This Day

For years,

I stood in front of

racks of paper sentiments-

trying to make them ring true;

trying to find you and me.

I read each word

hoping somehow

this day would change everything-

I would wake to find

wise words, devotion…love.

 

I waited

Year after year…
 
buying gifts with all my hope

all my heart, and the last of my worth—

Costing me everything.

 

I sealed my heart

in each envelope

along with a card I didn’t believe...

someone else’s words

that I knew you wouldn’t even read.

 

The waiting

took its toll.

I lost myself more

and more of myself

each moment, each year, on this day.

So this year

On this day

I won’t stand in front of

an array of meaningless cards

and someone else’s prose.

I will stand

on my own

waiting for nothing from you

as I finally know--

you aren’t there.

You are

like this day-

just another Sunday

in a sea of Sundays

made special in name only.

 

My waiting

has been my burden.

Not yours, just mine.

And I let go, finally...

On this day.

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The Choice

From the time I could sit up and hold a baby doll, I wanted to be a mom. It was almost a fantasy for me, a place I would go to escape and dream about my husband, my home, my children…all seemingly a certainty for my future.

For that feeling of certainty, I blame all those Disney books and their princesses bound by destiny, staring at me with their perfect blue eyes from the pages of my nighttime storybooks. Even though I knew they were stories—fairytales and fantasy—during that time in the early 70’s, as a little girl, you were basically told that it would all happen. The only things that seemed like a fantasy or fiction were the ball gowns sparkling with stars from the nighttime sky, pieced together by singing mice and a fairy godmother’s magic. The rest seemed plausible and promised: there was one man out there just waiting to meet you. The only thing you didn’t know was the date and time. But, I was assured by my mother that it would happen before I reached the age of 20.

I banked on that. I was so afraid of not finding it, that I tried to turn every toad I kissed into a prince. I wanted the wait to be over. I wanted to start my fairytale. I wanted to be loved and to love someone forever.

It was hard as all my girlfriends got married, and I was literally the only one in my circle of friends who was single. I became godmother to some of my friends kids, a volunteer babysitter, and hopefully the cool, fun visiting friend who got down on the floor or in the sandbox and really played for hours, honoring all requests for silly songs and faces. I loved picking out birthday gifts and clothes in kids stores I would never otherwise get to frequent. As the years passed, I worried and stressed about my biological clock ticking away, and even looked into having a child on my own.

The reality was, during all those years I longed to be a mom, I was not ready at all. It wasn’t that I didn’t know how to raise a child (who does until you have one?) or that I wasn’t making enough money, or the other normal concerns. I was still struggling with the depression that had plagued me most of my adult life. Looking back, although I genuinely wanted to be a mom, I think a lot of the emptiness and worry I felt was more about wanting so badly to be loved unconditionally.

A few years ago, I gave up on the whole picture- the whole fantasy. I knew there would be no husband, no kids, no house with the picket fence. There were days I imagined myself as the crazy lady who lived on the corner shaking her broom at passersby on the street, with a hundred cats scattering underfoot. It didn’t seem like a big stretch from where I was at the time, and that in itself was frightening.

Instead, I did find my prince charming—although about 20 years later than I had planned. When I first met Shea, we had an immediate click that went beyond chemistry and attraction. In odd ways, we had gone down similar paths with our careers and life plans. We had both never been married, and we both were extremely close to a small group of friends, and were truly involved in their lives and the lives of their children. After a few dates, and watching Shea with some of those kids, I turned to mush. His obvious ease and love of these kids and the way he so effortlessly drew them to him was magnetic. I remember thinking—he is going to want to have children. Perfect, right?

Without talking to him, (it was still early in our relationship), I started thinking about a possible future with him. I knew he would want kids, and I suddenly found I wasn’t so sure that I did. It shocked me. When unexpectedly faced with the real prospect of being a mom- I had doubts. I think everyone does, but this time it was nagging and deeper than the general worries. I just didn’t feel that pull to do it. It wasn’t about not loving kids, or not seeing the amazing love and beauty they brought to my friend’s lives. I saw it, and at times, I envied it. I knew in my heart that if it was 10 years earlier, I would probably feel differently. I also knew that I worried about any part of my father’s parenting becoming part of mine. Even though I know better, it has always worried me that somewhere down the line as a mother, I would suddenly morph into my father. Or even 1/100^th of my father. And I wouldn’t want to do that to anyone else, especially a child.

But, falling in love can also make you believe in the things the other person wants enough to want them yourself.

