under "special circumstances."

How you've conducted yourself doesn't go away just because the campaign ads stop running on television and the ballots have been counted. You don't get a free pass just because you call yourself 'passionate'. Calling people terrible names doesn't happen in a vacuum just because it is a Presidential election year. How you've acted today and yesterday and last month is part of who you are...and I take pause with allowing those who produce toxicity into my life.

So, yes, I've been watching and forming opinions, not based on which party you identify with but how you've chosen to act these last months. There are some (even some who are for "my guy") who have disappointed me and I am not sure how I overlook the ugliness they have displayed. One of the great beauties of this country is that we have the right to express ourselves, both with speech and with votes, but with that comes a responsibility to own what you've chosen to say. When the polling locations close, there will be a President named. It may be the guy I voted for and it may not, but those insults and names called and gross generalizations--some of which have been directed at me, whether you realize it or not, and some of which I have been chastised for simply because someone in my preferred party has chosen to spew hatred--already hang in the air. They cannot be unsaid, even if they are forgiven by those they've hurt, even if you think you've gone in and erased their ugly fingerprint from the internet. I have no choice but to believe you meant those things, because you said them, publicly and repeatedly.

I pledge allegiance to the flag that waves over this awesome country where I get to live and have an opinion and decide how to behave...and today, I will use my voice by casting my vote, not by cutting down others under the "justification" of politics.

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My friends...

...I can email one of you with my daily Virtual Disney Visit Itinerary and you will jump right into the conversation, fully invested, without ever once thinking I am out of my mind. Our spins on the Peoplemover with Dole Whips in hand make some days more bearable than I could ever express. Thank you for taking the time to imagine, discuss, listen, offer and rant with me, no matter the topic. I have you to thank for whatever shred of sanity that remains.

...One of you stretches me far beyond my comfort zone. Everyone needs that person in their life, if they intend to grow, and yet you never judge me when I take the stretching at my own pace. You are the yin to my yang. My opposite but still my equal. We have laughed more over long-standing jokes and "remember that time..." than I do with anyone else. You are the family I choose for myself, because you understand the importance of giving back as much as you receive, and I know you've got my back. There's no one else with whom I would rather balance out the universe.

...To one of you I say "Me too!" and you always bounce back "Of course." Or perhaps it goes the other way. Your kind heart, generosity, honesty, and the fairness with which you treat others remind me that good people exist in this world, but it is your wicked sense of humor and deadpan sarcasm that may be my most favorite, because even though life has not always played kindly with you, you never lose them. Attitude is everything and I admire you for that.

...One of you always has a kind or encouraging word for me. You may not realize that the well-placed Scripture you share or the gentle reminders you give have the impact that they do, but they ground me when I need it most. You are one of the most sincere people I know and you remind me that is a quality to which  I give high value, not only in others, but in myself.

...There are people with whom you can pick up immediately where you left off, whether you "left off" an hour ago or some time last spring, and one of you is exactly this sort of person. I love your ability to resume the conversation without needing to recap, as if you had merely tapped a pause button where we last left off. It cracks me up. But more than that, you aren't afraid to bare it all, emotionally or mentally. Your emotions and reactions may be volatile and intense, but you certainly own them, good or bad. And you work harder on fixing the areas that need work than most people actually see or give you credit for. You've grown tremendously over the past year and I am so proud of you.

...I never had a little sister (or, well, any sister), but I imagine that if I did, you'd be her. I love that you make me think before I speak, that you ask me questions that force me to pause and evaluate my own actions before responding. You think I give you all this one-sided advice but I am actually learning through self-evaluation. So few people create the proper relationship for this to happen--most of the time we want or need someone to listen, to nod along, to offer the appropriate platitudes, and that certainly has its place--but rest assured you are not the only one growing through our exchanges, and I appreciate that you give me the opportunity to not only be your friend but allow me the chance to see myself more clearly.

