I've been thinking lately about two things: flinging oneself into the great unknown, and resolutions. I think the two can come together quite nicely, but before we do that, we need to consider what we resolve.
Like many people, I have spent the last few weeks in a gluttonous frenzy. There hasn't been a meal I haven't relished. Not a drink I've passed up. (Well, maybe one. But only one.) Not a truffle I've turned away, and if I'm honest, I haven't seen a green vegetable in weeks.
And all of it - every last bit - has made its presence known on my thighs.
I woke up this morning and put on my Fat Pants. (Thankfully, they're loose.) And for a moment, self-loathing washed over me. How could I do this to myself? Why did I let myself go? What the hell is wrong with me?
And then I realized this was all bullshit. People who loathe themselves don't take the time for self-care the way I do. I've done nothing that can't be un-done. I did not, in fact, "let myself go," unless the "go" I have in mind is "to the buffet." And there is nothing wrong with me. I am a normal human at the holidays, and what's more, I started the holiday season with an illness that didn't allow me to work out for almost a full two weeks. I consider the fact that I didn't need new pants a groundbreaking success. Take that, Fat Pants. You'll be back in the drawer in two weeks.
With all that realization coming on the heels of itself, I had to take a moment and think about what my resolution/s should be. I always want to challenge myself, give myself somewhere to stretch. A few years back, it was participating in 12 races or events over the course of a year. Then it was doing four half marathons, and last year it was three sprint triathlons. This year, I am switching my focus a bit and looking to increase my strength and flexibility. While I will still train and participate in races, I will be making strength training and yoga more of my focus.
Which leads me to a most interesting development which came full circle just today. Starting in January, I will begin Yoga Teacher Training. I'll take this moment to remind you that I once gave myself a black eye in yoga. Go ahead, laugh. God knows I'm cracking up.
But yeah, this is happening. A fantastic yogi friend is teaching. Several other yogi friends have offered support and encouragement. What I am most humbled by, though, is the fact that the organization through which I will take my training has granted me a scholarship. When I applied, I was hopeful, but I wasn't really prepared for the overwhelming feeling of actually receiving it. This is not something I take lightly; I hope that at the end of our six-month period of learning, I will have done the company proud.
This is a stretch goal for me, in more ways than one. Am I ready to embark on a journey like this? No, not hardly. But I think sometimes if we wait until we are ready, we'll never go for it. As my friend Janie likes to say, "Leap, and the net will appear." I'm leaping.
And stretching, and sweating and learning.
So, happy new year, friends. Try to focus on the best of you. Try to see yourself the way others see you. You're gorgeous, right down to the soul. See that as you set your goals for 2015.
Monday, December 29, 2014
Wednesday, December 17, 2014
The forgiveness of yarn
It took a little memory jog to realize that it was this time of year nine years ago when life as I knew it began to unravel. And that's exactly the way my mind put it together - life, as I knew it, unraveling. The fella to whom I said "I do" ... well, he didn't. Commence unraveling.
But the truth is, life is always in a ravel/unravel state.
The art of unraveling is something that becomes very evident when one learns to knit. You'll get through part of a project and find the flaws ... and before you move on to the next row, you unravel the whole damn thing and start over.
Making it right. Making it better. Learning from your mistakes.
We are all, my friends, continually raveling and unraveling. And thank heaven for that.
I'm always making mistakes. Big ones, little ones, medium-size ones. Some of my best lessons were the result of mistakes. Lessons about how much I deserve to be valued (in every relationship, not just the romantic ones), or how strong I am. Lessons about traveling light and being resilient. Lessons of self-care and truth telling.
It's worth it, in the end. We find ourselves when we're willing to unravel.
Which is a long way of saying that I know lots of people who are at this very moment in a period of great transition. Looking at the knitwork of their lives thus far, it's time to figure out how far back to unravel before continuing on. And the beautiful thing about life is that we get to do this.
Yarn, and life, is forgiving.
It's okay to make a mistake. It's important to learn from it. It's wise to ask forgiveness. (Most of the time). It's imperative to move on.
But the truth is, life is always in a ravel/unravel state.
The art of unraveling is something that becomes very evident when one learns to knit. You'll get through part of a project and find the flaws ... and before you move on to the next row, you unravel the whole damn thing and start over.
Making it right. Making it better. Learning from your mistakes.
We are all, my friends, continually raveling and unraveling. And thank heaven for that.
I'm always making mistakes. Big ones, little ones, medium-size ones. Some of my best lessons were the result of mistakes. Lessons about how much I deserve to be valued (in every relationship, not just the romantic ones), or how strong I am. Lessons about traveling light and being resilient. Lessons of self-care and truth telling.
It's worth it, in the end. We find ourselves when we're willing to unravel.
Yarn, and life, is forgiving.
It's okay to make a mistake. It's important to learn from it. It's wise to ask forgiveness. (Most of the time). It's imperative to move on.
Monday, October 27, 2014
The truth about saltwater
I do honestly believe that saltwater is one of the most healing substances on the planet. Most of the time, I get to make it myself - tears, or sweat. And while I prefer the seagoing kind, seawater is not readily accessible to me, so I'll cry and sweat because A) it's free and B) I can have it anywhere.
And lately, I've had a lot of great stuff going on. Reasons to cry out of sheer joy. I've settled into my new little home, gotten into a lovely groove, and made it home to visit family twice in four weeks. New beginnings are always emotional, and this one has been coming for two years. And yes, lots of tears - not to mention sweat - went into this one. I'm feeling at home in my space and in my heart, and it's really quite something.
Endings, though ... before there can be a new beginning, there has to be an ending, and I'm going through some of those, too. Left my sister's house in order to have a new-to-me home, and that's just the beginning. Bade farewell to my Aurora roots (again) to head back to the place that feels like home to me, but leaving home in order to get there. Work friends moving on to new opportunities ... friends moving on to new locales ... it can bring a sort of exhilaration, but I will admit the literal moving on is somehow easier to take than the emotional moving on, though. When a relationship takes a turn - when people emotionally move on - that can sting. And when something hurts, the best advice I can give you for what to do with me is this:
Guide me to saltwater.
Allow me to have a good cry. Put me through a workout that makes me sweat buckets. Double-super bonus points if I cry while working out. (This happens in yoga more often than I care to admit.) In times of transition, emotions run high. And this girl tends to heal via salt.
I've learned over time that crying does not make you weak. The people who love me? Yeah. Every one of them has seen me cry. They wouldn't call me weak. (This could be because most of them have also seen me sweat, and trust me ... there is nothing weak when it comes to that.) And sure, there was a time when I was girly enough to not want people to see me at my dirty sweaty worst, because hey, that's not feminine and that's not attractive.
Except for it is. It's authentic and alive and dirty gross reality, and there's no way that's not gorgeous. The people who love me, love me sweaty and crying, covered in dirt and crusted with salt.
And maybe that's the truth about saltwater. It's not the substance itself that heals you, but the people who share it with you. The ones who love you through the sweat, the grit, the tears. The ones who refuse to judge you, even in those moments when you cry at the drop of a hat, or those moments when, frankly, you smell so bad it's hard to believe anyone can manage to hang by your side. The healing may start with the salt ... but you're made whole again by those who stick around long enough for you to heal.
And lately, I've had a lot of great stuff going on. Reasons to cry out of sheer joy. I've settled into my new little home, gotten into a lovely groove, and made it home to visit family twice in four weeks. New beginnings are always emotional, and this one has been coming for two years. And yes, lots of tears - not to mention sweat - went into this one. I'm feeling at home in my space and in my heart, and it's really quite something.
Endings, though ... before there can be a new beginning, there has to be an ending, and I'm going through some of those, too. Left my sister's house in order to have a new-to-me home, and that's just the beginning. Bade farewell to my Aurora roots (again) to head back to the place that feels like home to me, but leaving home in order to get there. Work friends moving on to new opportunities ... friends moving on to new locales ... it can bring a sort of exhilaration, but I will admit the literal moving on is somehow easier to take than the emotional moving on, though. When a relationship takes a turn - when people emotionally move on - that can sting. And when something hurts, the best advice I can give you for what to do with me is this:
Guide me to saltwater.
Allow me to have a good cry. Put me through a workout that makes me sweat buckets. Double-super bonus points if I cry while working out. (This happens in yoga more often than I care to admit.) In times of transition, emotions run high. And this girl tends to heal via salt.
I've learned over time that crying does not make you weak. The people who love me? Yeah. Every one of them has seen me cry. They wouldn't call me weak. (This could be because most of them have also seen me sweat, and trust me ... there is nothing weak when it comes to that.) And sure, there was a time when I was girly enough to not want people to see me at my dirty sweaty worst, because hey, that's not feminine and that's not attractive.
Except for it is. It's authentic and alive and dirty gross reality, and there's no way that's not gorgeous. The people who love me, love me sweaty and crying, covered in dirt and crusted with salt.
And maybe that's the truth about saltwater. It's not the substance itself that heals you, but the people who share it with you. The ones who love you through the sweat, the grit, the tears. The ones who refuse to judge you, even in those moments when you cry at the drop of a hat, or those moments when, frankly, you smell so bad it's hard to believe anyone can manage to hang by your side. The healing may start with the salt ... but you're made whole again by those who stick around long enough for you to heal.
Monday, September 22, 2014
In gratitude
One week from today, I will pay people to take all of my shit out of my sister's house, put it on a truck, and do the whole thing in reverse on the other end.
Two years ago - 25 months ago, in fact - I moved in with my sister Pat, intending to stay there for two years. It turned into two years and one month, and the arrangement has had its ups and downs. Ups in the form getting my financial house in order, finding the industry I hope to retire from, and food. My sister can cook, y'all! And downs in the form of not having personal private space - I think this probably holds true for both of us - and learning what I do and don't want in a home. (Hint: I don't want to have a yard to mow, or a driveway to shovel.) We both had the best of intentions when we agreed on this arrangement, but fish start to smell after a few days. I've been smelling up my sister's house for two years, and it's time to move on.
I feel ready. I've made the wisest decision I can, under the circumstances, and I'm moving back to a place that feels like home to me. I am returning to the place where I built a life from the bottom up, where I hit rock bottom and learned I could bounce.
And so I've spent a lot of time over the past few weeks packing my meager possessions into boxes, getting ready for a week from today. As I've packed, I've found myself weirdly nostalgic. This isn't the first time I've left home, but it's the first time I've left my sister's home.
There were ways we got on each other's nerves, for sure. But there were other ways in which we bolstered one another. Balanced one another. After two years, it feels like I'm nearing the light at the end of the tunnel. But the truth is, the tunnel was a nice place.
