The Five Facets

Sunshine Happens

2012-02-01T20:42:00.000-05:00

Smile.

With Northeast skies like these, who cares what Punxsutawny Phil says tomorrow!

On Marital Discord, Part 1

2012-01-27T23:40:00.000-05:00

“There’s a fire burning in my heart,” ran through my head for two days. Adele’s catchy, bluesy beat pulsated, over and over and over, and I found myself repeatedly belting out that single stance.

And wouldn't you know, as I write this I’m having a hard time summoning that snappy tune…

What kind of fire is burning in her heart, I thought. Is it love? Is it desire for something else? What fire is burning in my heart?

I was cooking a scrambled egg feast when my son asked, “Do you know any of the other words to that song?” After I let the one-liner ring out once more, he chased me down and covered my mouth. Okay, he didn’t really chase me down, but he did run up behind me and laugh as he placed his hand over my face. “I can’t take it anymore!”

The only other words I could come up with were, “We could have had it all,” so I looked up the lyrics to discover that the song is really quite dark and speaks to the vengeful nature that resides within us. In the song, the fire is actually “starting” in the heart, and the person warns another that retaliation will be so much worse than what was originally dished out.

The opening line of the hit title Rolling in the Deep, however, indicates that before the subject became motivated to enact revenge, she had been in a dark place of isolation.

“There’s a fire burning in my heart/Reaching a fever pitch and it’s bring me out of the dark.”

That is the way it tends to happen, isn’t it? We suffer a great pain, we retreat for a while, and then something spurs us into action, moves us in a new direction, one toward healing.

Sometimes that fuel is anger.

Which leads me to the second item which has been on my mind the past two days: Heather Armstrong’s separation from her husband.

If you aren’t familiar with Heather, she is the author of dooce.com, a woman who blogged before blogging was vogue, one who lost her job after referencing her work in a way her boss didn’t like, and someone who’s family lives quite well from blogging income.

Yes. Blogging income. Her husband left his job years ago to manage the site and its logistics.

It boggles the mind that blogging can support an entire household.

Not so boggling, however, is the fact that they have separated.

Marriage is often hard, even when you’re not working side by side twenty-four-seven.

As humans, we are in a constant state of change: We mature; our likes and dislikes change; our needs change.

Marriage necessitates a buoyancy that is, at times, contradictory to our very nature. In the absence of that elasticity we often encounter frustration or anger.

Ideally that tension doesn’t lead to Adele’s burning desire for retribution, or to separation. But, let’s face it, in a two-income world, it is too easy to let stresses go untreated. Before you know it, you can’t stand the sight of your (once) soul mate, let alone tolerate being in the same room.

I’m sure you’ve heard it said before: There’s a fine line between love and hate. So, what’s a couple to do when they have reached the point of feeling like enemies?

How do you go about trying to reconcile differences?

How do you find separate spaces from which to heal, without adding financial stress—or possibly more money stress—to the mix?

What do you do if you have children or another family member living in the house?

What do you do if, as in the Armstrong’s case, you share a business together?

Every couple who has faced marital discord has labored over these and many more questions.

What I can tell you is that it is possible to overcome seemingly monumental conflict.

There are a few simple, yet not so easy, strategies our counselor helped my husband and I to employ when we literally couldn’t come together without it turning our convergence into a screaming match.

But first, I must return to my day job…

Soon…

On Living in the Present

2012-01-11T12:44:00.000-05:00

Two days ago I had an epiphany:

I’ve been living in the past.

And I had no clue because I had cloaked the behavior in a thick veil of distorted language.

I was thinking about how relationships with my friends have changed in recent years.

How we are all at different emotional, physical, and social stages in our lives.

How the demands on our individual days are no longer in synch…

How I wish I could reverse time and go back to the days when one, in particular, didn’t feel so estranged.