...One of you is has the ability to understand me without actual words. We can have a conversation consisting solely of fragmented sentences spoken in gasps between gales of laughter, the kind that makes your stomach hurt like a thousand crunches and tears stream down your face til you can't breathe, and no one needs to explain what we're talking about, we just know. When our friendship was new, I was at a crossroads, and we survived it. And we've survived many more since then. I know you are willing to go to battle with me, to say the hard things gently but firmly, and to kick the butt of anyone who makes me cry...and then take me out for cake. Because really? Cake frosting is the cement of friendship. Everyone should know this.

...I am fairly sure one of you was separated from me at birth. We process things the same way. We have nearly identical reactions and preferences (I say "nearly" because we disagree on a few things, like ink color and, more recently, a particular fruit). You have a firsthand knowledge of what it feels like to be me, even though the paths we've taken in life are far from identical. It just seems, at our very core, we are alike in the most fundamental ways, in both strengths and weaknesses. When it feels like I am the only one, that no one else could possibly "get it"...there you are, and you do.

...To those of you who take the time to communicate, to share laughter, who make the effort, who listen, who make my world richer for what you bring, who take me as I am (a thankless task many times, I fear), you are not thanked often enough for simply being here, allowing your circle to overlap mine and walking beside me each time our paths merge. You make this "broken road" beautiful in the very midst of its flaws and shadows.

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Gram's hands

For all the photos that I have amassed, one that I don't have is of my Gram's hands. I wish I'd had the foresight to know how important it would be to capture tiny details back then, when the opportunity still existed. Time is a cruel teacher though. We are often granted the wisdom of a lesson only after some chances have passed, and while we can carry this knowledge forward with us, hopefully using what we've learned, we cannot apply these lessons retroactively.

It has been ten years since my sweet Gram moved from this world to the next. A whole decade without this wonderful lady, whom I loved dearly.

One of the characteristics I loved most about her was her hands. By the time I knew my Gram, she was no longer a young woman. Her hands were wrinkled. There were age spots. Their youth had long since given way to the slightly gnarled look of years gone by.Those hands had worked hard: as a housewife and in the gardens, raising babies (and then grandbabies) and growing vegetation alike. But I will swear to you, to this day, that those hands were pure magic.

They rolled out the most delicious pie crust ever to grace taste buds, fingertips pressing the dough into the dish, leaving barely visible concave ovals behind: the symbols of love expressed in feeding her family.

They could make any green thing grow--and grow abundantly! Flowers blossomed. Vegetables flourished. Fruit trees produced until their branches hung low to the ground. And those same fingers could coax life back into wilted leaves or what appeared to be a dead, dry stick.

Those hands harvested the fruits of the garden and turned them into meals, into canned goods, into jams.

They took the walls of a house and made them into the warmth of home. Flowers were arranged and seasonal decorations came out of slightly dusty boxes year after year. And they tirelessly cleaned and tidied in the wake of a thriving family.

They worked hard, scrubbing laundry and hanging it out to dry, no matter the weather. They ironed. They mended. They folded. They hung up.

Those hands rested with questioning concern on warm foreheads, stroked the feverish heads of children, rubbed the backs of the brokenhearted. Somehow, they were always as warm or as cool as they needed to be. And they always *always* brought comfort.

When I was a small girl--and a not-so-small girl--I would sit beside Gram on the couch to watch tv or to visit. She would take my hand in hers. She would pat my hand or squeeze it, in a gentle but firm one-two-three pattern (I love you), and I would respond in turn. I remember how, despite their labors and the abuse of years, those hands were never too tired, and they were never dry or rough. Though her knuckles showed the bony appearance of age, the undersides of her fingers were rounded, plump and soft.

When I miss my Gram, her hands often spring to mind. I can bring their memory to the surface of my thoughts, but I always think "If I had a photo of them to look at and remember..." It wouldn't bring her back, but I would have that visual reminder, one I could share that would bring my words to life in color. You just don't realize the powerful treasure that some pixels printed on paper can be...

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12784 days.

I was listening to the radio one morning on the way into work. The DJ said he didn't want to be in his twenties again, because he looks back, and all he sees is young and stupid and who wants to relive that?