It was warm, and it smelled great. It gave me my own bathroom, and my own bedroom, painted in a color that still gives me joy. It was filled with conversations and laughter, and sometimes tears. My sister and I both cry when we need to be heard, need to be understood ... and sometimes that makes it hard to communicate. But we kept trying. We worked hard for common ground, and I think that's one of the most beautiful outcomes of our little two-year experiment.
And so when I look back, it's with much gratitude. It isn't everyone who would take someone in for the long term. Sure, I tried to give back with sweat equity and grocery money, but I know there were sacrifices on Pat's part. Hell, even just being able to pee with the door open is a luxury she's mostly been denied since August 25, 2012.
I don't know what else to say, but I have to say thank you to Pat. Thank you for welcoming me. Thank you for letting me pick the paint colors for your bedroom, and thank you for loving them when we were done. Thank you for letting me hang art. For the chili, the barbecue, the pizza, the beef stew, the farro salad and the weekly roasted chicken, perfect for lunches. For the cable and Internet and a place to park my car away from the elements. For the mornings when I overslept but not too much, because you always made sure my rear was in gear. For our similar but different Christmas trees and for our own personal Thanksgiving dinner, a tradition I look forward to continuing.
For giving me space to figure things out, but not taking over for me. For that time, and that other time, when I screwed up so royally with my finances, I darn near panicked ... and you were a gentle voice of reason. (And for laughing with me when I dug myself out. With help.) For finding "our thing" (re-releases of movies, in case you were wondering) and for sharing my love of theaters equipped with recliners.
For being there when I wept over losing my most loyal friend, Benld. For that, a lot.
For all the times when I was less than you needed, and you let it go. For all the times when I was way more than you needed, and you let that go, too. For giving me two years plus one month plus four days to grow my own wings.
And for letting me fly.
Thank you, Pat. It isn't enough, but it's the best I can do.
Two years ago - 25 months ago, in fact - I moved in with my sister Pat, intending to stay there for two years. It turned into two years and one month, and the arrangement has had its ups and downs. Ups in the form getting my financial house in order, finding the industry I hope to retire from, and food. My sister can cook, y'all! And downs in the form of not having personal private space - I think this probably holds true for both of us - and learning what I do and don't want in a home. (Hint: I don't want to have a yard to mow, or a driveway to shovel.) We both had the best of intentions when we agreed on this arrangement, but fish start to smell after a few days. I've been smelling up my sister's house for two years, and it's time to move on.
I feel ready. I've made the wisest decision I can, under the circumstances, and I'm moving back to a place that feels like home to me. I am returning to the place where I built a life from the bottom up, where I hit rock bottom and learned I could bounce.
And so I've spent a lot of time over the past few weeks packing my meager possessions into boxes, getting ready for a week from today. As I've packed, I've found myself weirdly nostalgic. This isn't the first time I've left home, but it's the first time I've left my sister's home.
There were ways we got on each other's nerves, for sure. But there were other ways in which we bolstered one another. Balanced one another. After two years, it feels like I'm nearing the light at the end of the tunnel. But the truth is, the tunnel was a nice place.
It was warm, and it smelled great. It gave me my own bathroom, and my own bedroom, painted in a color that still gives me joy. It was filled with conversations and laughter, and sometimes tears. My sister and I both cry when we need to be heard, need to be understood ... and sometimes that makes it hard to communicate. But we kept trying. We worked hard for common ground, and I think that's one of the most beautiful outcomes of our little two-year experiment.
And so when I look back, it's with much gratitude. It isn't everyone who would take someone in for the long term. Sure, I tried to give back with sweat equity and grocery money, but I know there were sacrifices on Pat's part. Hell, even just being able to pee with the door open is a luxury she's mostly been denied since August 25, 2012.
I don't know what else to say, but I have to say thank you to Pat. Thank you for welcoming me. Thank you for letting me pick the paint colors for your bedroom, and thank you for loving them when we were done. Thank you for letting me hang art. For the chili, the barbecue, the pizza, the beef stew, the farro salad and the weekly roasted chicken, perfect for lunches. For the cable and Internet and a place to park my car away from the elements. For the mornings when I overslept but not too much, because you always made sure my rear was in gear. For our similar but different Christmas trees and for our own personal Thanksgiving dinner, a tradition I look forward to continuing.
For giving me space to figure things out, but not taking over for me. For that time, and that other time, when I screwed up so royally with my finances, I darn near panicked ... and you were a gentle voice of reason. (And for laughing with me when I dug myself out. With help.) For finding "our thing" (re-releases of movies, in case you were wondering) and for sharing my love of theaters equipped with recliners.
For being there when I wept over losing my most loyal friend, Benld. For that, a lot.
For all the times when I was less than you needed, and you let it go. For all the times when I was way more than you needed, and you let that go, too. For giving me two years plus one month plus four days to grow my own wings.
And for letting me fly.
Thank you, Pat. It isn't enough, but it's the best I can do.
Thursday, September 11, 2014
On aging, adulthood, and the pursuit of neither
So I had another birthday. Birthdays are an annual consequence of not dying, so I'm pretty damn happy each time one rolls around. But this one ... oh, this one sorta threw me for a loop.
The number wasn't anything earth-shattering. No, it's more the nearness of this number to another number that has me reeling.
48. Or, as my mind is processing it, an equation that amounted to 50-2. For some reason, 50 is sending me into near-panic-mode, and it's two years away.
The same thing happened at 25, so maybe each quarter century I'm going to freak out.
Truth is, at age 25, there were things I thought I would have accomplished, and I was so not there. I thought I'd be married, settled down, stable. I thought I'd have my career set in stone. Most shockingly, I thought I'd feel like an adult.
And now? Well, if I'm honest, none of those things are true, and I'm staring down the barrel of the big five-oh. I'm not in any danger of dating, much less having a relationship that might end in marriage. (Mostly because the universe frowns on one marrying herself; seriously, I am in a very committed relationship with me.) Stable is not a word one would use to describe me, although sometimes I smell like I live in one. (I would not, however, use the word "unstable" to describe me, either. I fall somewhere in the middle.) My career is mostly comfortable, in that I'm working in a field that fuels me, but I'm pretty sure there will be more changes between now and retirement. (I'm also reasonably certain I may never retire, because there are still occasions when I manage money like an infant.)
But the big one - feeling like an adult? Oh, honey. I'm far from it.
Maybe I'm not destined to go there. Maybe, as one boss put it long ago, I'm created to wear my inner child on the outside.
Clearly I do not have all the answers. If I'm honest, I've still only figured out about half of the questions.
And I think that's okay. I am living authentically, and I'm healthier than I've been in my adult life. I have a family that is always in my corner, an intensely loyal core group of friends, and what I've been told is an enviable life. I'm happy (most of the time), and I work at that; happiness is a worthwhile pursuit, and something I've discovered in the most unlikely of places. So I have to determine that my age is just another number by which I can choose (or not choose) to measure myself; the sum total of my trips around the sun. So here's to the first 48, and here's to the next. At 96, we'll see if I feel like an adult.
The number wasn't anything earth-shattering. No, it's more the nearness of this number to another number that has me reeling.
48. Or, as my mind is processing it, an equation that amounted to 50-2. For some reason, 50 is sending me into near-panic-mode, and it's two years away.
The same thing happened at 25, so maybe each quarter century I'm going to freak out.
Truth is, at age 25, there were things I thought I would have accomplished, and I was so not there. I thought I'd be married, settled down, stable. I thought I'd have my career set in stone. Most shockingly, I thought I'd feel like an adult.
And now? Well, if I'm honest, none of those things are true, and I'm staring down the barrel of the big five-oh. I'm not in any danger of dating, much less having a relationship that might end in marriage. (Mostly because the universe frowns on one marrying herself; seriously, I am in a very committed relationship with me.) Stable is not a word one would use to describe me, although sometimes I smell like I live in one. (I would not, however, use the word "unstable" to describe me, either. I fall somewhere in the middle.) My career is mostly comfortable, in that I'm working in a field that fuels me, but I'm pretty sure there will be more changes between now and retirement. (I'm also reasonably certain I may never retire, because there are still occasions when I manage money like an infant.)
But the big one - feeling like an adult? Oh, honey. I'm far from it.
Maybe I'm not destined to go there. Maybe, as one boss put it long ago, I'm created to wear my inner child on the outside.
Clearly I do not have all the answers. If I'm honest, I've still only figured out about half of the questions.
And I think that's okay. I am living authentically, and I'm healthier than I've been in my adult life. I have a family that is always in my corner, an intensely loyal core group of friends, and what I've been told is an enviable life. I'm happy (most of the time), and I work at that; happiness is a worthwhile pursuit, and something I've discovered in the most unlikely of places. So I have to determine that my age is just another number by which I can choose (or not choose) to measure myself; the sum total of my trips around the sun. So here's to the first 48, and here's to the next. At 96, we'll see if I feel like an adult.
Sunday, July 27, 2014
Water = peace
Over the past week, I've lived a bit of a gypsy existence. With work and obligations pulling me northward, I have bunked mostly at my friend Amber's house in Lake Geneva, WI. It's closer to my office than home actually is, and with a work event in that area, too, it just made sense to stay, take a vacation day, and chill.
Chill. What a great word. With all the driving that tends to occur in my world, the act of allowing oneself to chill is underrated.
Nothing brings out my inner chill more than water, and I had it in abundance these last few days. From a work retreat on Lake Delavan to a triathlon at 63rd St. Beach in Chicago to hours laying on or paddleboarding in Geneva Lake or Lake Como, I've been a water baby for sure, and I am so grateful for the experience.
I packed a full suitcase; I only needed a few swimsuits. And the more time I sat, letting the water rush to meet the sand again and again and again, the more I felt at home within myself.
The more I was at home within myself.
I've long said that if I'm crabby, put me in water. Run me a bath or toss me into a river, and I come back to me. So after days of these sorts of activity, I've returned to my regular schedule renewed, relaxed and ready. (Which is a good thing, because August just might kick my ass.)
So here I sit, on a rainy Sunday night, once again surrounded by water. From the balcony at Amber and Miah's house, the world is getting a little wash. The weekend is melting away, and I emerge on the other side, the same but different.
Chill. What a great word. With all the driving that tends to occur in my world, the act of allowing oneself to chill is underrated.
Nothing brings out my inner chill more than water, and I had it in abundance these last few days. From a work retreat on Lake Delavan to a triathlon at 63rd St. Beach in Chicago to hours laying on or paddleboarding in Geneva Lake or Lake Como, I've been a water baby for sure, and I am so grateful for the experience.
I packed a full suitcase; I only needed a few swimsuits. And the more time I sat, letting the water rush to meet the sand again and again and again, the more I felt at home within myself.