So as Shea and I got closer, and when we both seemed to know this was serious, we started talking about a future. During the time leading up to this conversation, I had readied myself for Shea to say he wanted children. And when he did, I was going to be ready to do that. I would not deny him his one chance to have children and a family, and I knew that he would be a wonderful father, and I would adore being a mom to his kids.

Then, a funny thing happened. Shea felt exactly the same way I did. Exactly. Neither one of us was unsure--we didn’t want kids. We both would sacrifice those feelings for the other if it was truly important, but we didn’t have to. That moment probably cemented things with both of us—there was a very real sense of us being right for each other- meant to be.

When I was younger, I always viewed people that said they didn’t want children as almost soulless. They had to be callous, selfish people to say that and believe it. Some people do make that choice because they truly don’t like kids, and that is hard for me to understand.

But now I know there is an in-between. Shea and I both love children-- adore them. We both reach out to kids when we are out and about and love watching them toddle on the beach or seeing teenagers at the local attractions, embarrassed by their parents. We love all of it. We just know that the timing isn’t good for us, and that age has definitely played a role in that decision. We look forward to living in a place that the kids we love can come and stay as they get older- and we can be a part of their lives. Maybe even the cool aunt and uncle that you can talk to about anything.

It’s hard sometimes as we are talking to friends and family and they all have automatically assumed we will be having kids. They are in shock when we share our decision, and everyone questions if we are sure—won’t we regret it? I understand that thinking because of who Shea and I are. But I hate almost feeling guilty about it. I don’t want anyone to judge us or think we are selfish for a decision we know is right for us and our life.

I can’t deny that in those fantasies of mine as I grew up are a little sad to let go of. I always imagined that moment in the hospital delivery room, my husband holding my hand as we brought a life we created into the world. I don’t think there is anything more magic than that moment; and I have mourned a little knowing we won’t have it. But, realistically, I know that the moments and years after that aren’t what we want.

There are fairytales that come true without magic wands, glass slippers, and certain pathways. For me, it has definitely been an “off the beaten path” kind of story. More like Cinderella leaving her bad situation—then backpacking through the countryside, finding odd jobs and then really finding herself along the way. Then, at age 40, she finds her perfect soulmate and settles down near the beach, nowhere near a castle. More like home.

Dear Disney- that’s a happy ending too.

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Alice's Bucket List

I got a little jolt of perspective this morning when this appeared on my Facebook wall. Meet Alice. She is 15 years old and has terminal cancer. After her latest test results, it became apparent that the cancer is winning, and there is little else that can be done.

As a friend of mine said this morning, can you imagine being 15 years old and knowing you are going to die?

Reading Alice's words, though, you only hear the voice of someone who is grateful for the unknown people who have written her to send their support, or try to make some of her wishes come true. She expresses gratitude for the time she has left with her family and how she is going to spend it.

So much strength from someone so young, facing a battle and a reality bigger than I can imagine.

Reach out to her if you can, join the bone marrow registry, and most of all give thanks today for the good things in your life and the promise of tomorrow.

Click here to visit Alice's blog.

Click here to join the Bone Marrow Registry.

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Finding Home

Over the past few weeks, my husband and I have had to navigate more than a few twists and turns. He has started a new job- a new career path- and I am so proud as I watch him work outside of his comfort zones and find success, one step at a time. That is never easy at any age or stage in life.

We have been preparing for a move into a new place that we have been so excited about. When we first moved to the beach area where we live, we were in a mad rush. I had just gotten a new job and we literally had only a few days to find somewhere to live. We were so lucky to find a place close to my office, and only a few blocks from the beach—and also within our budget. To top it all off, the place was furnished (one of the benefits of moving to a vacation area). We signed the year lease and moved in and started a life here.

Within six months of moving here last year, we were married in a small local church with all of our family and friends. After the ceremony and reception, we went with our photographers to a quiet area of the beach for some photos by the ocean. It was November 13^th and the day was spectacular. It was 70 degrees out and I didn’t see a cloud in the sky all day. That was unusual even for this area—and there wasn’t another day like it that fall. We both felt there was something magical and perfect about that day, and that we were meant to be together, and be married right then, right there, in that moment.

Then, last week, I got laid off from my job. We have had a few little bumps here and the days leading up to that, and I think both of us wondered if our luck was changing. Just a week before I found out I was getting laid off, we had bought some furniture for our new place (which is unfurnished), and recently had to buy a car, so our finances already felt tight. For a few days we both discussed quietly what we had to do to make things work, and what changes we needed to make.