Now that I am officially smack in the middle of my thirties, I feel like enough of this decade has gone by for me to say it's been one of the best I've had so far. It always strikes me how resistant people are to turning thirty. When I look back, though, it hasn't bothered me. I had a great childhood, no question about it. I remember those days often and fondly. But after childhood comes the teens. I don't know *anyone* who is interested in revisiting those awkward, uncomfortable and often difficult years. Even though my teen years were far from awful, I truly don't miss them.

Where it seems people get hung up is on their twenties though. So many lament the loss of their twenties, speak wistfully of rewinding time, even refuse to acknowledge a year higher than 29. I look at my twenties as some of the most challenging years of my life. "Young and stupid" does not even scratch the surface of my twenties. There were a lot of growing pains. A lot of scars accrued. A lot of questions that either had no answers or, worse, had answers I'd rather not know. There were hard lessons, and expectations that led to disappointment. All signs pointed to "Life is unfair." Upon turning thirty, I have never once looked back at the previous decade longingly. The fact is, I would rather shut the door on most of it, keeping only what I have learned and what those lessons have made me.

Thirty has been good to me. Each year of this decade has been better than the one that preceded it...and not because anything was lacking. It's all just gotten better with each additional birthday candle, even when I am convinced it couldn't possibly be better than it is.

In my twenties, I was more worried about who I wasn't. In my thirties, I'm concerned with who I *am*. I am no longer focused on the ways in which I believe I fall short, the mental images of my future that haven't played out the way I had planned, and all the ways in which I am not good enough--whether that voice was my own or that of someone who claimed to care about me. I look in the mirror with clearer eyes. I see someone I *like*--maybe not everyday, but most days--and on the days that I don't, I am no longer afraid to hold that gaze and decide how to make myself better, not because I believe I am a failure, but because I finally see my own worth. And I am worth improving on this person, making her someone I can look in the eye and smile. I no longer accept being mistreated or derided or squashed until I feel inadequate. I am capable of forgiveness, but I have learned that forgiveness must be desired, and if it is not, I have to forgive for my own sake and simply walk away quietly, because I deserve not to carry that baggage with me, weighing heavily on my heart and stealing my joy. There simply is no room in my thirties for the joy-stealers and those who mean emotional harm. In my thirties, I am strong enough to walk away when I need to, and humble enough to admit when I am wrong.

More than once yesterday, I was asked, with a wink, "How old are you now? 29?" and my answer was a steady "I'm 35." I am not afraid to own that number. I am proud of the person I am now, that I wasn't ten years ago, proud of what I have survived and that it didn't beat me. Life is too precious to wish the years away or wish I didn't reach a particular number, when far too many people are denied that gift. Perhaps it's cheesy or cliche to say that. So be it. All I know is that I would rather have the additional days, adding up to a bigger number, than to *not* have it.

No, thirty-five does not scare me. I am at the center of the best years of my life and I want nothing more than to embrace it, and see where we go from here.

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Where I'm From.

I am from clotheslines hung with freshly washed laundry blowing in the breeze, from half-gallons of Hood ice cream and Chevrolets.

I am from the white house on "The Hill," from the blue-and-yellow kitchen filled with sunshine and the scent of apple pie, from Sunday dinner after church and chocolate milk in the mornings and the scratchy red living room carpet and the yellow bedroom looking down over the backyard.

I am from the Mountain Laurel and the White Oak, the lilacs and the snowbells in Spring, the black-eyed Susans and the clover-studded fields of Summer, the generations-old apple trees and the fiery foliage of a New England Autumn, and the spruces and the evergreens with their Winter ermine wraps.

I am from annual road trips to Cooperstown and Christmas Eves at Aunt El's and two previous generations of Red Sox fans, from Steven and Mary and Mildred and Walter. From those who gave me life and those who taught me how to live it.

I am from the stubborn and the hard-working and the close-knit and the belief that homemade is always best.

From you'll crack your head open and come inside before the jackyls get you and if you take care of your things, they will last longer and say your prayers.