The more I was at home within myself.
I've long said that if I'm crabby, put me in water. Run me a bath or toss me into a river, and I come back to me. So after days of these sorts of activity, I've returned to my regular schedule renewed, relaxed and ready. (Which is a good thing, because August just might kick my ass.)
So here I sit, on a rainy Sunday night, once again surrounded by water. From the balcony at Amber and Miah's house, the world is getting a little wash. The weekend is melting away, and I emerge on the other side, the same but different.
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
On the intersection between love and superpowers
I've been told that I love big. Instantly and fully, I love big. Where some love the normal amount, on a scale from 1 to 10, I love at 11.
Love is my superpower.
It isn't always easy, and sometimes it means I get hurt. Not romantic hurt, although I've had my share of that. But most of the time, it's the everyday real love that has the potential to punch a hole (heh heh ... "a-hole" ...) in my heart. And I think I've finally figured out how to deal.
I just need to remember that it isn't all about me.
I'm not a "classic" narcissist, but sometimes I allow things that have nothing to do with me effect me far too seriously. It's not just unnecessary; it's potentially dangerous. So I'm gonna do some work there.
I crave - and I think we all crave - love the way I do it. I want people to love me as I am, hugely. I want the same consideration I show others shown to me. The same thoughtfulness. And you know what? Sometimes I get it.
But a lot of the times, it's not on my terms. Not from the people I want, when I want it.
Love isn't like that. And the way people love me is about me, yes. But it's also about them.
I can either accept that, or I can be the walking wounded. I think I'll choose the former.
I can love instantly, fully and big. I can keep giving from my heart and soul; in fact, I'm not sure I could stop if I wanted to. And I can be grateful for those who return that love in kind. Those who don't ... I'm going to make it okay. Truth is, those who don't, probably can't. Not everybody is capable of love at this level. It's part of what makes me unique and awesome and gorgeous. Anybody who tells me otherwise is trying to sell me something.
And I ain't buyin'.
Love is my superpower.
It isn't always easy, and sometimes it means I get hurt. Not romantic hurt, although I've had my share of that. But most of the time, it's the everyday real love that has the potential to punch a hole (heh heh ... "a-hole" ...) in my heart. And I think I've finally figured out how to deal.
I just need to remember that it isn't all about me.
I'm not a "classic" narcissist, but sometimes I allow things that have nothing to do with me effect me far too seriously. It's not just unnecessary; it's potentially dangerous. So I'm gonna do some work there.
I crave - and I think we all crave - love the way I do it. I want people to love me as I am, hugely. I want the same consideration I show others shown to me. The same thoughtfulness. And you know what? Sometimes I get it.
But a lot of the times, it's not on my terms. Not from the people I want, when I want it.
Love isn't like that. And the way people love me is about me, yes. But it's also about them.
I can either accept that, or I can be the walking wounded. I think I'll choose the former.
I can love instantly, fully and big. I can keep giving from my heart and soul; in fact, I'm not sure I could stop if I wanted to. And I can be grateful for those who return that love in kind. Those who don't ... I'm going to make it okay. Truth is, those who don't, probably can't. Not everybody is capable of love at this level. It's part of what makes me unique and awesome and gorgeous. Anybody who tells me otherwise is trying to sell me something.
And I ain't buyin'.
Friday, June 20, 2014
The re-set button
My phone has this button that says "restore factory settings" on it. I had to use it this week, because some of my settings went haywire and I needed to start from scratch. It's a little hellish remembering all the things I need to re-do now, but there's something sorta nice about having everything return to a fresh state.
One thing I put together in my noggin recently is the thought that people can provide us with a sort of flesh-and-blood re-set button. I found myself with people who just set my soul at peace. And what's more, they made me feel like the best version of myself. In the course of a couple weeks, I found myself doing things I hadn't done in a long time. I sang in the kitchen. I danced on the porch. I put my feet up and had a beer.
I got out of my own way, quit over-thinking and dove into the deep end, both literally (belly-flop) and metaphorically (graceful entry with zero splash). It brought me gorgeous experiences that delight every single one of my senses, and sent me back to " real life" better at being me than I was before. Not all that different, but more in tune with my own special brand of crazy.
Every one of us needs someone - or several someones - who can serve as a sort of re-set button. If you don't have one, find one. And don't forget to be awesome.
One thing I put together in my noggin recently is the thought that people can provide us with a sort of flesh-and-blood re-set button. I found myself with people who just set my soul at peace. And what's more, they made me feel like the best version of myself. In the course of a couple weeks, I found myself doing things I hadn't done in a long time. I sang in the kitchen. I danced on the porch. I put my feet up and had a beer.
I got out of my own way, quit over-thinking and dove into the deep end, both literally (belly-flop) and metaphorically (graceful entry with zero splash). It brought me gorgeous experiences that delight every single one of my senses, and sent me back to " real life" better at being me than I was before. Not all that different, but more in tune with my own special brand of crazy.
Every one of us needs someone - or several someones - who can serve as a sort of re-set button. If you don't have one, find one. And don't forget to be awesome.
Friday, May 9, 2014
It's okay to feel sad
I know that for some people, it makes no sense whatsoever that I continue to grieve over the loss of Benld. He was, after all, "just a cat." But to me, he was so much more. He was what kept me going when I thought going on was just not an option. So yeah, it's gonna take some time for me to crawl into bed at the end of the day and not feel sad because he's not curled up in the crook of my arm, purring away.
He did that every night.
And yet, there are mornings like this when the earth cries with me, and shows me the beauty within the sadness. That's definitely what I saw when I looked out my car window on the way to work and saw this.
Perfect green. Amber grain (though it is not waving). Dramatic sky. So gorgeous, I had to stop and snap a photo.
Truth is, it's okay to feel sad. It's also okay to feel happy even when you're sad. Saying goodbye is never easy. (Well, I suppose it could be easy, if you're saying goodbye to an asshole, but most of the time I just let them go without a goodbye because, asshole.) It's even okay to be going through the rollercoaster I'm on right now, sad when I'm home and missing the furboy, and happy when I'm dancing, running and hugging my friends.
Life's like that. And isn't it a good thing that we have the ability to feel all of it?
Wednesday, April 16, 2014
On Unconditional Love
Back in August of 1998, the man who would eventually become my husband (and then, my ex-husband) and I took a road trip. Headed south through Illinois, we passed through the town of Benld. Never having been through this booming metropolis before, we cracked up; "I'd like to buy a vowel," we kept repeating to one another. There was just nothing un-funny about it. It was a little stupid, but it sure tickled our funny bone.
A few months later, after the guy and I settled into our home together, we decided a pet might be nice. This will likely surprise some of you, but the truth is ... I am not a cat person. I'm a dog person. A big dog person. I don't like animals that I could crush rolling over in bed. But I don't have a dog lifestyle, and I didn't back then, either, so we settled on a cat. It would have to be a shelter kitty, so we headed to Kendall County Animal Control to see who might be a good match for us.
I wasn't wild about getting a cat, so I didn't expect what happened next. As I walked past the row of cages, I felt the slightest pressure on my left shoulder; the sweetest little furboy had his paw on my shoulder. I was done; I didn't choose him, he chose me.
The adoption papers were signed, and because we'd already prepared the house for our new addition, he came home with us right away.
That first night, I woke up several times with him sitting on my pillow, eating my hair. Within a few weeks we were able to break him of this habit, but he never stopped giving kitty kisses. His sandpaper tongue was a common exfoliant.
Naming him was difficult, because he just didn't seem to tell us what to call him. He was, however, a little bit stupid; sort of the frat boy version of a cat. He would beg for food, come when called, and meet me at the door when he heard my car. After a few months of trying different names, one finally stuck:
Benld.
He became my closest companion. His affection for me was endless; he wanted to be wherever I was whenever I was home. Sometimes it seemed he wanted to crawl right up my nose, gross though that sounds. Nothing made him happier than having me nearby.
When the ex and I parted ways, he sensed my sadness and seemed to take some of it on so I didn't have to shoulder it all myself. The night my ex moved out, he started sleeping on his pillow. He made being alone not so alone, after all.
He made it okay.
He loved everyone he met. Sure, he could be a little skittish from time to time, but once he trusted you, you had a friend for life. Especially if you "accidentally" dropped a bit of chicken on the floor. Yes, he would beg for food at the table. See? I told you; he was a little stupid, but crazy like a fox.
About 18 months ago, he had a major life change that really seemed to make him happy. He and I moved in with my sister Pat, and he got to have another person to love, full time. He was constantly providing us with snuggles and purrs, and singing the song of his people. It was an easy exchange - food and chin scratches for love and kitty kisses.
He always let you know that you were loved.
Recently my big guy turned 16 years old. And because I have this special combination of being both logical and emotional, I knew one day hard decisions would need to be made. I also knew I would hate every minute of it. That ambiguous "one day" was today.
As unbelievable as it is, my love-filled boy's heart was giving out. Sure, I could have made my way into the poorhouse and tried some heroic measures to buy us a little time, but the truth of it is, that would've been for me, not for him. Up until last night, he showed no sign of sickness; he was my best pal, showering me with love and letting me hold him like a baby. That he should suffer heart failure is just beyond my imagination, but that's where we're at.
So here's what I know for sure: Animals know how to do unconditional love way better than humans. Benld taught me so much about how to love. It didn't matter if I were cranky or tired or hungry or angry or sad; with him in my lap, I felt love. If I forgot to feed him, he still loved me. If I accidentally stepped on his tail, he still loved me. If the litter box went too long without being cleaned, he still loved me. If I yelled because he took a crap on the rug, he still loved me.
His constant message was love. The song of his people was love. He never stopped loving.
And so this morning, I sat with him in my lap, and we said our goodbyes. He looked up at me with those big green eyes, and I could see that it was okay. His heart may have been giving out, but it could still love. In the end, that was just about all he was able to do, but damn, did he do that well.
I will miss him always, but by the same token, I will always feel grateful for that day when he chose me to be his Person.
 |
| He was great at seeing the world in a unique way. |
I wasn't wild about getting a cat, so I didn't expect what happened next. As I walked past the row of cages, I felt the slightest pressure on my left shoulder; the sweetest little furboy had his paw on my shoulder. I was done; I didn't choose him, he chose me.
The adoption papers were signed, and because we'd already prepared the house for our new addition, he came home with us right away.
 |
| Benld's the name. Lap-sittin's the game. |
Naming him was difficult, because he just didn't seem to tell us what to call him. He was, however, a little bit stupid; sort of the frat boy version of a cat. He would beg for food, come when called, and meet me at the door when he heard my car. After a few months of trying different names, one finally stuck:
Benld.
