No Other Way

I am thankful-
for decisions I didn’t get to make…
dreams that fell through-
love lost.

I am thankful-
for all the things that went wrong.
The turns in my life that cut me to pieces-
the long journey back to making myself whole.

I am thankful-
for almost falling into the abyss
Being pulled back against my will-
almost angry that I survived.

I am thankful that I couldn’t imagine
such happiness
because it is sweeter now
that I doubted it with such intensity.

It is easy to be thankful for beauty.
Who would have ever thought I would be so thankful for the very worst things?
The missed chances, defeat, dark places I dare not revisit.

The outcomes I fought with all my might to change-
to bend-
to make what I thought I needed.

But nothing worked.
I lost those battles over and over.

For that I am most thankful.

There was no other way. I know that now.
I found myself again. It’s been a long time.
I am here. Right where I am supposed to be.

And in ways I could never have imagined…

I am thankful.


I have featured this painting before--It is "Rebirth" by Duy Huynh, a local artist. This painting has always held special meaning for me-as does a lot of his other work. Please check out more of his work here: http://larkandkey.com/

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Anniversary

My mother called a few days ago, with the pattern of random small talk that I recognize well. She was upset about something. While she chattered on about the weather or her recent purchase of new placemats for the kitchen, she was trying to find the courage to say what was really on her mind.

Finally, in a quiet voice, almost a whisper, she said: You didn’t send us a card for our anniversary. We have been married for fifty years, this was special. I was just surprised.

Fifty years. I knew when their anniversary was. My mother has never been subtle or able to hold back excitement for any holiday or birthday. She is nearly unbearable around Christmastime, walking around in holiday sweaters that embarrassed me growing up and even now. So, for the weeks leading up to their anniversary date, she was dropping hints and asking for my advice on a present for my father, all the time reminding me of the approaching day.

I should be a bigger person. It’s one day out of the year. I could drop a card in the mail with some simple sentiment, nothing too sappy, devoid of anything that makes me sound overjoyed about the occasion. I could send flowers and just sign the card with my name. But I never have been able to make myself do it.

My parents both grew up in poverty in an area of Kentucky that is still a bit lost in time. At that time, in that place, it wasn’t uncommon for people to marry young. My mother was sixteen when they married, my father was twenty.

From day one, and not just because of her age, my mother has been dependent on my father. She is and has always been painfully shy, and doubts everything about herself with such depth that I am shocked when she steps even a millimeter outside of her comfort zone. She didn’t have a driver’s license until the age of 29, and this was after years of marriage and success with my father’s career—and after having two children. They had money for her to have a car. Instead, she waited for my father to take her where she needed to go.

Their marriage showed no evidence of love or respect at any moment since I can remember-- since I knew even a little about what those words meant. My mother has always professed her love for my father. I know she believes that and means it. But how you can truly love someone who has never put you first, has never encouraged you or believed in you, who has belittled you, taken you for granted, ignored your birthdays, squashed your dreams, and expected in turn to be waited on hand and foot—is beyond comprehension for me. She was a child when she married him. He taught her his version of love and she was an excellent student.

Fifty years of marriage for my parents, to me, is not a cause for celebration or special recognition. If I have to label it, I would say it is an accomplishment at best.

My mother survived fifty years of never making a decision without deferring to my father. She managed to put a face on for the world that seemed together and content, when my father’s alcoholism and many affairs were the crippling reality.

I can’t paint her completely as a hero or even a martyr-- as she lived in such denial over the toll my father’s choices and behavior were taking on our family. She chose indifference over action. She chose denial over protecting me.

For the forty years I have lived with or known my parents, their marriage has confused me, saddened me, angered me.

When I was very young, caught up in my mother’s excitement of marking special days on the calendar, I would make homemade cards for their anniversaries out of construction paper and glitter—happily handing it to them on the morning of the big day. But even when I was barely out of grade school, celebrating that day felt false. Not marking that day with some gesture wasn’t done out of bitterness, it just seemed so much like a lie, a betrayal of everything I knew to be true. I couldn’t make myself encourage my mother’s state of denial.