We knew we needed to go forward with the move, and we had already signed one lease and ended the previous one. We had to have furniture, and had a ridiculously long time to pay off what we had purchased, without finance charges or fees. We made excel spreadsheets and budget plans. I have been down this road a few more times than my husband, and have been in some seriously dire financial straits. Even though you can’t help but worry, I have learned that these situations can cause you to sink—not feeling like getting out of bed or facing the world—and that is the last place you need to be when money is tight.

After a few days, we shook ourselves out of the funk we were in and rolled forward—giving thanks for what we DO have—that we can eat and pay the bills—and most of all- we can make each other laugh. I am so thankful for that part of our relationship. We laugh so much—even in tough times. We know each other’s funny bones so well, and there are times I almost can’t breathe when Shea says something too witty at just the right moment. There is a saving grace in that kind of laughter, a kind of safety net for when things seem too dark or serious.

So today, I stayed home and waited for the delivery of our furniture. I had a million thoughts in my head, thinking of where we are right now money-wise, and how excited I was to see how our place would look filled with the pieces we had chosen. The delivery men carted our living room pieces up flights of stairs and unwrapped each piece. Our bedroom furniture fit into the room as if I had planned and measured carefully (which I had not).

Gathering up the plastic wrap and moving blankets, the movers left and I walked back upstairs. I stood in my living room and took it all in. To me, this was not just furniture. This was a home I had been waiting for thirty-some odd years. This was the start of a life I had dreamed of for so long, and had given up on having a long time ago.

As dramatic and sappy as it sounds, I stood in this room, quiet with only the whir of the ceiling fan in the background. I closed my eyes and let a thousand scenes play in my head. I remembered walking to the end of the dirt road we lived on when I was 10 years old and staring into the field that spread out beyond our neighborhood. I remembered wishing out loud to just be on my way in the world and find to find love and hope and a good, happy life.

I remembered moments with my father that made me stop believing in myself—moments I wish I could forget.

I remembered nights during my college years, feeling like I was slipping into an abyss that would engulf me—out in the world on my own for the first time and having no family or support to tether me and wanting more than anything to feel better, feel happy, feel loved.

I remembered stupid choices, failed ventures, lost love, and battling depression for the better part of my life. I remembered finding a therapist who finally saw the truth behind everything and lit a path for me to follow and find my way back to the living.

Most of all, I remembered sitting in a parking lot in California over three years ago. A mixture of a toxic work environment, a huge heartbreak and betrayal and ongoing, painful family issues had overwhelmed me. I was out there by myself and had just had the final blow hit me. I remembered how absolutely alone I felt in the world and how hopeless. I remember vividly that I did not want to be here, there, or anywhere anymore.

More than anything, I remembered how much I believed, with all of my heart and soul, that things would not get any better.

And then, I opened my eyes in my home, our home. I looked around at the beautiful furniture, and the life we are building. And despite money worries, work stress, life changes and everything else, I am so grateful. So grateful, that somehow I made it through, that somehow Shea and I found each other and that somehow, today I can’t imagine being anywhere else but here.

The money will work itself out. We have everything we need.

The fabric collage featured here "My Home, My Heart" is by Marty Mason. Click here to see more of her beautiful work.

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Figuring Out Forgiveness

"The stupid neither forgive nor forget; the naive forgive and forget; the wise forgive, but do not forget." -Thomas S. Szasz

Forgiveness is supposed to be the first step in truly healing, letting go, not holding grudges. It is supposed to be the stronger person’s initiative, the way to being the bigger person, and not letting past grievances take over your life and heart.

I struggle with all the ideals and “rules” of forgiveness. I watch people on TV or read their accounts of forgiving someone who has murdered a loved one or hurt them so deeply, that their only salvation was to forgive. I’ll admit that, at times, I see the beauty in those moments, and at other times, I feel confused. I can’t put myself completely in another person’s shoes, but I don’t know how you begin to forgive someone who tortured or murdered a loved one, especially if they have never shown remorse or asked for forgiveness.

Fortunately, I haven’t had to deal with that issue, but I know others who have. I grow so angry when I see people suggesting or demanding that they forgive these people who have taken their loved ones from them. I understand that we sometimes don’t know what to say to people who are going through such horrible suffering, but I think “telling” someone to do anything is always the wrong thing to do. Offer your help, offer your ear to listen, your shoulder to cry on, but don’t demand that someone who is suffering do anything—whether it be forgive, eat, sleep, or otherwise. Try to understand that everyone does things in their own time, and has to process grief in their own way.

