When the past rushes up to meet you

I was talking with a friend on Saturday, and she was struggling with her daughter's plans for the day. Courtney, the daughter, is 12, and she was attending her first boy/girl party. A day of swimming and an evening of bonfire, co-ed. My friend was nervous about her little girl growing up, and how her relationships would take shape.

Naturally, it got me to thinking about my own early teenage years, and the people who were part of my life back then. I met my best friend, Patrick, when we were 13; we've drifted apart from time to time, but we always return. I've referred to him as my True North throughout my adult life, and there is no more fitting a title.

We had quite a tribe back then, made up of me and Patrick and an assortment of music and theater folk - Ivan, Darren, Kelly, Kim, Cathy ... I'll stop naming names, because I'm gonna forget someone and I'm not here to offend.

I'm here to reflect.

See, these are the people who shaped me, as much if not more than my family. It was in their company that I would be out until the sun came up, playing ghosts in the graveyard in the actual graveyard. Or hide and seek across several backyards. Or freeze tag on the Naperville riverwalk. Or walking through the hooty-tootie West Side neighborhoods, shining flashlights in windows to see how the "other half" lived.

This was my first tribe, and our memories are rich feasts for the senses. They taught me how I deserved to be treated, loved me exactly as I was (and am), called me out on my shit, and opened my mind to truth and possibility. Remembering all that, I told my friend that as long as her 12-year-old understands herself, and knows her mother's expectations, let her go to this party and don't worry. Because the friends she's making at this point in life may well be the ones who guide her through the best parts of life, and who support her through the worst. It is entirely possible that these are friends for life.

Which brings me to last weekend. Kelly and her husband (who is also sort of my brother-in-law but I guess technically not really) and daughter were up for a wedding, and I was beyond fortunate to get to spend some time with them.

In the space of 36 hours, we squeezed about five days of activity, laughter and love. There is just no better way to be reassured of your importance on the planet than to spend time in the presence of someone who has loved you throughout your entire adult life, as Kelly has. And so that's what I had - a day and a half of love overflowing, laughter that made my abs ache, music that made my soul happy and conversation that made me wax nostalgic.

Old friends. They make the best mirrors; they've been looking at you for a long time, and they love you anyway.

Ivan Torres, me, Kelly (McDaniel) Rathunde, Kim (Hatman) Thuente, Darren Hutchinson, Cathy (Roberts) Lavigne and Patrick Farbo. Because of course we made an appointment with an area photo studio to have a professional portrait taken.

The truth about love

They say that to be loved, you must first love yourself. I've long felt that was unrealistic, and really pretty mean, but I've done my best.

And I've failed, for years.

See, loving other people comes easily. It's almost a natural progression. But self-love? That takes work, and it's so much easier to not.

We feel like we have evidence that we're not deserving of love. People leave, or don't love us the way we'd like. The unconditional thing we crave is long in coming, so we believe the shitty bill of goods the universe seems to have served up, and we withhold love from ourselves.

But I'd like to suggest a different tack, and it's one I've discovered quite by accident. It was a few years ago when, in a fit of self loathing, I realized the way I was talking to myself. It was pretty heinous; I would never treat a friend the way I was treating myself. So I tried to be a little nicer to me. Just a little. I became more conscious of my self-talk. And yeah, I started looking in the mirror and pointing out something nice.

It's getting easier. It's becoming natural. Maybe it's age that's allowing me to become more comfortable in my skin, but I am becoming my biggest fan.

It was just an hour or so ago that I was talking to a friend of mine about my marriage, and she said she'd like to meet my ex. "I'd like to meet the man," she said, "who took a pass on you." Truth is, he and I travel on completely different paths, and I could never have become this version of me had I remained with him.

I've learned through practice to really, truly love myself where I am. It's not a perfect love - there is no such thing - but it's as close as I've ever known.

So to me, there are two secrets: 1. Start loving yourself, as best as you can, as often as you can. 2. Stay close to a tribe who loves you big, exactly as you are.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

The last time

I remember with crystal clarity my last conversation with my mom. We were on the phone, watching the Cubs game, commiserating over lackluster pitching. She told me she had a splitting headache; I hoped it would get better if her beloved boys in blue could put up a W.

They didn't. And the next day, she was gone. (It was not their fault.)

I'm struck by how tragic lasts can feel, because for the most part, we never know they're happening when they're happening. My dear, dear friend Brian made me waffles after I had my gallbladder surgery back in 2009 ... and I
have not heard from him since. Oh, I've tried. I've bordered on stalker, that's how hard I've tried. But that morning, over waffles, is the last time we spoke. I fear I will always miss him, and he was my lifeline during some of my most tumultuous times.