I feel for her. I hurt for her. I wonder so often what my mother could have become, what she would have done with her life had she not married my father—or had she broken away from him when she was young. I sometimes imagine her with someone who would have seen her. Truly seen the person she is, the heart she has. She can’t even see it herself.

So, each year, I let that day in February quietly pass. The square box stares back at me on the calendar. I don’t have to mark it, I know the date.

It is the date that made my mother who she is, and me who I am.

It was the beginning and the end for all of us.

It is the loss of her innocence, the beginning of his betrayals.

It is a mix of love and hate.

It is a contradiction—wishing the union didn’t happen—but knowing I would not be here if it hadn’t.

And there isn’t a card for that.

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The Weight of Worry

I can imagine a thousand things. My worst nightmares coming true. A scarier outcome than is even possible. I can go night after night without sleep counting the minutes while fretting about everything under the sun. And all of this amounts to nothing. But worry has been my companion for more years than I can count.

I come by it honestly. My mother’s worrying is crippling to her--inhibiting her life in ways I don’t even think she understands. It was by watching her that I was able to scale back my habits a great deal. I saw her day after day getting further weighed down by stressing, thinking, and fretting over things that were either out of her control, or too miniscule to really be a concern. It seemed as if she got smaller every day, swallowed up by the cloud of worry. It made her timid to try new things, to go places, to do things she had always wanted to do. It seemed better to stay safe at home and not risk harm or making mistakes.

Until I was in high school, that was pretty much me, too. I limited myself to things I knew and trusted—never venturing more than a few feet out of my comfort zone. And then I realized I was still worrying incessantly. Even in my supposed “safe zone”, I was losing sleep and having panic attacks. I saw the fruits of my mother’s constant state of anxiety. Miraculously, I was able to reign in some of the intensity, and somehow choose my battles with worry.

It’s almost funny that the more I have had on me—the less I started to worry. In college I was working three jobs, trying to come to terms with the reality of my family problems, becoming the navigator of my own journey—all of it overwhelming. I believe it was definitely a choice of sink or swim. And to even tread water, I had to realize that staying up all night worrying wasn’t going to put money in the bank to pay my power bill. I remember so often saying to myself, “you are doing the best you can, that is all you can do.” It might not have helped my finances or my understanding of my family, but it helped keep me a little closer to sanity, and gave me a few more hours of sleep each night.

But, even at my best, I am a bigger worrier than most and I hate the lessons worry teaches me.

I have learned from worry that nine times out of ten, doing what you love-even what you are meant to do- isn’t going to pay the bills. I know some have made it happen, but for me that hasn’t quite worked out. I have also learned that the financial worry of pursuing those dreams can take away from what you wanted in the first place. That doesn’t mean my dreams are dying, it just means I am realizing they may have to always be an after-hours pursuit instead of the main game.

I have also learned that there is no worry worse than financial worry. From my own experience and my friends' experiences as we have all been affected by the economy, it is the worst form of stress. In so many ways you are helpless, and the ride downhill only accelerates with each passing day.

Over the last few weeks, I have realized that I have let my stress and worry creep in to my happiness. Right now, I do have a lot to be happy about, in more than one area, my life is good—actually great. All of the rest of it will work out I am sure. But I noticed that I haven’t been able to write—it almost felt like a betrayal to let myself write instead of concentrating on my “bigger” concerns. It hit me today that the only way I can steer through everything with my soul intact is to keep doing the things I love--that are me. In fact, I may need to drown myself a little in the things that make me who I am. Better to drown there than the deep dark sea of apprehension.

At the end of all of this, when the dust finally settles and I have somehow solved the problems lurking around the corner, I will have the words I have written, the moments I have created and will, as always, look back and realize that was what got me through.

That is all I can do.

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Family

Last week I came across some old newspaper clippings and papers from my grade school years, some I hadn’t touched since the time they were created. Others I thought I had lost, and I literally got teary upon realizing that they were again in my possession.