The hardest part for me is that for so long I have associated forgiveness with an open door. I somehow associated forgiving people who have hurt me with letting them back in my life, allowing a continuing relationship that I feared would hurt me again. While out to dinner with a relative recently who was helping my husband and I navigate through some family issues, she said something that made the room stop for me. It was simple, and maybe obvious to some. She said, “Just because you forgive someone doesn’t mean you have to have them in your life or over for dinner. You forgive them, wish them well in your heart, and move on.”

Maybe it’s the stories I have read or the TV shows I have watched that have depicted forgiveness as this ongoing process that to me, caused more pain than progress. There are people in my life that I want and maybe need to forgive, but having a relationship with him or her would not help anyone. Hearing those words—feeling that forgiveness could mean moving on without being more involved—freed me.

My father, is of course, the first person that comes to mind. I really have already forgiven him, though many people wouldn’t see it that way. I understand that he came from a troubled childhood, and that he didn’t grow up intending to be an unfaithful husband, or a distant, abusive father. I understand that his upbringing shaped who he became. For that reason, I have forgiven him. But, he has not changed over the years, nor has he ever come to me and showed remorse or asked forgiveness. There is no reason for me to try and make the relationship deeper or different.

Writing about my issues with him has helped me in ways I could have never imagined. When I am writing, I am back in those moments—many of them when I was a child. As my words hit the page, I am transported back, but I am able to see everything with a new clarity, as an adult. Sometimes this has been even more painful as I understood the full meaning when I haven’t before, but sometimes, I could see his actions as someone in pain as well as someone inflicting it. And while I cannot condone what he has done over the years, I can understand it--at least parts of it, and that had made things easier for me to heal and grow.

One of my deepest emotional scars outside of my family was a dear friend I had from grade school. We stayed friends throughout our school years and into college. We were from completely different “cliques” in school, she was pretty and popular, I was plain and worried more about grades than boys or parties. But somehow, we had this great bond, and I always knew we would be lifelong friends. After college, she met a man who was so good for her, perfect for her. I was so happy for her, and after they became engaged, we talked about her wedding and all the plans ahead. I was to be her maid of honor, and we happily chose colors and flowers together. Her parents threw her for a loop, however, and came out against the marriage, saying that this man wasn’t “handsome enough” for their daughter. This friend, who had never really stood on her own, was devastated. I offered to let her move in with me, and promised her we could plan this wedding and get through this with or without her parents.

We did just that. And in the eleventh hour, as I had suspected, her parents came around. But they demanded one caveat: that I no longer be a part of the wedding. I assume they saw me as the reason this union had survived. It was true that my friend had struggled and only learned to stand on her own in the year before the wedding. She might not have made it had we not banded together.

She complied. I was cut out of the wedding, and did not hear from her again until a few years ago, fifteen years later. She sent me a note via Facebook, acting as if nothing had ever happened in our lives, that we had simply lost touch like other friends from school years do.

I was as angry and hurt as I had been fifteen years ago, that decades of friendship were lost when I had been there for her in her darkest hour. I had honestly waited over the years to hear from her—some apology, a note, an email…something. But it never happened.

I wrote her back and told her perhaps she had forgotten what had split us apart, I reminded her of how hurt I was, and that the pain had always stayed with me. I told her I was shocked to get a note so devoid of any real sentiment. I needed to say those things, I wasn’t ugly or hateful, just to the point. And in the end, I wished her well with everything. I just knew I couldn’t have her as a part of my life after what had happened, the years of silence, the lack of any sort of apology.

But, I have forgiven her. I understand that, given her parent’s behavior and reasoning, she wasn’t equipped to handle an emotional situation like that one. I understand that we were young, and everyone makes mistakes. I just can’t forget what I felt all those years. That betrayal helped feed the self-esteem issues I have always had. When I went through a breakup, no matter the circumstances, I saw it as my failing, my inability to be “enough”. It’s one thing to have those issues with men, but this friendship breaking as it did made me see myself as a whole that way—that people left me because I deserved it.

More than a few years in therapy helped me recover from that thinking. For awhile, I did carry a lot of anger over these instances in my past. I think it was working through things and understanding that helped ease that more than anything. Forgiveness came later, when I was more whole and more at peace with who I was and saw these events for what they were: more often than not, someone not appreciating me, what I had done, what I have given. In the end, I found that the hardest person for me to forgive was myself.

It does feel good to say, I won’t forget, but I can forgive you… knowing I can remember and learn from it, but don’t need a constant reminder there every day. It’s done, and in that moment, in a sense, I can be free.

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The Celebrated Death of Osama bin Laden

Late Sunday night, my husband and I had just gone to bed, and as I usually do, I checked my Blackberry one last time for the night. My twitter feed was exploding with the news that Osama bin Laden had been killed. Quickly, my husband and I were both awake and flipping through news channels on TV.