He became my closest companion. His affection for me was endless; he wanted to be wherever I was whenever I was home. Sometimes it seemed he wanted to crawl right up my nose, gross though that sounds. Nothing made him happier than having me nearby.
When the ex and I parted ways, he sensed my sadness and seemed to take some of it on so I didn't have to shoulder it all myself. The night my ex moved out, he started sleeping on his pillow. He made being alone not so alone, after all.
He made it okay.
 |
| Let sleeping cats lie ... on their own pillow, apparently. |
About 18 months ago, he had a major life change that really seemed to make him happy. He and I moved in with my sister Pat, and he got to have another person to love, full time. He was constantly providing us with snuggles and purrs, and singing the song of his people. It was an easy exchange - food and chin scratches for love and kitty kisses.
He always let you know that you were loved.
 |
| He always wanted to be where I was. Always. |
As unbelievable as it is, my love-filled boy's heart was giving out. Sure, I could have made my way into the poorhouse and tried some heroic measures to buy us a little time, but the truth of it is, that would've been for me, not for him. Up until last night, he showed no sign of sickness; he was my best pal, showering me with love and letting me hold him like a baby. That he should suffer heart failure is just beyond my imagination, but that's where we're at.
 |
| Close talker! |
His constant message was love. The song of his people was love. He never stopped loving.
And so this morning, I sat with him in my lap, and we said our goodbyes. He looked up at me with those big green eyes, and I could see that it was okay. His heart may have been giving out, but it could still love. In the end, that was just about all he was able to do, but damn, did he do that well.
I will miss him always, but by the same token, I will always feel grateful for that day when he chose me to be his Person.
 |
| His final photo, one last nap on our bed before signing off. |
Friday, March 28, 2014
Of weddings and wonderment
I was talking with a friend of mine last night, and I told him that I thought the act of bringing a child into the world was perhaps the most hopeful thing a couple could do. It's saying, okay universe ... I trust you not to go completely to shit for at least another 100 years.
That's a lot of hope, in my book. But I also have to admit, there's another possibility for the "most hopeful thing."
Weddings.
For someone who had a rocky marriage, I still see marriage as a huge sign of hope. Hope from two individuals to each other. Hope that they will grow together. Hope that the Beatles were right, and love really is all you need.
Since That Guy and I split up, I've been privileged to witness the union of a whole slew of couples, and each time it's been a bit surreal. Most of them have been family weddings, but not the relative kind; weddings of people who have become like family to me. My Marine, Ryan, married his Erinn almost two years ago. That same summer, his stepbrother, my faux-bro Chunk, married his Erin. (That was the one at which Batman "mysteriously" arrived for the dollar dance.) It was quite a wedding-packed season. So much joy.
So much hope.
Last October, J.J. and Amber tied their knot, so that same family gathered once again to celebrate. Overflowing with wishes and chocolate chip cookies.
And every time, I have cried. I have danced. I have stood shoulder-to-shoulder with people who are family in my soul, and I have promised support. But more than anything, I have felt hope.
Not hope that I will make that journey again. And it's not that I don't have hope ... it's more that it just isn't on my radar. No, my hope is for them. For these couples, and the many who came before them, I offer my most fervent hope that their lives be filled with joy, with happiness, and even a few really loud but really productive fights.
My ex and I didn't fight enough. I didn't stand up for myself enough, and that's why the woman I am today was so different from the woman who parted ways with That Man so many years ago. It's also why I believe down to my very core that human beings have unshakable power to change.
So as I ready myself to hit the road to celebrate Adam and Robyn in their hopeful future, I'll be making a few vows to myself.
I, Maggie, take me, Maggie, to be my awfully wonderful self. To treat with love and respect, and to propel ever forward in the dance of life. To surround myself with people and experiences that bring me joy. To embrace all the different sources of love in my life. To surprise myself with what I am capable of. To basically kick ass, as long as I shall live, or until my bones are too brittle to risk motion.
With this vow, I me wed. ;)
Monday, March 24, 2014
Exhausted happy
I spent this weekend away from home, at my friend Linda's house in Schaumburg. It's the area I used to live in, about two towns away from my old place in Arlington Heights.
In a lot of ways, spending time up there - our plans arranged around classes at the gym - is like coming home. It's a treat to my soul, so it's worth feeling sore and tired when it's all over.
Looking back over the weekend, it's no wonder. Over three days, I managed to do yoga, followed by swimming. I got to 1,000 meters in about 35 minutes; that's a huge difference from the girl who learned to swim two years ago and could barely go 25 meters without stopping to catch her breath. I worked in spin class and weights, and capped it all off with an hour of salsa/funk (oh, my soul, we must sing like that again soon).
Then I had to come home. And bake. I'm not so great with the planning, yo.
But the thing is, from my vantage point this morning, it was a perfect weekend. Active. Filled with people who love me. (FYI, often times being around people who love you will result in hugging. This is a good thing.) Yes, I'm exhausted. From pushing myself to the limit at the gym to staying up way too late, it's easy for weekends like this to take a toll. But for what I got in return, I'd do it again in a heartbeat.
Which is a good thing, because I'm headed to St. Louis for a wedding this weekend!
In a lot of ways, spending time up there - our plans arranged around classes at the gym - is like coming home. It's a treat to my soul, so it's worth feeling sore and tired when it's all over.
Looking back over the weekend, it's no wonder. Over three days, I managed to do yoga, followed by swimming. I got to 1,000 meters in about 35 minutes; that's a huge difference from the girl who learned to swim two years ago and could barely go 25 meters without stopping to catch her breath. I worked in spin class and weights, and capped it all off with an hour of salsa/funk (oh, my soul, we must sing like that again soon).
Then I had to come home. And bake. I'm not so great with the planning, yo.
But the thing is, from my vantage point this morning, it was a perfect weekend. Active. Filled with people who love me. (FYI, often times being around people who love you will result in hugging. This is a good thing.) Yes, I'm exhausted. From pushing myself to the limit at the gym to staying up way too late, it's easy for weekends like this to take a toll. But for what I got in return, I'd do it again in a heartbeat.
Which is a good thing, because I'm headed to St. Louis for a wedding this weekend!
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Post-Princess
I'm a bit overcome with all kinds of bittersweet emotions. Home from Princess weekend, I've hung up my long-run shoes for awhile. It's expensive to Run Disney, and I have different financial priorities right now, so I have to let the crazy running plans take a back seat to moving into my own place and re-certifying my independence. I figure in a few years, it will be time to re-evaluate, but for now, this princess has hung up her glass slippers.
The raw emotion of this race just fills me up. It's one of those things I was never really sure I could do, and then I did it, and then I did it again, and then I did it again. It's pretty awesome to prove something to yourself.
I'll be honest: this race was tough for two reasons. First, because I ran the 10K and the half knowing I was saying "so long" to Run Disney for awhile, and second (and most importantly) because I wasn't as well prepared for the races as I needed to be, and therefore I failed to meet my goals.
I didn't fail, per se, but I didn't do what I wanted to do. I didn't train as hard throughout the full cycle, and I screwed up big time, nutritionally speaking. (I mean, a sundae the day before the half? Not my smartest move.) I finished, even when I didn't think I could (lots of biological stops!) and I got my medals, but not the way I wanted to. It just wasn't my race.
It's obvious from the photos, honestly. They're a little depressing. I look happy; I'm smiling, like I'm supposed to. But I look terrible. I look heavy.
Because I am heavy.
Still carrying Christmas weight, and it's almost March. If I'm not careful, I'm going to become a full-fledged fat girl all over again. And that scares me.
So here I am, back in Illinois (aka the frozen tundra) and back to figuring my shit out. I have a few races (a 5K and a sprint tri) to train for, and it's time to get serious. Because life is short, and I don't want mine to be full of pictures of the fat girl. I don't need to be perfect (thank heaven) and I certainly don't want to be skinny ... but healthy? Toned? Yes. Those are worthwhile goals.
Goals worthy of a princess.
The raw emotion of this race just fills me up. It's one of those things I was never really sure I could do, and then I did it, and then I did it again, and then I did it again. It's pretty awesome to prove something to yourself.
I'll be honest: this race was tough for two reasons. First, because I ran the 10K and the half knowing I was saying "so long" to Run Disney for awhile, and second (and most importantly) because I wasn't as well prepared for the races as I needed to be, and therefore I failed to meet my goals.
I didn't fail, per se, but I didn't do what I wanted to do. I didn't train as hard throughout the full cycle, and I screwed up big time, nutritionally speaking. (I mean, a sundae the day before the half? Not my smartest move.) I finished, even when I didn't think I could (lots of biological stops!) and I got my medals, but not the way I wanted to. It just wasn't my race.
It's obvious from the photos, honestly. They're a little depressing. I look happy; I'm smiling, like I'm supposed to. But I look terrible. I look heavy.
Because I am heavy.
Still carrying Christmas weight, and it's almost March. If I'm not careful, I'm going to become a full-fledged fat girl all over again. And that scares me.
So here I am, back in Illinois (aka the frozen tundra) and back to figuring my shit out. I have a few races (a 5K and a sprint tri) to train for, and it's time to get serious. Because life is short, and I don't want mine to be full of pictures of the fat girl. I don't need to be perfect (thank heaven) and I certainly don't want to be skinny ... but healthy? Toned? Yes. Those are worthwhile goals.
Goals worthy of a princess.
Friday, January 31, 2014
Call NASA
So there are a ton of quizzes being circulated via Facebook these days. In about 13 clicks, you can find out which Disney princess you are (Aurora), which decade you should have grown up in (the 80s, go figure), which city you should live in (Rio? Really?) and which musical you should star in (Rent. Yes, ma'am).
But the one that puzzles me most is one that purports to assign your ideal career. I answered the questions honestly, and I got ...
Astronaut.
What. The. Fuck.
I've been called a space cadet, and I've been accused (on more than one occasion) of being from another planet, but I have never, ever considered anything science. Don't get me wrong, I loved the subject ... I was just never particularly gifted at it. But this quiz result has me thinking.
When you take the idea of space out of the equation (I know, I know, you really can't; bear with me) what you have left, essentially, is explorer. And that, I believe, is exactly what I am. Not in the traditional Magellan-esque sense, but in the "she does crazy things and brings others along for the ride" sense, yeah, that's what I am.
I've always believed I was a little bit Marion Ravenwood (and if you don't know who that is, I'm sad but Google). A little bit Pocahontas. And yeah, a little bit Sally Ride. A modern-day explorer, if you will. I'm an idea person, to be sure, but after the idea comes action, and I always want to be part of the action.