I laughed at the misspellings created by my fourth grade self, smiled at simple drawings made with crayons and tempera paint, and held the edges of newspaper clippings of science fairs and school accomplishments carefully, as they had become almost brittle with age.

My kindergarten year will always be incredibly special to me, as my teacher Mrs. Starr took a special interest in me. Well, I actually think she took a special interest in all her students, but she made each of us feel that we were extraordinary in her eyes. I remember my year with her as warm, secure and loving in a colorful classroom filled with support and encouragement. Outside the classroom things were turbulent and confusing, so school was a haven for me, a trend that continued throughout my life.

Holding drawings in my hand made during that year was like opening a time capsule. Looking at each brushstroke, the signing of my name, my first real written words standing shakily between three colored lines on paper almost forty years old, I felt mystified. I stared hard at these pages, wishing I could remember what I felt in the moment I created the colored lines on it.

One picture in particular stopped me for a moment. It is me, alone, a simple stick figure representation, my hair yellow, a small red smile on my face. In the background, much smaller, a house. My house-the green colored house that we lived in at the time. The lines of the house are bright crayola green, with crooked windows, drawn by my five-year-old hand. I always associate that house with bad things. But there is no indication in the drawing that I was suffering, nothing that would make anyone stop to wonder.

I know also that I had been taught to hide things and keep secrets. And I am sure that was part of it. But as I flipped through worksheets with Mrs. Starr’s notes and smiley faces in red pen, as I looked through more pages of bumble bees and holiday turkeys made of construction paper, I knew that in the moment I drew those in her classroom, I felt safe and happy, and depicted my world under her watchful, caring eye.

It made me think about all the standard drawings we create as children, in and out of the classroom. No matter what the year or time in history, five year olds ultimately pick up a paintbrush or a crayon and draw a square with a triangle on top, then several stick figures standing nearby representing their home and family, prompted or not. Add a lemon yellow sun in the sky above, and you have a grade school rite of passage. I wondered if I sat down now to draw that scene, what it would look like today.

The lines would be straighter, the artwork a little better, but the scene would be nothing like I dreamed it would be back at five years old, nor would it look like any of my friend’s drawings were they to join in the exercise. I have heard (and said) many times that dear friends can become your family. And even though I have said it often before, until I looked at this artwork from my past, I don’t think I realized that I had that extended family long before I acknowledged it. All through the years, I did concentrate on the pain of my existing family, comparing what I didn’t have to what everyone else did, or seemed to. Part of that was some natural realization over time, and honestly, the grieving process for what wouldn’t be. It all took some time. But as I look back, I realize that people drifted in to my life over the years-- amazing souls that filled empty parts of my life just as I needed them. Over the years, slowly, as I began to be honest with myself about the loss of the foundation of family, my “new” family was growing, member by member.

Debby, my second mom, who has loved me unconditionally and completely, has pulled me into her family as if I was one of her own. Her house is home to me and walking through her door is love. I tear up as I even write that sentence, tears of gratitude. She came along when I was six years old, right after we had moved to North Carolina. She has taught me to love, to laugh, to understand, to believe in true love and family.

Kim, my dearest and oldest friend, is my sister and confidante, my partner in crime, and the person who makes me laugh the most, hands down and without even trying. She knows every flaw, every rip and tear in the fabric of my life. She has been there when I have won awards, lost my footing, celebrated, hit rock bottom, and stood near the edge ready to jump. No one else can pull me out of trouble or torment the way she can. I am lucky beyond measure to have someone I trust and love so much in my life. Kim is that person that I know- without hesitation- that I could call from anywhere, having done anything, in any kind of trouble and she would come get me, and this is the best part, without any judgment.