I've had more last kisses than I care to count, and each time - with rare exception - I wish I'd known. I would have cherished them more. Last hugs. Last meals shared, or prepared, with someone I love. Life, it would seem, is full of lasts.

It's hard not to grieve them, as we move from one season of life to another. I miss a lot of things that have moved into the category of "last." But I suppose, by way of explanation, that's part of why I live the way I do. I was once told that I live an amplified life; that I experience things in a way that can only be described as "more," and I'll accept that as a compliment. Because if I'm soaking in every gorgeous moment, it won't hurt so badly if that moment happens to contain a "last."

Life is short, and on any given day, we could be facing a litany of lasts. That day is not today. For the moment, I'm putting my focus on firsts; I'm young enough that I have a lot of firsts in me yet. But I'm wise enough to know that if I live in deep appreciation of the moment I'm in, if I experience a last, I will be mindful enough to treasure it for what it is.

Summer girl

At this very moment, the window is wide open, and the clouds up above can't seem to decide if spilling rain on to the street below is something they'd like to commit to or not. But as the pitter-pat ebbs and flows, it's summer outside my studio.

Balmy and warm, today is telling me it's okay to come outside. Because, in the summer, I am the very best version of myself.

I put on layers in winter. I'm protected. But in the summer, the wall between myself and the elements is gone. It's just me. Vulnerable, risk-taking me.

It's that time of year again. Time for shorts and tank tops, for long conversations below the waning moon. For sun-soaked days on a paddle board in the middle of a lake, and for pastries in a hammock while the dog waits for his portion of crumbs to fall. Time for cheesy novels and iced coffee and taking chances and telling the truth, for bonfires and homemade pico, drive-in movies and blended beverages.

It's time for me to turn a corner, to cast off what's been holding me back and become that untethered girl I become, every year around this time.

I don't know what this summer's going to look like. I have a few goals and a handful of fears, but I don't have a to-do list. All I really want is joy, in whatever form that takes. And I'm fully aware that it's mine for the making.

Balance

A long time ago, someone really smart told me that if you don't spend the bulk of your time and money on the things you say you value, you are either lying, or living life out of balance.

I've been thinking a lot about balance these days, to be honest, in the literal sense. I try to schedule at least two yoga classes each week, and a significant portion of those 60-minute group therapy sessions are spent working on balance - the literal, and the metaphorical. It's hard to hold a pose on one foot while your body is dripping sweat and your muscles are begging for mercy. It's hard, too, to find time in the schedule to get the yoga in, and the running, swimming and biking in, and for the love of Mike, can I please find some time to just dance, and get to church, and see my family, and spend time with my friends, and when that's done maybe, just maybe, get some sleep?

You get my drift. Balance. It's not Mary-Lou-Retton-sticking-the-landing. It's day in, day out, how do we get it all done?

Answer: we don't. Not if balance is the goal, and in my book, it should be.

We become what we focus on. And if we're focused on the right things ... we might just find balance.

Life, love and Excel

My friend Eric is one of those friends. You know the ones; they've been in your orbit for so long, you barely recall what life was like in the days before them. I was in my early 20s when we began the friendship that was instantly filled with vulnerable honesty.

The year was 1991. I looked something like this blurry screen grab from a VHS tape of a play I was in at Aurora University.

Me as Big Jane in "Three Postcards."

It was after a performance of that show, I believe, that I met Eric for the first time. We became fast friends, and we shared an undeniable chemistry. Friendship blossomed into romance, and the romance flamed out as quickly as it started. We lost touch, embarked on separate lives, and became people much more similar to who we are today.

And then, years later, Facebook brought us back to one another. In our time apart, he'd gotten married and had a son. I'd gotten married and had a divorce. But we had a shared arsenal of memories to fuel us, and one of our greatest memories were of the unbeatable combination of food and conversation. So it seemed only natural that we would return to that, and on Thanksgiving Eve in 2008, we sat together for the first time in 17 years. We shared a meal, we shared stories, we shared laughter.

From that night, we were once again in sync. Our brief togetherness of the early 90s became a solid kevlar friendship. Sure, it could be damaged; we've had our ups and downs, but only because we're still the painfully honest and vulnerable people we were back in 1991. When feelings get hurt, we hash it out. (Or rather, when my feelings get hurt, I spill my guts and then ignore him for a period of time. Because I am apparently only as mature as I was in 1991 ... but I digress.)