I think we have to tap into our own sense of wonder, and I think that's what the space program does. It causes us to look beyond, to wonder what's up there, and to learn about it. It's that spirit that took over when I registered for my first race, went on my first blind date, and walked into court back in the divorce days. I feel it whenever I ask myself to do something I've never done before, and it's the best feeling in the world.
Is it a career option? No, not really. It's more who I am than what I do, really. But for what it's worth, it really is who I am. Not the space part, but the real, day-to-day, earth-bound part. Because I have to have a "what's next?" and I hope I will always be exploring.
All that aside, I guess I do have a bit of space nerd in my soul. At least, if you consider this post, from August 2013.
But the one that puzzles me most is one that purports to assign your ideal career. I answered the questions honestly, and I got ...
Astronaut.
What. The. Fuck.
I've been called a space cadet, and I've been accused (on more than one occasion) of being from another planet, but I have never, ever considered anything science. Don't get me wrong, I loved the subject ... I was just never particularly gifted at it. But this quiz result has me thinking.
When you take the idea of space out of the equation (I know, I know, you really can't; bear with me) what you have left, essentially, is explorer. And that, I believe, is exactly what I am. Not in the traditional Magellan-esque sense, but in the "she does crazy things and brings others along for the ride" sense, yeah, that's what I am.
I've always believed I was a little bit Marion Ravenwood (and if you don't know who that is, I'm sad but Google). A little bit Pocahontas. And yeah, a little bit Sally Ride. A modern-day explorer, if you will. I'm an idea person, to be sure, but after the idea comes action, and I always want to be part of the action.
I think we have to tap into our own sense of wonder, and I think that's what the space program does. It causes us to look beyond, to wonder what's up there, and to learn about it. It's that spirit that took over when I registered for my first race, went on my first blind date, and walked into court back in the divorce days. I feel it whenever I ask myself to do something I've never done before, and it's the best feeling in the world.
Is it a career option? No, not really. It's more who I am than what I do, really. But for what it's worth, it really is who I am. Not the space part, but the real, day-to-day, earth-bound part. Because I have to have a "what's next?" and I hope I will always be exploring.
All that aside, I guess I do have a bit of space nerd in my soul. At least, if you consider this post, from August 2013.
Monday, January 13, 2014
Perfect moments
I am hard on myself. I have high expectations of everyone, and higher still of myself. Most of the time, when I do things - really, anything - I debrief with myself about what I could have done better.
Races, could've run faster.
Workouts, could've given more.
Meals, could've been more balanced.
And songs sung? Every time - whether its's in Showcase or a musical or karaoke - I think I could've done better. Been more relaxed, held pitch better, connected with the audience more.
So imagine my surprise when I went to karaoke last Friday night to celebrate my friend Millie's birthday, and experience musical perfection at the end of the night.
We were having an absolute blast. Great women, great singers, supporting each other and just having a blast. Kathleen brought the house down with "Sweet Child O' Mine." Sherry did an incredible rendition of "Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me." Heidi wowed us with "My Immortal" and the birthday girl herself took no prisoners with "At Last." We aren't a competitive bunch; it's all good fun, to be honest, so it was really lovely to see everyone enjoying each others' performances. And that's what gave me the courage to sing Leona Lewis' "Bleeding Love."
It's a tough song, and it was the end of the night - crapshoot time for me, because I was warmed up but might have been a little horse. But it didn't matter, because I was among friends. If it tanked, it would still be met with cheers.
It didn't tank.
I stood there, singing to the karaoke track, knowing I was experiencing lightening in a bottle. I was in this little bubble of rightness, letting the song flow from me in a way that was so real, so natural ... I almost made myself cry. I wasn't singing, I wasn't performing. I was simply feeing the song.
That's not to say that it was perfect. But the moment? The moment was. As I stood there, all my friends watching me, seeing heads turn at the bar, I knew I had something special.
And as quickly as it came, it was over ... but it's still part of me. This little corner of my soul, reserved for that moment, that song, those friends. That perfect moment when everything came together and music poured forth.
Races, could've run faster.
Workouts, could've given more.
Meals, could've been more balanced.
And songs sung? Every time - whether its's in Showcase or a musical or karaoke - I think I could've done better. Been more relaxed, held pitch better, connected with the audience more.
So imagine my surprise when I went to karaoke last Friday night to celebrate my friend Millie's birthday, and experience musical perfection at the end of the night.
We were having an absolute blast. Great women, great singers, supporting each other and just having a blast. Kathleen brought the house down with "Sweet Child O' Mine." Sherry did an incredible rendition of "Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me." Heidi wowed us with "My Immortal" and the birthday girl herself took no prisoners with "At Last." We aren't a competitive bunch; it's all good fun, to be honest, so it was really lovely to see everyone enjoying each others' performances. And that's what gave me the courage to sing Leona Lewis' "Bleeding Love."
It's a tough song, and it was the end of the night - crapshoot time for me, because I was warmed up but might have been a little horse. But it didn't matter, because I was among friends. If it tanked, it would still be met with cheers.
It didn't tank.
I stood there, singing to the karaoke track, knowing I was experiencing lightening in a bottle. I was in this little bubble of rightness, letting the song flow from me in a way that was so real, so natural ... I almost made myself cry. I wasn't singing, I wasn't performing. I was simply feeing the song.
That's not to say that it was perfect. But the moment? The moment was. As I stood there, all my friends watching me, seeing heads turn at the bar, I knew I had something special.
And as quickly as it came, it was over ... but it's still part of me. This little corner of my soul, reserved for that moment, that song, those friends. That perfect moment when everything came together and music poured forth.
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
Anew
I love that word, "anew." It means to do something again, in a different way. To make fresh something that is ... well ... not so. And so today, we begin anew.
Yesterday, being New Year's Eve, I contemplated falling apart. All the failed attempts of a year, all the mistakes, all the wrong turns. All the trust broken, goals not reached. All the loss. But New Year's Eve also brings with it a tradition that makes it hard to hold on to bitterness: the Salsa/Funk Jam. You cannot sit on your pity pot and dance at the same time.
So 10:45 a.m. found me in Studio 1 with some of the best people I know, poised to usher out the old year with thumping bass and Latin rhythms, sashays, turns and opportunities to fly for a fraction of a second. At the end of that 90-minute class, my heart was light. My mind was at peace. The perfect way to begin the day.
By the time nightfall approached, a fresh layer of snow had fallen and I thought it might be wise to just stay home. But music - good music - beckoned me out. My friends Kathleen and Shawn were hosting an open mic-style party with a house band loaded with the best musicians I know. Stay home, when I could hear them? I think not.
And am I ever glad I went. One after another, great songs were played. Original works by Kathleen and our mutual friend Eric, and great covers of everything from Billy Joel to The Beatles, Pink Floyd to Don Henley. It was awesome. I love my talented friends. Midnight rolled around and we toasted one another while the band played Auld Lang Syne. Hugs and kisses were exchanged. Laughter ensued. The night began to draw to a close.
At around 12:30, I made my way to the car. The previous fresh layer of snow had been coated with a new one, and the world was white. Quiet. Perfect.
It was as if earth itself was reminding me to begin anew.
From here, right now, today, it doesn't matter what happened yesterday. It doesn't matter who you let down, or who let you down, or how you let yourself down. It doesn't matter because as of today, you are on the first page of an empty book with exactly 365 pages. It's time to begin.
Yesterday, being New Year's Eve, I contemplated falling apart. All the failed attempts of a year, all the mistakes, all the wrong turns. All the trust broken, goals not reached. All the loss. But New Year's Eve also brings with it a tradition that makes it hard to hold on to bitterness: the Salsa/Funk Jam. You cannot sit on your pity pot and dance at the same time.
So 10:45 a.m. found me in Studio 1 with some of the best people I know, poised to usher out the old year with thumping bass and Latin rhythms, sashays, turns and opportunities to fly for a fraction of a second. At the end of that 90-minute class, my heart was light. My mind was at peace. The perfect way to begin the day.
By the time nightfall approached, a fresh layer of snow had fallen and I thought it might be wise to just stay home. But music - good music - beckoned me out. My friends Kathleen and Shawn were hosting an open mic-style party with a house band loaded with the best musicians I know. Stay home, when I could hear them? I think not.
And am I ever glad I went. One after another, great songs were played. Original works by Kathleen and our mutual friend Eric, and great covers of everything from Billy Joel to The Beatles, Pink Floyd to Don Henley. It was awesome. I love my talented friends. Midnight rolled around and we toasted one another while the band played Auld Lang Syne. Hugs and kisses were exchanged. Laughter ensued. The night began to draw to a close.
At around 12:30, I made my way to the car. The previous fresh layer of snow had been coated with a new one, and the world was white. Quiet. Perfect.
It was as if earth itself was reminding me to begin anew.
From here, right now, today, it doesn't matter what happened yesterday. It doesn't matter who you let down, or who let you down, or how you let yourself down. It doesn't matter because as of today, you are on the first page of an empty book with exactly 365 pages. It's time to begin.
 |
| Approximately the ninth fresh layer of snow. The world paints itself anew. |
Sunday, December 8, 2013
A love story
It was a few weeks ago when my ex-husband popped up in a conversation with my sister. I don't even remember why, I just know that as I talked about him, I heard things coming out of my pie-hole that were unfamiliar and yet completely authentic. "I don't know if he's happy," I said, "but I hope he is."
To be honest, I've said the words before. Many, many times. The difference this time was that I meant them.
It was years ago - eight, in fact - during the holiday season when I began to notice things falling apart. Just in time for Christmas, I lost my job, and if I hadn't been consumed by that I probably would have realized before I lost the man that I was losing him. Loss was the theme that year, I suppose, and by February his heart gave up on mine; by July, he was well and truly gone. It would take a few years for the legalities to come together, but for me July was when it ended.
He moved on quickly. I took a bit more time.
I'm still taking time, in fact.
The most remarkable thing that came out of the tragedy that was the end of my marriage is the fact that I fell head over heels in love with someone I never expected to feel this way about. Someone without whom I truly could not live; it just so happens, I feel deeply and irrevocably in love with myself.
It's a journey that took about 41 years just to begin. Shortly before my 41st birthday, I walked into a gym, signed up, and began the physical transformation that healed my literal heart. At the time I am sure I was at my most unhealthy. I didn't go to the doc, because I didn't want to know, but I'm relatively certain my heart was actually broken. Walking up a flight of stairs terrified me, because my pulse went bananas. So what did I do? I rented a third-floor walkup. I created a home for myself. I built something, just for me.
And it all started with my heart. I began to eat better, and do physical things. I started sleeping - something that came all too rarely during the early stages of our breakup. I started smiling. I started making new friends, and really connecting with people in a way I hadn't allowed myself to do when I was married. It was as if I put on this suit of "wife armor," and there just wasn't room for anyone to get inside. As the armor wore down, my body began to change, too.