Judith, whose heart knows no boundaries, is my biggest cheerleader, knows of nothing I can’t do or be, and never fails to remind me of that when I need it the most. I could be in prison, convicted of same heinous crime, and I have no doubt Judith would come to visit excited for what I will accomplish behind bars and remark how lucky the establishment is to have me as a resident. She is the queen of sending me a lemonade recipe when my house and heart are full of lemons. And I know she knows me and sees me. Big things. She has made me brave in moments when I was scared witless. She has made me see myself through her eyes when I was blind with grief. Her words are the life preserver I have used so many times to survive a storm.

Patrick, my friend that I made at my first real job out in the big world, helped me believe in myself in the world of work. At first a great mentor for navigating the politics and insanity of the workplace, that friendship grew into being part of his family, his wife and children so dear to me I almost can’t stand it. Over the years, holidays alone seemed daunting until he and his wife opened their doors to me in such a natural way, I didn’t dare hesitate to step through. I count birthday parties for their daughters in their back yard as sunny, treasured memories in my life. His voice on the phone over the years has been my touchstone, knowing he was as crazy I was, and that he could sense when I was about to slip out of control. I didn’t always listen to his advice about men, work, love or life, but I knew I could tell him my failings and he would chuckle, be breathtakingly honest, but still see me as the same person the next day.

Add to that list several of my guy friends who over the years have served as big brothers, taunting me, toughening me up for the real world, and making me laugh until I couldn’t breathe. Also on that list are a small group of women I proudly call my circle of friends who share my snarky, sarcastic take on life and never fail to help me sharpen the focus of my lens on the world around me, and my own choices.

The picture I would draw today would include all those faces, large red hearts outside of the stick figure lines of their bodies, smiles for days. My simple duplex apartment with me in the middle of all that love, acceptance and family, my furry children—my dog and three cats—huddled nearby. Oh, and a big yellow sun, with rays that extend from the sky to the ground. More than I could have imagined, my family grew over the years into something I know I can count on, learn from, be myself with, lean on, and love unconditionally with the same return.

And if that isn’t family, I don’t know what is.

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Turning the Page

A lot is made of New Year’s resolutions—making them, keeping them, breaking them. I can honestly say that for every year in memory, I have diligently made lists and started out with the best intentions of keeping all of them. Like most people, though, I rarely checked off even one item, much less multiple entries on my long list.

At the end of 2008, I saw a piece on television that recommended only making one resolution each year. I have mentioned before that I followed that advice for last year, and actually made that goal happen. That one resolution was to get published, somewhere-anywhere, and had been on my list for years. I think there were several reasons it happened, not just because I narrowed my list down, but it didn’t hurt that I focused on one goal for the whole year—a lot less daunting than a list of five or ten things to accomplish.

Taking a hint from that theory, I have decided to back up even further and make my resolution something broader, simpler and more comprehensive all at once. This year’s resolution? Embrace hope.

Yes, I want to be published again, maybe even sell that novel I have been working on. But there are other things in my life that are just as important—continuing to let love reside in my life, trusting the wonderful man I am with even though trust is hard for me, giving more, volunteering more, appreciating the wonderful friends I have in my life that I can count on at every turn. But in each of these instances, embracing hope is the foundation for all I want to be and do. Putting my writing out there and believing that good work will reap great rewards. Trusting someone who more than deserves my trust, love and devotion and having faith that wonderful things will come from that trust. And mainly, just trusting myself for a change, empowered by a positive outlook, and a new commitment to hope instead of doubt.

It sounds simple. Maybe too simple. And on some level it is. But, how hard is it to remain hopeful when things seem to be crumbling around you? Very. How easy is it to slip to some dark place when the cards seem stacked against you? Very. So my resolution is to make hope my safety net, my plan B, my first choice even when it is hard, even when it seems scary or maybe ridiculous. I look back on some desperate choices I have made in the midst of doubt or fear, letting the worst possible outcome become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Thinking the worst, seeing that as a possible outcome, almost becomes something you are drawn to. Maybe it is ludicrous or at the very least impractical to think that having hope makes the pull of a bad outcome weaker. But lessening the inner turmoil I go through as I let myself spiral into negative thoughts and gloomy predictions has to be the better choice.