I wish I could go back to the times we talked with ease, lingering conversations about everything, nothing, and lots of hearty laughs…

That’s when I recognized the mask over my words:

I wish I could get back to where I was five years ago, when I was in the best emotional and physical shape of my life…

back to that feeling…

that feeling of accomplishment…

back to that confidence and self-assurance…

Eighteen months ago I wrote this post detailing the success I’ve been longing for…

Two weeks ago I wrote this post about my feelings of frustration and failure.

With regard to the weight, I believed if I could replicate the actions that led to my previous success, I’d have current success.

We tend to associate living in the past as holding on to some negative event. But the truth is, living in the past means any occasion where we dwell on a previous event, be it sad or happy, negative or positive.

And now I know. My spiritual epicenter—the center of gravity that motivates and moves me—understands.

By longing for a feeling of the past, I was doing disservice to the simple elements that I’ve discussed many times: We are constantly evolving and changing. As such, what worked for us before might not work for us this time. We must try something different.

Love him or hate him, Dr. Phil has a saying, “If what you’re doing ain’t working for ya, then do somethin’ different.”

I had said that to myself many times. Okay, Weight Watchers worked before, it’s not this time. People are raving about Atkins…let’s try that…Walking worked before, but it’s not now. Let’s try Zumba…

Until two days ago, I thought I was living in the present.

I was open to different strategies. I was trying different things. I was setting short-term, realistic goals.

I now see that my frustrations stemmed from the longing for a past feeling. All of my present decisions were being made with what-I-did-before somehow attached to it.

As all of these realizations flooded my thoughts, I remembered reading The Secret. And I thought about Byrne’s suggestion to create a vision of the weight you want to reach.

I also remember thinking the idea was a bit far-fetched.

But, hey, what I’m doin’ ain’t workin’ for me…

At that moment, I closed my eyes and envisioned the weight I wanted on the scale for my weigh-in the next morning.

Much to my pleasant surprise, I stepped on the scale the following day to that very number. Right down to the two-tenths.

Okay, before you start screaming at me through your screen about how unrealistic and harebrained this notion is, read this.

My realizations came to me early in the morning.

I spent the remainder of the day making my goal a reality:

· I set a realistic goal, based on where I was at that moment.

· I made sure I added cardio to the walk I had planned for the day, increasing my heart rate.

· I ate foods I knew would help release the fluid I was retaining.

· I made a decision and established a series of actions.

· I set a short term goal based solely on the present…

Success breeds success. I spent yesterday and this morning with that feeling of accomplishment driving my decisions.

For the next five days, I will let the vision I have for next week’s weigh-in fuel my actions…

What about you? Have you ever found yourself living in the past? Do you have a success story to share?

Soon…

On Failure, Fat, and Hope

2011-12-30T18:19:00.000-05:00

I recently saw a commercial for the upcoming Biggest Loser series. A quick blip of a girl with a weightlifting bar overheard flashed on the screen and I heard her say, “I used to be an Olympic Weightlifter.”

I used to be a swimmer and a diver and an equestrian, I thought.

And, as a teenager, some seventy-five pounds lighter than I am now, I used to think I was fat. Downright Angus-sized fat because most of my frail-boned high school peers were freaking out that they were one-hundred pounds. And I was anything but.

As an adult—a largely overweight female—I now realize that I had no idea what overweight was, and sorely wish I’d have appreciated my body during those adolescent years.

But I didn’t. I abused it like many a teenager, eating all of the wrong foods… How many ways can you say pizza? And grab-and-go processed foods and snacks…

I abused it even more when I turned to bulimia as a way to control my weight.

Little did I know that my weight fears had nothing to do with a number.

Little did I know the lifelong havoc I was wreaking on my precious self.

When I thought about the young female on the commercial, it once again dawned on me that I’m not heavy enough to be accepted onto the reality show.

I’m not overweight enough to qualify for gastric by-pass surgery, if I wanted to consider it.

Never an easy answer for me.