I became emotional as I watched a crowd form in front of the White House, growing larger and larger by the moment, waving American flags, and then spontaneously breaking into song—The Star Spangled Banner. I was almost immediately taken back to the days right after 9/11, when there was such a feeling of unity and patriotic pride among everyone in the US—the likes of which I had never known. Seeing people come together from all areas, all backgrounds, tourists and residents alike, I felt that sense of pride again.

I also watched as Facebook became the way for people to share and find out about bin Laden’s death. Friends shared articles with the latest details, clips of the president’s speech, and their happiness that bin Laden was gone. Dead. Our Navy Seals immediately became heroes.

Many of my friends also said they struggled and felt uncomfortable celebrating someone’s death, even someone as horrible as bin Laden.

I must say that a tiny part of me felt that, too. It is so foreign to me to think about celebrating anyone’s death, no matter who it is. Death is always a time of sadness, not a reason for celebration.

But this one time, I would make an exception. Mostly, I feel that the families who lost loved ones in the attacks of 9/11 have earned the right to celebrate if they want to. It does not make them bad or immoral to do so. The way they lost their loved ones was so cruel, so senseless, so unimaginably horrible, that whatever brings them peace or closure is appropriate.

And while I might not have been in the streets waving a flag, I do have to say, in my heart, I celebrated. I celebrated that an evil man was put to death, and I especially celebrated that in his last moments, he knew it was the US forces that would take his life. I celebrated the end of an era for al-Qaeda. I know that this will not end their organization, but it certainly will change things for them. I celebrated that our military, who for years now have been fighting neverending battles in Iraq, Afghanistan, and other areas, could feel some sense of victory after mixed messages they must get all the time through the media and through the political agendas that often chart their course.

I am troubled to see some of the politics playing out now—conspiracy theories already abound, and I heard today that there were questions about whether the killing of bin Laden was legal. There have also been concerns over the initial report that bin Laden was armed when he was killed, and now it has been clarified that he was not.

After the Bush administration sent the message out loud and clear that he was wanted DEAD or ALIVE…I don’t think criticism makes any sense. And I promise you this, as much as I hated Bush’s politics and most of his actions in office, no matter who the president was that brought an end to bin Laden’s life, I would have celebrated just as I have now.

I could care less if bin Laden was armed when he died. If we had simply taken him into custody, he would have almost gained more power, somehow behind the scenes still running things, and gaining more of a following every day through the anger of the leader of al-Qaeda held captive.

This is a man who spewed hatred for most of his life- and most of it directed in the United States’ direction. He was not just the mastermind of 9/11, but of countless other deadly operations the world over. The world is a better place without him in it.

This week as columnists, bloggers, and my own friends have asked if we should be celebrating the death of bin Laden, I wondered if his death had happened quicker—closer to the 9/11 tragedy—would we still be questioning whether or not it was ok to celebrate? With the horrible images of that day in our heads, when we were not so far away from the terror and chaos…would the reaction have been any different?

Maybe. Maybe not. Because we are human. We are compassionate people. We don’t want to be on the same level as these killers who celebrated the death of Americans after 9/11. But we needn’t worry; we are light years away from that kind of soul-less existence.

All of us will always remember the morning of September 11th- where we were when we found out that our nation was under attack. I was in Denver, at a country club, hosting a golf event for my company. I will never, ever forget watching those images on the television, the surreal moments that looked like a horror movie on the screen. I will never forget the pain and fear I felt—like we were at the mercy of an evil force—and there was nothing much anyone could do. I will never forget the long drive back to my home in California, sharing a rental car with two co workers, most of the ride silent as we tried to make sense of what was happening. I could not believe that every airport in the nation was shut down. The magnitude of it all was astounding.

At that time in my career, I traveled so much for business, and I could not get the people on those planes out of my mind. I woke up at night with nightmares of being on one of those planes. I watched every news cast I could, seeing their faces, and crying for their families.

Just a few months before, I had been in New York for another business trip, and we actually had hosted an event at the restaurant on the top floors of the north tower, Windows on the World. I remember vividly standing in the restaurant as the staff put the finishing touches on our reception before our guests arrived. I stood in front of one of the huge windows and looked out over the bustling city that looked so peaceful and small from high above in that tower. And now, all that was gone.

When I think of the terror that the people in both towers went through, and the people on the planes—how they suffered… I don’t have any guilt at all celebrating the death of the monster who brought all that about.

His death was too peaceful.

His life was too long.

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