I start this year with more encouraging and optimistic things in my life than I can remember. But there are some huge challenges waiting in the wings also. It would be easy to become overwhelmed and let the negatives become the prominent focus. Choosing hope for both the good and bad will hopefully help me find some balance.

And finally, I think it is so important to really turn the page, wipe the slate clean, and let the mistakes, pain, and complications of 2009 reside in the past. Taking the plastic wrap off the 2010 calendars should be a true new beginning, a fresh start, filled with all the possibility a new year can bring. As the empty days stare back at me from the calendar pages hanging in my kitchen, I have to smile and know there is so much before me that I can’t even imagine, can’t even take in.

And …I can’t wait.

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You Never Know

I remember this day last year vividly. I woke up slightly relieved. Relieved that Christmas day—the whole season-- was over. I knew there would be remnants of holiday commercials laced with caroling voices, knew that all the decorations in my neighborhood wouldn’t be down just yet, but I knew that at least the day had passed.

I spent last Christmas on my own at my house. Friends had generously offered me multiple invitations, but the thought of feeling like a third wheel was a little overwhelming. While I have friends that are very much like family to me—spending the holidays with a happy couple or family has sometimes in the past left me walking away realizing with a deeper clarity than I would have liked exactly what I do NOT have. And also, I am quite certain I wouldn’t have been the best person to be around even on the best day at that time. It was tough all the way around.

So I suffered through the weeks leading up to Christmas, stayed away from the general public as much as possible, watched DVDs almost constantly to avoid holiday programming and hunkered down to wish it all away. On Christmas Eve, I went to bed early, but still managed to sleep through most of Christmas day, which had been my plan. Go to sleep, wake up, and it’s not a holiday season anymore. It is just another Friday.

A dear friend, who is like my second mother—well she isn’t “like”—she IS my second mother—told me on this day last year that she believed everything could turn around for me, and that this time next year the world was going to look very different. You just never know, she said.

I remember feeling sad when she said that because I was certain of so many things about my future. And I was certain she was wrong.

What is amazing about life is that there is no certainty. That is not always a good thing. We lose loved ones in the moment it takes to catch a breath…and the only certainty is that there was no time for a goodbye and they are never coming back. But the other side of the coin is that no matter how much all signs, occurrences, and logical assumptions line up—a total curveball flies into your life and everything becomes new and the path you are on was one you never could have imagined.

Stepping back, it isn’t exactly a wild curveball from nowhere. One thing leads to another in a chain of events that makes something bigger happen. But the steps are so small leading to it, and there are so many in the chain that it seems to come out of nowhere.

For more years than I can count, I wanted to be a published writer. And this year, after finding a way to pour some of my past pain onto a page, it happened. And that pain then became fuel for something that made a difference in my life—healing me in more ways than one. And then, I found and let love into my life again, which, I am here to tell you, were words I never saw myself writing, thinking or saying again (or for at least good 30 years from now).

Some of it seemed to come out of nowhere. But, the truth is, all the things that happened this year were the end result of events and choices that I couldn’t have planned better.

I brought my dog Bear into my life last January, and he became not just a pet, but a motivating being that made my heart open before all the past wounds closed it completely.

I lost my job, which devastated me, but also made me realize how many hours, days and weeks I had spent working over the last decade. Ridiculous amounts of time gone—never to be retrieved. While some of it was worth it and reasonable for my career, a great deal of it was hiding from life, and letting work be my safe place instead of how I pay the rent.

When looking back on the terrible betrayal and heartbreak I had suffered in 2008, I saw at first only that I attracted horrible people into my life, that I was not worth better, that I had failed somehow. But through all the other realizations, through writing, through friends and through time…I slowly began to understand my value—my worth.

And I found love again because I opened myself to it, and because the person I love helped me take the last steps across that bridge towards trusting myself—and someone else.

It was all a process. A crazy, painful, beautiful process. Planned and unplanned, chaotic and precise.

And more than anything today, a year later, I know this much to be true…

You never know.

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