And I began to take risks. I allowed myself to do things I was pretty sure I'd suck at, because heck, I'd already failed at marriage. How bad could anything be at this point? It wasn't a self-flaggelation thing; it was honestly the idea that maybe I wouldn't fail, and that made it worth the risk.
Risk is now one of my fondest friends.
In the time since my marriage ended, I have created something out of the ashes. This life is totally different from the one I had when I was with him. Because as my heart healed, it also became more open. And while there is no "relationship" in my life or on my horizon, I have less fear of dying alone now than I did when I was married.
I have learned that "alone" is much more a state of mind than a state of being.
So to those who have been constant through all of this, I have to say "thank you." You caught me on my freefall. You made it safe for me to blow up my life and try again. And again. And again. Made up of both family and friends, you all found a way to cushion the blows and point me toward something greater. You knew what I was capable of, and you wouldn't let me settle for anything less. I owe you my life.
To those I met during the toughest times, I have to say "thank you." You saw something in a wounded girl that made you believe I wouldn't always be that way. You urged me forward. You trusted my instincts; you dared me to suck, knowing that I had at least a 50/50 shot at not. You thought I was worth it, and you let me prove you right.
And to an incredible group of folks who re-found me during this time, you guessed it - I have to say "thank you." You didn't know me married; you rarely if ever saw that version of me, which made you uniquely able to hold up a different mirror. You offered me a glimpse into my past, at an incarnation of myself who had long since been forgotten, and you assured me that I could reach back, grab onto the best parts of her, and bring them forward, into this new life.
Every one of you made my heart strong, and you helped to grow into someone I could love.
None of this is to say that the journey is over; no, not by any means. I suspect that over time, there will be more risks, more challenges, more reasons to scare the living crap out of myself. It seems every time I prove to myself what I'm capable of, another idea bubbles up on the horizon. We are well and truly in a constant state of transformation, and we can become so much more than we ever imagined if we just allow it to happen. And work hard at it.
Not just the physical, either. Sure, it's "easy" to train for a race, because you have a training plan. Follow the plan, and unless everything falls apart on race day, you'll be able to finish. It's harder to train for life, though. To really do that, you have to show up. You have to follow through on all the things you've been putting off for some ambiguous "someday."
You have to do it, whatever your "it" is. Reach. Grow. Then reach again. And just see how much you learn to love yourself in the process.
To be honest, I've said the words before. Many, many times. The difference this time was that I meant them.
It was years ago - eight, in fact - during the holiday season when I began to notice things falling apart. Just in time for Christmas, I lost my job, and if I hadn't been consumed by that I probably would have realized before I lost the man that I was losing him. Loss was the theme that year, I suppose, and by February his heart gave up on mine; by July, he was well and truly gone. It would take a few years for the legalities to come together, but for me July was when it ended.
He moved on quickly. I took a bit more time.
I'm still taking time, in fact.
The most remarkable thing that came out of the tragedy that was the end of my marriage is the fact that I fell head over heels in love with someone I never expected to feel this way about. Someone without whom I truly could not live; it just so happens, I feel deeply and irrevocably in love with myself.
It's a journey that took about 41 years just to begin. Shortly before my 41st birthday, I walked into a gym, signed up, and began the physical transformation that healed my literal heart. At the time I am sure I was at my most unhealthy. I didn't go to the doc, because I didn't want to know, but I'm relatively certain my heart was actually broken. Walking up a flight of stairs terrified me, because my pulse went bananas. So what did I do? I rented a third-floor walkup. I created a home for myself. I built something, just for me.
And it all started with my heart. I began to eat better, and do physical things. I started sleeping - something that came all too rarely during the early stages of our breakup. I started smiling. I started making new friends, and really connecting with people in a way I hadn't allowed myself to do when I was married. It was as if I put on this suit of "wife armor," and there just wasn't room for anyone to get inside. As the armor wore down, my body began to change, too.
And I began to take risks. I allowed myself to do things I was pretty sure I'd suck at, because heck, I'd already failed at marriage. How bad could anything be at this point? It wasn't a self-flaggelation thing; it was honestly the idea that maybe I wouldn't fail, and that made it worth the risk.
Risk is now one of my fondest friends.
In the time since my marriage ended, I have created something out of the ashes. This life is totally different from the one I had when I was with him. Because as my heart healed, it also became more open. And while there is no "relationship" in my life or on my horizon, I have less fear of dying alone now than I did when I was married.
I have learned that "alone" is much more a state of mind than a state of being.
So to those who have been constant through all of this, I have to say "thank you." You caught me on my freefall. You made it safe for me to blow up my life and try again. And again. And again. Made up of both family and friends, you all found a way to cushion the blows and point me toward something greater. You knew what I was capable of, and you wouldn't let me settle for anything less. I owe you my life.
To those I met during the toughest times, I have to say "thank you." You saw something in a wounded girl that made you believe I wouldn't always be that way. You urged me forward. You trusted my instincts; you dared me to suck, knowing that I had at least a 50/50 shot at not. You thought I was worth it, and you let me prove you right.
And to an incredible group of folks who re-found me during this time, you guessed it - I have to say "thank you." You didn't know me married; you rarely if ever saw that version of me, which made you uniquely able to hold up a different mirror. You offered me a glimpse into my past, at an incarnation of myself who had long since been forgotten, and you assured me that I could reach back, grab onto the best parts of her, and bring them forward, into this new life.
Every one of you made my heart strong, and you helped to grow into someone I could love.
None of this is to say that the journey is over; no, not by any means. I suspect that over time, there will be more risks, more challenges, more reasons to scare the living crap out of myself. It seems every time I prove to myself what I'm capable of, another idea bubbles up on the horizon. We are well and truly in a constant state of transformation, and we can become so much more than we ever imagined if we just allow it to happen. And work hard at it.
Not just the physical, either. Sure, it's "easy" to train for a race, because you have a training plan. Follow the plan, and unless everything falls apart on race day, you'll be able to finish. It's harder to train for life, though. To really do that, you have to show up. You have to follow through on all the things you've been putting off for some ambiguous "someday."
You have to do it, whatever your "it" is. Reach. Grow. Then reach again. And just see how much you learn to love yourself in the process.
Monday, December 2, 2013
No Humbug
I accepted the Lululemon No Humbug Challenge for the holiday season. I'll track my progress here!
November 24: Make breakfast in bed for someone you're sweet on.
I am sans sweetie, but I went out to breakfast with three of my favorite people - my best friend Patrick, our friend Melissa, and her son Simon.
November 25: Share the #nohumbug challenge and spread the word.
Tweeted and Facebooked!
November 26: Find a new way to get sweaty.
Living a relatively (ridiculously) active lifestyle means this wasn't as simple as it sounded. Not much is "new" to me anymore! So I took a long, luxurious saunaaaaaahhhh.
November 27: Leave your favorite book for a stranger to discover.
I'm particularly proud of this one. I left my copy of The Princess Bride on a comfy chair in a sunny corner of campus. I hope whoever finds it is as delighted to read it as I am every time I hunker down with Westley, Buttercup and the gang.
November 28: Give thanks to five favorite Twitter contributors.
I tweeted the love to my friends Donna, Gretchen, Eric and Mike, and sent a shout-out to Erick the Trainer, who never fails to inspire.
November 29: Give the person behind you your spot in line.
Technically, an epic failure. I didn't shop; there was nary a line in sight! So instead I jumped ahead to November 30 - Host a game night and spike the punch. Which I also didn't really do, but Pam, Jim and I hung out at Linda's while she and Lorna played "Get the decorations out of the attic" and we drank Rumchata Cocoa; it totally counts, and no humbug was seen for miles, yo.
November 30: Host a game night and spike the punch.
I sorta did this one the night before, so today I suppose I should have enacted the previous day's charge and given someone my place in line. Hard to do when you're not a shopper, though! So instead, my cheer was extracted by making gravy and cranberry sauce for the Thanksgiving meal I shared with Pat after church Saturday night. (Spiked punch of a sort was enjoyed by way of an autumn cocktail made from prosecco, hard cider and cointreau. Delish!)
December 1: Decorate!
This one was a veritable piece o' cake. The decorations came upstairs last week, so we got the trees and garland up, and decorated the trees with Christmas music playing in the background. It's so pretty!
December 2: Take care of someone who is always taking care of someone else.
This was another hard one for me, because I had made plans for dinner this evening long before the Challenge was issued. But honestly, this was time to take care of someone who always takes care of others, because that's my friend Dawn. We met for dinner and girl talk, and I think it was what we both needed. Plus, chocolate-pineapple-upside-down cake? Yes please.
December 3: Spend a little extra time with a four-legged friend.
December 4: Bring treats to work.
December 5: Reconnect with an old friend.
December 6: Write a letter to someone special and mail it.
December 7: Mix an eggnog cocktail.
December 8: Football; beer's on me.
December 9: Ditch work and hit the mat.
December 10: Leave a few coins behind for someone to discover.
December 11: Deliver cocoa to a neighbor.
December 12: Volunteer.
December 13: Turn off your phone and play Christmas music.
December 14: Carry someone's groceries to his/her car.
December 15: Share the love; leave someone an anonymous love note.
December 16: Surprise the person in line behind you with a free coffee.
December 17: Try something new.
December 18: Choose an adventure, like skating, sledding or snowshoeing.
December 19: Perform a random flower delivery.
December 20: Buy a round of cocktails.
December 21: Buy something that starts with A, B and C.
December 22: Form an airport cheer station and welcome people.
December 23: Call instead of text.
December 24: Take a family picture.
November 24: Make breakfast in bed for someone you're sweet on.
I am sans sweetie, but I went out to breakfast with three of my favorite people - my best friend Patrick, our friend Melissa, and her son Simon.
November 25: Share the #nohumbug challenge and spread the word.
Tweeted and Facebooked!
November 26: Find a new way to get sweaty.
Living a relatively (ridiculously) active lifestyle means this wasn't as simple as it sounded. Not much is "new" to me anymore! So I took a long, luxurious saunaaaaaahhhh.
November 27: Leave your favorite book for a stranger to discover.
I'm particularly proud of this one. I left my copy of The Princess Bride on a comfy chair in a sunny corner of campus. I hope whoever finds it is as delighted to read it as I am every time I hunker down with Westley, Buttercup and the gang.
 |
| My absolutely favorite book, somewhere on campus. |
November 28: Give thanks to five favorite Twitter contributors.
I tweeted the love to my friends Donna, Gretchen, Eric and Mike, and sent a shout-out to Erick the Trainer, who never fails to inspire.