As we re-built our friendship and we began blending lives again, he introduced me to the concept of undefinable love. As he described it, we were a spreadsheet. Lots of columns; lots of ways we mattered to one another. Sure, one of those old columns was romance, but we added more over time. I once babysat his son; new column! His wife and I took a road trip together; new column! I spilled my heartbreak all over his latte; new column!

In my lifetime, I have known only two fellas who know me so well and love me so thoroughly. So here I am, with another Valentine's Day in my rearview mirror, and I am entirely unable to consider love without considering the fella who requires Excel to describe the way we love.

In every column, across time and geography, through stories and over meals, with hiccup-inducing laughter and a mojito or two, we have loved. It's Eric who proclaimed love as my superpower, and Eric who is often left to pick up the pieces when I fall apart. To have a friend like that, who once upon a time made my toes curl and even before that was my greatest fan and an even better friend. Yeah ... that, my friends, is to understand that the term "more than friends" has nothing to do with coupling, and everything to do with transcending the one-dimensional and diving into something that defies description.

There are moments in life when we don't know how we fit into the lives of others. The thing is, you don't always have to know. I worry sometimes that I'm not good enough to deserve the love of my amazing friends. But it isn't about deserving; it's about loving, however you're able, in whatever column you're able, at any given time. Pal, therapist, bartender, confidant, partner-in-crime, accompanist, sponge shoulder (from all the crying, natch), style consultant, reality checker, dance partner, the whole nine - if you're really, really lucky, you have a friend or two who can fit into any and all of those columns.

Life is complex. People are complex. But love? Love is really pretty simple. You just do it.

Ghost story

Two nights ago, I had a most vivid dream. So vivid, I awoke unsure of reality, and very pissed at myself. First, the backstory.

It was about nine years ago that the ex and I began unravelling. The day after his birthday, in fact ... because his timing was always perfect like that. It would take me a month or so to catch on, but on or about January 19, 2005, he started to leave.

And I started to plead. Beg. Pray. Wish. Sleepwalk. (Oh, there was a lot of sleepwalking in those days.) But mostly, plead. And beg.

I pleaded with him to stay. On my knees, I begged him to love me. Looking back, I hardly know this woman, but the begging and pleading went on. I begged with homemade shepherd's pie. I pleaded, literally clinging to his shirt and weeping.

I'm not proud of it, but that's who I was at the time.

And I recall with crystal clarity a promise I made to him at one particularly vulnerable time. "If you ever change your mind ... if you ever find a way back to me ... I will be waiting."

That lasted not very long, but the words were uttered. And if you know me, you know that I try very hard to be a woman of my word. So imagine my shock when, in a dream Friday night, he took me up on it. Sweet Jesus, it was awful. As the movie in my mind played itself out, I saw the Maggie of today slip back into old habits. I saw myself fade into a shadow of who I actually am.

And I woke up pissed as hell.

I know it wasn't real, and I know I can't be held to a promise I made to someone who was hearing none of it anyway, and who isn't entitled to me holding up my end of any damn bargain. What I was watching was a ghost story - a lost girl, an empty shell, unwilling to admit that the end had come long before the end actually came. A memory of who I once was, and an opportunity to see the contrast between that girl (no, not That Girl) and This Girl.

So much has happened between then and now. It feels like a lifetime ago (and I guess, technically, it is ... if you're nine). She's someone I hardly recognize, because she was a person who had accomplished things, for sure, but had only once or twice strayed from the comfort zone.

I guess if there's anything to learn from all of this, it's that ghosts aren't real, our past isn't our present, and comfort zones are there to be acknowledged and then obliterated. And finally, that some promises are meant to be broken.

Winter

Some days, I don't have much to say. Today is one of those days. Not much ... but still, something.

Today I just want to put out there that it's winter. It's cold. It makes me cranky. And yet, I'm gonna find a way to embrace it. I'm going to head out today and take a little walk around town. I may find myself at St. Arbucks getting a little something delicious. I may go to the park and remember what it's like in springtime, when my little town is teeming with life.

But yes, I am going to go out there. Because it's 36 degrees, it's sunny ... and if I don't get fresh air and vitamin D when I can, it's going to be a long winter indeed.

On resolutions and other stuff

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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'.

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.

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?

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.

He was great at seeing the world in a unique way.

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.

Benld's the name. Lap-sittin's the game.

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.

Let sleeping cats lie ... on their own pillow, apparently.

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.

He always wanted to be where I was. Always.

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.

Close talker!

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. 

His final photo, one last nap on our bed before signing off.  

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. ;)

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!