I am from the Lutheran Church. From confirmation classes and Christmas Eve Candelight services at midnight and Good Friday Tenebrae with the slamming of the Bible in a pitch-black sanctuary. From The Lord's Prayer and the twenty-third Psalm and the Apostles' Creed. From stern looks for whispering in church and sitting in the balcony with Heather M, feeling grown up.

I'm from the Old Country with roots so ambiguous they seem untraceable, from kielbasa and sauerkraut, from a country corner of the Northeast United States and a cellar full of home-canned jams, jellies, relishes and pickles.

From the Halloween when Dad made us laugh by wearing a fuzzy orange tail as he escorted us from door to door, the time Josh gave me chicken pox and he had only a few spots over a long weekend but I was covered from head to toe and missed two weeks of school, and the way we would pester Gram starting on December first until she dug the boxes full of Christmas decorations from deep in a closet.

I am from photos nearly a hundred years old now, cracked and faded and peeling, handed down to me with their shaky script on the backsides. From family stories that should have been recorded when the opportunity still existed. From comfortable traditions and a large extended family and real honest-to-God love. I am from their past and my past and memories that are priceless treasures.

I have seen this prompt circulating for years. I've always been drawn to it, but was too afraid to try one of my own, telling myself it would never measure up to those I read in the words of others. But then I realized that this is *my* story and one I cherish, one worth remembering and capturing and sharing. I think I could compose this post a thousand times, and each time it would be different. And each time it would be beautiful. It is where I am from.

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Message received.

I keep thinking about something that was said in church: how what comes out of your mouth is a direct reflection of the condition of your heart. If the words you speak are hateful, angry, bitter, designed to hurt, then it's time to look inward & open your eyes to the fact that you need to do some work on a very diseased & damaged heart. A heart that is whole & happy, at peace, is the only way words of compassion, gentleness, kindness & love can be spoken.

Like anyone of us, I am human. I fail. I have days when the words I speak are not...the ones I should be speaking. They are meant to tear down, to "put someone in their place," or simply to spew out the nastiness that builds up from my inescapable human nature. They give the illusion, at the time, of making me feel better, but if I am honest with myself, eventually, I feel badly for them. I don't like that version of myself. I want the people I love to hear words that build them up, that make them feel loved & appreciated. I don't want people I have casual contact with to walk away, shaking their heads, wondering what made me so cruel or jaded, when I have the opportunity to be pleasant or polite, or at the very least say nothing at all when the words that have built up are nothing of the "nice" variety.

If the condition of my heart will be obvious through the words I say, no matter how I try to sugarcoat it or deceive myself otherwise, then I need to be conscious of the shadows that lurk, waiting for just the smallest chance to creep in & begin cluttering that space with all things dark & vengeful. Human nature is ugly. When I am reminded of that, forced to see myself in the mirror, I know that I can be quick to justify that ugliness or to pretend it was anything other than what it was. But when I acknowledge how full my life is, how richly I have been blessed, I am shamed when my words reflect a heart that is anything but filled with joy & gratitude. There are many reasons I can point to when my heart becomes hard & dark, but ultimately, it is up to me to choose the tools I have been afforded that restore my heart to peace. I can always do better.

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Green Acres

Last Sunday was Good Shepherd Sunday, so the church service centered on the theme of sheep. If you're familiar at all with the Bible, you know there are many references--both specific and illustrative--made to sheep & shepherds. I promise I was paying attention during the important parts, but while the offerings were being collected, I started thinking about sheep.

My mind wandered to my childhood. Gram & Gramp lived in a more rural area of Bristol. Just down the road, right where Perkins Street crested on Chippens Hill, one of their neighbors had a good-sized farm. (Green Acres.) (No, I'm not kidding.) They had, among other things, a decent number of sheep. I remember many many many trips past the white fence alongside the road, fresh paint in the Spring, the paint peeling just a bit as Summer gave way to Autumn, the fence partially buried in snow drifts all Winter long. The low building that housed the sheep pen was tucked into a little hollow, nestled up against the tree line, and on any pleasant day, year round, the sheep could be found in the fenced-in pasture--grazing & napping & doing whatever it is sheep do. The bottom line is that they were never doing anything very interesting. I mean, they're *sheep*.