November 29: Give the person behind you your spot in line.
Technically, an epic failure. I didn't shop; there was nary a line in sight! So instead I jumped ahead to November 30 - Host a game night and spike the punch. Which I also didn't really do, but Pam, Jim and I hung out at Linda's while she and Lorna played "Get the decorations out of the attic" and we drank Rumchata Cocoa; it totally counts, and no humbug was seen for miles, yo.
 |
| And to all, a good night. |
November 30: Host a game night and spike the punch.
I sorta did this one the night before, so today I suppose I should have enacted the previous day's charge and given someone my place in line. Hard to do when you're not a shopper, though! So instead, my cheer was extracted by making gravy and cranberry sauce for the Thanksgiving meal I shared with Pat after church Saturday night. (Spiked punch of a sort was enjoyed by way of an autumn cocktail made from prosecco, hard cider and cointreau. Delish!)
December 1: Decorate!
This one was a veritable piece o' cake. The decorations came upstairs last week, so we got the trees and garland up, and decorated the trees with Christmas music playing in the background. It's so pretty!
 |
| My collection of Hallmark rocking horsies. |
December 2: Take care of someone who is always taking care of someone else.
This was another hard one for me, because I had made plans for dinner this evening long before the Challenge was issued. But honestly, this was time to take care of someone who always takes care of others, because that's my friend Dawn. We met for dinner and girl talk, and I think it was what we both needed. Plus, chocolate-pineapple-upside-down cake? Yes please.
December 3: Spend a little extra time with a four-legged friend.
December 4: Bring treats to work.
December 5: Reconnect with an old friend.
December 6: Write a letter to someone special and mail it.
December 7: Mix an eggnog cocktail.
December 8: Football; beer's on me.
December 9: Ditch work and hit the mat.
December 10: Leave a few coins behind for someone to discover.
December 11: Deliver cocoa to a neighbor.
December 12: Volunteer.
December 13: Turn off your phone and play Christmas music.
December 14: Carry someone's groceries to his/her car.
December 15: Share the love; leave someone an anonymous love note.
December 16: Surprise the person in line behind you with a free coffee.
December 17: Try something new.
December 18: Choose an adventure, like skating, sledding or snowshoeing.
December 19: Perform a random flower delivery.
December 20: Buy a round of cocktails.
December 21: Buy something that starts with A, B and C.
December 22: Form an airport cheer station and welcome people.
December 23: Call instead of text.
December 24: Take a family picture.
Monday, November 25, 2013
The Whole Ass
Back in the day, when I was in my first job out of college, I recall a conversation with my boss. We were talking about the value of doing everything with everything you have. Never doing anything half-assed. "Always," we joked, "approach a task with the whole ass."
It's a philosophy that both cracks me up and rings true, in everything I do. When I do something, I do it with my everything. When I run, I put everything I have out on the trail. I dance knowing people might be watching, but I really just don't care. I write and I edit and I re-write, putting the best creativity I can into each project, whether it's this blog post or a radio spot or a magazine story or a message to an old friend.
And don't even get me started about food. I eat with more gusto than one person should be able to muster.
If it has anything to do with any of my five senses - and let's face it, that leaves literally nothing out - I dive in. This leaves me with great potential for highs and lows. This is the roller coaster of my life.
Extreme highs, like celebrating engagements, meeting fascinating people, trying something new (and perhaps foolish).
Extreme lows, like acknowledging a friend's illness, being turned down for a promotion, and saying goodbye.
There are plenty of in-between moments, too, but my life is riddled with highs and lows. The anticipation of the uphill and the adrenaline of the down. I don't know any other way to be, honestly. Every time I've been hurt, I've vowed to just stop feeling. With the number of loved ones in my life, I stand to spend a lot of time at funerals when I grow old, and it sure would be easier if I could stop loving people
Easier.
Not better. And when is the last time you saw me deliberately choose the easy route?
The whole ass, as often as humanly possible. Arms outstretched, running with a laser-sharp focus into the unknown.
It's a philosophy that both cracks me up and rings true, in everything I do. When I do something, I do it with my everything. When I run, I put everything I have out on the trail. I dance knowing people might be watching, but I really just don't care. I write and I edit and I re-write, putting the best creativity I can into each project, whether it's this blog post or a radio spot or a magazine story or a message to an old friend.
And don't even get me started about food. I eat with more gusto than one person should be able to muster.
If it has anything to do with any of my five senses - and let's face it, that leaves literally nothing out - I dive in. This leaves me with great potential for highs and lows. This is the roller coaster of my life.
Extreme highs, like celebrating engagements, meeting fascinating people, trying something new (and perhaps foolish).
Extreme lows, like acknowledging a friend's illness, being turned down for a promotion, and saying goodbye.
There are plenty of in-between moments, too, but my life is riddled with highs and lows. The anticipation of the uphill and the adrenaline of the down. I don't know any other way to be, honestly. Every time I've been hurt, I've vowed to just stop feeling. With the number of loved ones in my life, I stand to spend a lot of time at funerals when I grow old, and it sure would be easier if I could stop loving people
Easier.
Not better. And when is the last time you saw me deliberately choose the easy route?
The whole ass, as often as humanly possible. Arms outstretched, running with a laser-sharp focus into the unknown.
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
Music
Last night I was filling out one of those "things you don't know about me" lists, and one of the things I wrote about was my relationship to music. No big surprise, I'm still thinking about it today - the way music has been my touchstone throughout my life. The way certain songs will take me back to a time and a place from my past with such crystal clarity, I can smell it.
Music awakens all my senses.
So I thought, why not see where a trip down memory lane takes me? I think this may become a post that continues to be edited as new memories crop up, but for now I'm going to start with my first musical memory and just see where it takes me.
The song: unknown, but likely total nonsense
I was five years old when I went into the hospital to have my tonsils out. Back then, you stayed overnight, and I stayed alone. I remember feeling scared, and apparently even at that age I turned to music to comfort me. Which was okay, I suppose, except I was singing in the middle of the night and keeping other patients awake. My nurse, Odessa, came in and sang quietly to and/or with me for a little while, coaxing me to sleep. It's not the most vivid memory, but it stuck with me. Bonus detail: I wore a plaid cotton dress to the hospital. It was bright blue, pink and yellow. When I got home, our neighbor Toots brought me a Flatsy doll and a rose.
The song: Michael Martin Murphy, "Wildfire"
The 1970s brought a treasure trove of teenage death songs, but this song holds the clearest memory for me. I remember hearing it on a transistor radio in the lifeguard's cabin at Pilgrim Park campground. Jane Murphy, one of the lifeguards, became a family friend, and one night I was allowed an overnight with her. It was a treat to spend time with a more grown-up girl who wasn't one of my sisters! Jane had the first curling iron I ever saw, and she used it to turn my stick-straight hair into something quite different. She treated me like a real person, not just somebody's kid sister. As we played Beauty Parlor, this song came on, and I remember the lyrics making me feel just so sad! Bonus detail: "Seasons in the Sun" runs a close second for the best worst awful teenage death song.
The song: Debbie Boone, "You Light Up My Life"
Don't judge! I was in the sixth grade the first time I sang in public, at least as far as I remember. I may have sung in church, but this was the first time I recall. My Girl Scout troop was given a time slot to provide entertainment at a local mall, and I was chosen to sing this song. I'm sure it was awful, but I remember my mother absolutely beaming with pride. Bonus detail: I wore navy blue corduroy gauchos with a matching vest, and a red long-sleeve, button-up shirt.
The song: Paul Young, "Love of the Common People" (and the entire No Parlez album)
I didn't drive at the normal age of 16; it took me three extra years to master an automobile. So during my teenage years, I was most often chauffeured around in Patrick's two-door maroon Escort. Because he drove, he also got to DJ, and this song was one we (me, Patrick, Kelly and any of the extended assortment of miscreants I still call friends today) sang along to a LOT. Bonus detail: Another song of this time period was James Taylor's "Only One." Singing backup on the song are none other than Joni Mitchell and Don Henley, but this song I shared with Ivan. Perfect opportunity to harmonize.
The song: Bruce Springsteen, "Born to Run"
This was my angry anthem when I was a teenager. The louder I cranked the volume, the more it soothed my teenaged rage. I have always been an emotional person, but as a teen I had not tools to cope with it. It all just spilled out into the world, and in a lot of ways I was destructive. (Not 100 percent of the time, but if memory serves ... I was a real pill more often than I care to admit.) When I discovered this song, it was an emotional release the likes of which I had previously never experienced. Letting the melody soar, it took (some of) my anger with it. I would rewind the cassette and listen to this song over and over, until I didn't need it any more. Bonus detail: This song is on every single running playlist I have ever used.
The song: Elton John, "Someone Saved My Life Tonight"
My cousin Theresa got married when I was around 15. Back then, I rarely if ever felt pretty. My awkward stage lasted until I was about 29 years old. Anyway, I remember feeling pretty this day. At the reception, this song came on, and a family friend asked me to dance. It was the first time I ever danced with a guy, and while there was nothing remotely romantic about it, the song transported me somewhere new. It remains one of my favorite songs, with more reasons over the years, as people have popped up on occasion to "save my life" as it were. But still, it always takes me back to that night, on that dance floor. Bonus detail: I wore my sister Pat's brown cowl-neck sweater, my sister Kathie's wool plaid bias-cut skirt, and my sister Pat's cowboy boots. Don't judge.
The song: Jackson Brown, "Tender is the Night"
In the video for this song, Brown walks through rainy streets, perfectly in time to the music. One day when I was a senior in high school, my sister Jenn was driving me to school and the song came on the radio ... and as we drove, we saw a person walking down the sidewalk, in the rain, to the beat - as if he could hear it. Absolutely cracked me up. Bonus detail: Jenn was simultaneously exactly who I wanted and didn't want driving me to school. She occasionally took me Hardee's to get biscuits for breakfast, but she also embarrassed the hell out of me on a number of occasions. Good times ...
The song: John Cougar, "Ain't Even Done with the Night"
I had this on a cassette and listened to it (and the album it was on, "Nothin' Matters and What if it Did?") nonstop one day back in the fabulous 80s, when my sister Jenn had surgery. I sat in the waiting room, flipping the tape every time it came to the end, but this song I rewound and replayed time and time again. Nervous about what was happening to my sister, and alone save for a few strangers, the song provided a needed distraction. The surgery took longer than expected, but Jenn came through find. Bonus detail: My Patrick didn't come out quite so unscathed. That same night at rehearsal, over-tired from a long day of waiting, I lashed out at him over a girl. I was so in love with him at the time, and jealous of pretty much everyone else in his life. I think this was the worst, biggest fight we ever had. (To make matters worse, he didn't even like girls. Man, was I dumb.) So this song is a double-whammy, taking me to two distinctly different memories.
The song: Billy Joel, "Scenes from an Italian Restaurant"
It was the late 80s, and we had no business being in a bar, except the food was good (and cheap or free) and the sodas bottomless. Bill's served food, so it wasn't against the law, and my friends and I would sit in the back depositing quarter after quarter into the jukebox, to hear our favorites over and over. There were a lot of songs, but this one was a recurring theme. I remember sitting around the table with Eric, Violet, Tony, sometimes Kathleen, and heaven knows who else from the cast of Riverfront characters, and wishing the night would never end. In some ways, these were the moments when I got to know the first best version of myself. Bonus detail: Springsteen's "Thunder Road" was also played. Over and over and over ...
The song: Ryan Cabrera, "I Will Remember You"
It opens with, "Eight years later, time goes by fast. Got my memories, and the will last. I try to keep it simple 'cause I hate goodbyes, I try to keep it simple by telling myself that I will remember you." It was used to promote the series finale of Will & Grace, after eight years on the air. Unfortunately for me, that happened at the eight-year mark of my relationship with my now ex-husband ... right at the time we were coming to an ending. Every Will & Grace promotion reminded me of failure, partings, and sorrow. The song ends by saying, "When we're not together, I will remember you." I remember him, sure, but not with the gut-wrenching sadness this song used to invoke. It was really just recently that I heard myself saying that I wish him ... and I meant it. Weird. Bonus detail: In many ways, Will & Grace mirrors Maggie & Patrick, but I didn't marry Harry Connick. Damn.
The song: Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers, "Green and Dumb"
This isn't one I hear unless I play it for myself, because my favorite band doesn't really get much in the way of radio play. It's a gorgeous ballad written about a man trying to get back into his lady's good graces, and it has so much sweetness to it. There was a night back in 2007 when my friend Brian and I went to see the band play live. It was a rather tumultuous time in my life, in the midst of being left by the ex and trying to figure out my life. Toward the end of the show, the opening strains of this song came on, and I started to cry. Subtly - I can be subtle sometimes - and as soundlessly as possible, the tears fell. Brian looked over at me, wrapped one arm around me, and we began to sway to the music. A stranger approached me from the other side, draped an arm around me, and swayed along. The next thing I knew, our little group grew and snaked through the bar, all swaying and dancing together in what will, for me, always feel like the greatest comfort in the world. The tears faded and I drank in the song, and parts of my soul that had felt dead for a long time sprang back to life. This is what music can do. Bonus detail: After the show, Brian let me drive his Jeep home. With the top down. This was the first and only time I was allowed to drive Zoe.
And that's what we have, for now. I reserve the right to edit and repost as more memories bubble to the surface.
Music awakens all my senses.
So I thought, why not see where a trip down memory lane takes me? I think this may become a post that continues to be edited as new memories crop up, but for now I'm going to start with my first musical memory and just see where it takes me.
The song: unknown, but likely total nonsense
I was five years old when I went into the hospital to have my tonsils out. Back then, you stayed overnight, and I stayed alone. I remember feeling scared, and apparently even at that age I turned to music to comfort me. Which was okay, I suppose, except I was singing in the middle of the night and keeping other patients awake. My nurse, Odessa, came in and sang quietly to and/or with me for a little while, coaxing me to sleep. It's not the most vivid memory, but it stuck with me. Bonus detail: I wore a plaid cotton dress to the hospital. It was bright blue, pink and yellow. When I got home, our neighbor Toots brought me a Flatsy doll and a rose.
The song: Michael Martin Murphy, "Wildfire"
The 1970s brought a treasure trove of teenage death songs, but this song holds the clearest memory for me. I remember hearing it on a transistor radio in the lifeguard's cabin at Pilgrim Park campground. Jane Murphy, one of the lifeguards, became a family friend, and one night I was allowed an overnight with her. It was a treat to spend time with a more grown-up girl who wasn't one of my sisters! Jane had the first curling iron I ever saw, and she used it to turn my stick-straight hair into something quite different. She treated me like a real person, not just somebody's kid sister. As we played Beauty Parlor, this song came on, and I remember the lyrics making me feel just so sad! Bonus detail: "Seasons in the Sun" runs a close second for the best worst awful teenage death song.
The song: Debbie Boone, "You Light Up My Life"
Don't judge! I was in the sixth grade the first time I sang in public, at least as far as I remember. I may have sung in church, but this was the first time I recall. My Girl Scout troop was given a time slot to provide entertainment at a local mall, and I was chosen to sing this song. I'm sure it was awful, but I remember my mother absolutely beaming with pride. Bonus detail: I wore navy blue corduroy gauchos with a matching vest, and a red long-sleeve, button-up shirt.
The song: Paul Young, "Love of the Common People" (and the entire No Parlez album)
I didn't drive at the normal age of 16; it took me three extra years to master an automobile. So during my teenage years, I was most often chauffeured around in Patrick's two-door maroon Escort. Because he drove, he also got to DJ, and this song was one we (me, Patrick, Kelly and any of the extended assortment of miscreants I still call friends today) sang along to a LOT. Bonus detail: Another song of this time period was James Taylor's "Only One." Singing backup on the song are none other than Joni Mitchell and Don Henley, but this song I shared with Ivan. Perfect opportunity to harmonize.
The song: Bruce Springsteen, "Born to Run"
This was my angry anthem when I was a teenager. The louder I cranked the volume, the more it soothed my teenaged rage. I have always been an emotional person, but as a teen I had not tools to cope with it. It all just spilled out into the world, and in a lot of ways I was destructive. (Not 100 percent of the time, but if memory serves ... I was a real pill more often than I care to admit.) When I discovered this song, it was an emotional release the likes of which I had previously never experienced. Letting the melody soar, it took (some of) my anger with it. I would rewind the cassette and listen to this song over and over, until I didn't need it any more. Bonus detail: This song is on every single running playlist I have ever used.
The song: Elton John, "Someone Saved My Life Tonight"
My cousin Theresa got married when I was around 15. Back then, I rarely if ever felt pretty. My awkward stage lasted until I was about 29 years old. Anyway, I remember feeling pretty this day. At the reception, this song came on, and a family friend asked me to dance. It was the first time I ever danced with a guy, and while there was nothing remotely romantic about it, the song transported me somewhere new. It remains one of my favorite songs, with more reasons over the years, as people have popped up on occasion to "save my life" as it were. But still, it always takes me back to that night, on that dance floor. Bonus detail: I wore my sister Pat's brown cowl-neck sweater, my sister Kathie's wool plaid bias-cut skirt, and my sister Pat's cowboy boots. Don't judge.
The song: Jackson Brown, "Tender is the Night"
In the video for this song, Brown walks through rainy streets, perfectly in time to the music. One day when I was a senior in high school, my sister Jenn was driving me to school and the song came on the radio ... and as we drove, we saw a person walking down the sidewalk, in the rain, to the beat - as if he could hear it. Absolutely cracked me up. Bonus detail: Jenn was simultaneously exactly who I wanted and didn't want driving me to school. She occasionally took me Hardee's to get biscuits for breakfast, but she also embarrassed the hell out of me on a number of occasions. Good times ...
The song: John Cougar, "Ain't Even Done with the Night"
I had this on a cassette and listened to it (and the album it was on, "Nothin' Matters and What if it Did?") nonstop one day back in the fabulous 80s, when my sister Jenn had surgery. I sat in the waiting room, flipping the tape every time it came to the end, but this song I rewound and replayed time and time again. Nervous about what was happening to my sister, and alone save for a few strangers, the song provided a needed distraction. The surgery took longer than expected, but Jenn came through find. Bonus detail: My Patrick didn't come out quite so unscathed. That same night at rehearsal, over-tired from a long day of waiting, I lashed out at him over a girl. I was so in love with him at the time, and jealous of pretty much everyone else in his life. I think this was the worst, biggest fight we ever had. (To make matters worse, he didn't even like girls. Man, was I dumb.) So this song is a double-whammy, taking me to two distinctly different memories.
The song: Billy Joel, "Scenes from an Italian Restaurant"
It was the late 80s, and we had no business being in a bar, except the food was good (and cheap or free) and the sodas bottomless. Bill's served food, so it wasn't against the law, and my friends and I would sit in the back depositing quarter after quarter into the jukebox, to hear our favorites over and over. There were a lot of songs, but this one was a recurring theme. I remember sitting around the table with Eric, Violet, Tony, sometimes Kathleen, and heaven knows who else from the cast of Riverfront characters, and wishing the night would never end. In some ways, these were the moments when I got to know the first best version of myself. Bonus detail: Springsteen's "Thunder Road" was also played. Over and over and over ...
The song: Ryan Cabrera, "I Will Remember You"
It opens with, "Eight years later, time goes by fast. Got my memories, and the will last. I try to keep it simple 'cause I hate goodbyes, I try to keep it simple by telling myself that I will remember you." It was used to promote the series finale of Will & Grace, after eight years on the air. Unfortunately for me, that happened at the eight-year mark of my relationship with my now ex-husband ... right at the time we were coming to an ending. Every Will & Grace promotion reminded me of failure, partings, and sorrow. The song ends by saying, "When we're not together, I will remember you." I remember him, sure, but not with the gut-wrenching sadness this song used to invoke. It was really just recently that I heard myself saying that I wish him ... and I meant it. Weird. Bonus detail: In many ways, Will & Grace mirrors Maggie & Patrick, but I didn't marry Harry Connick. Damn.
The song: Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers, "Green and Dumb"
This isn't one I hear unless I play it for myself, because my favorite band doesn't really get much in the way of radio play. It's a gorgeous ballad written about a man trying to get back into his lady's good graces, and it has so much sweetness to it. There was a night back in 2007 when my friend Brian and I went to see the band play live. It was a rather tumultuous time in my life, in the midst of being left by the ex and trying to figure out my life. Toward the end of the show, the opening strains of this song came on, and I started to cry. Subtly - I can be subtle sometimes - and as soundlessly as possible, the tears fell. Brian looked over at me, wrapped one arm around me, and we began to sway to the music. A stranger approached me from the other side, draped an arm around me, and swayed along. The next thing I knew, our little group grew and snaked through the bar, all swaying and dancing together in what will, for me, always feel like the greatest comfort in the world. The tears faded and I drank in the song, and parts of my soul that had felt dead for a long time sprang back to life. This is what music can do. Bonus detail: After the show, Brian let me drive his Jeep home. With the top down. This was the first and only time I was allowed to drive Zoe.
And that's what we have, for now. I reserve the right to edit and repost as more memories bubble to the surface.
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