Well, one day, I arrived at Gram's house (part of me thinks I came home from school but another part of me could *swear* this happened during the Summer, so I don't know where I would have been coming from but anyway...) and the yard looked...wrong, somehow. Gram came bursting out the kitchen door to tell the story.

It was late morning. She was tidying up the kitchen, just like she always did (I think I came by my love of routine honestly, because Gram had a definite routine) when she heard this strange sound. She described it like an angry humming rumble. It wasn't thunder--the sky was clear & sunny. It wasn't a train--there were no train tracks anywhere remotely close by. She wondered if it could perhaps be some piece of farming equipment? Not unheard of on Chippens Hill. As I said, rural-ish: think large yards & gardens & family farms & open fields.

And then they came. The sheep. They had somehow broken out of their pasture & proceeded to panic, as sheep do. They got out & then they didn't know what to do with themslves. So they ran. They bleated & bahhhh'd & ran. Right up the road. The whole hundred-and-twenty-or-so of them. And for some reason, they hung a hard left & ran right up Gram & Gramp's driveway.

Gram watched the sheep stampede from the kitchen windows, disbelievingly. The utter chaos of sheep bodies swirling around the house, running every direction at once. They ran through the backyard. They ran down the side yard & back up the driveway again. They stomped & trampled & the dust whirled through the air. (That's when I realized what looked wrong: the soft green grass was smashed into dirt and all Gram's beautiful flower gardens were trampled & broken.)

Gramp was in his gardens (on the back side of their 3+ acres of property, the orchard between the backyard & where he worked in the dirt) when he heard the ruckus. He rushed toward the house, thankful Gram was safely inside, hopped in his truck & drove quickly down to the neighbor's farm to tell them of their escapees. Several men rode back with him & he helped them herd the sheep back to their proper place. The fence was mended, the sheep went back to munching grass, their eyes quizzical at all the activity, as if nothing had happened.

Until the next day when the whole ridiculous scenario repeated itself.

*This* time the neighbor double-reinforced the spot in the fence where the sheep had busted through. And then he got a great big fluffy white sheep dog named Ben. Ben would patrol the sheep, keeping them in line (and in their pasture!). He would rest in the sun, watching, occasionally circling his herd. It became common to hear a random commanding 'woof!' as he exacted authority upon a potentially wayward sheep, but mostly Ben just quietly went about his business of minding the foolish sheep, who were much happier in rather than out. It turns out, Green Acres really *was* the place to be.

I hadn't thought about Ben or Green Acres or the silly stampeding sheep in a long time. But I did on Sunday. I thought about how we're a lot like sheep--and how appropriate it was that my Kindergarten graduation theme was "I am Jesus' Little Lamb"--and how we get ourselves into all kinds of messes. We *think* we want to be on the other side of the fence, free & joyful, but we break through & suddenly that great big wide open space loses its appeal. It's scary & threatening in the unknown. We'd rather be safe & cozy in our familiar place where we belong, but suddenly we can't remember how to get back there. So we run. All over the place. Freaking out. Arms waving, like Kevin in "Home Alone."

I'm glad I have a "Ben" to guide me away from the fence, when I contemplate breaking through & fleeing. I really am much happier where it is safe & secure, knowing His watchful eye is on me. The grass is green right here, right where I am. Green & abundant & I'm surrounded by my fellow flockmates & life if good. This *is* the place to be.

PS. You know you're totally going to be humming that song to yourself all day now. You're welcome.

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Too many too few.

It feels as if there are a million thoughts tumbling around in my head these days. So many words in a jumbled ball. Kind of like yarn. Each string is a different color, making it easy to see that each individual piece is woven in there, but they get tangled & knotted, difficult to separate into a neat pile. If you could just find the right string to pull, the whole mess would begin to loosen itself.

Too many words in my head means too few figure out how to escape.

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