Not that participating in the TV series to lose weight is easy, but the attendees do have people motivating them, they are in a controlled environment, one that doesn’t include bowls of candy bars, and chips and breads and cookies, and loads of temptations.

When they gather with their cast mates, they are all regulated by the same set of circumstances and inspired by the same infectious energy and goals.

Maybe. Maybe their environment isn’t as sterile and regimented as I imagine.

Regardless, this is one more excuse in the line of many, one more justification for the choices I do and don’t make.

I carry my weight well and certainly don’t look like I am fifty-plus pounds overweight.

It’s not that bad ‘cause these American super-sized size fourteen jeans keep creeping down.

I don’t have time to exercise.

I sit at a desk all day.

It’s Thanksgiving.

It’s Christmas.

It’s my birthday. (It really is!)

It’s New Year’s.

It’s summer.

It’s tax season.

It’s cold outside.

It’s my metabolism.

It’s the middle-aged spread…

And my all-time favorite? Geneen Roth said not to worry about what I am eating when I first get started. Honestly, I know that’s what it said, but I can’t provide the page number or the actual quote right now because I can’t find the book.

Maybe I ate the evidence in a fit of misguided hunger pains.

For those who missed the tongue-in-cheek humor above: Geneen’s Women Food and God is an invaluable resource for those seeking inspiration, and I twisted her words to suit my own warped rationale, as we mortals tend to do…

I just so happened to be standing at the pantry and shoving a fistful of food into my mouth when I realized my skewed logic. And I laughed out loud, a deep and devious chuckle…

I, like so many others, am in limbo fat-land, wondering how to lose the weight, how to establish new habits, and questioning how I let myself come to this roundness.

Again.

Eighteen months ago I wrote this post about my previous successful battle over the bulge.

I’ve been trying to replicate that feat for years now, and just can’t seem to find the right combination that works for me now.

And that has been frustrating—to say the least—that I can’t simply duplicate what I did before and experience the same positive results.

Why can't I? You ask.

Trust me, I’ve asked myself the same question repeatedly and what I’ve come to realize is that I am not achieving the same success using the same strategies because I am not in the same place I was six years ago.

Why, even the Pinocchio crease in my jaw line has moved from the left side to the right. The crease's impact on me this time? Zilch!

Okay. Okay. Embarrassment. Mild disgust mixed with denial... This time my facial fault hasn't caused a tremor of movement from me; I simply turn the other cheek to the mirror.

Seriously, though, we are constantly changing; our thoughts, feelings, emotions, physical and social beings evolve as we age, meet new people, and are faced with different obstacles and rewards.

Failure was a part of who I am for much longer than success was.

That is the sad realization that came to mind after I saw the beautiful, blonde-haired, overweight weightlifter on the television screen.

I lived for too many years feeling like a failure, feeling like I didn’t live up to my parent’s expectations, feeling like I was never quite good enough.

Hogwash!

I finally began to realize the absurdity of this self-loathing in my late thirties.

But old habits die hard, and unfortunately, the positive hadn’t been a part of me long enough to withstand the barrage of old emotions that bubbled to the surface after my husband’s last affair.

Not to put the blame on him. It’s just that the self-worth hadn’t become rote, and I experienced a relapse.

I choose to believe that’s all this is: An unspecified period of time where I have succumbed to previous patterns of behavior that don’t suit me well.

And, to use a cliché, each time you fall off the horse, you have to get right back on.

Hope requires the same sort of perseverance, and like the photo in the beginning of this post, is a trait ensconced in light and shadows.

I might be a bit emotionally battered, and might just be plump enough for a deep fryer, but I have hope in my heart that I will eventually strike upon the combination of elements that will lead to the success I desire.

Now I all I need is a dose of Jillian Michaels attitude to fire me up!

In the meantime, a good friend who wants to shed a few pounds, as well, has convinced me to watch the weekly series with her as we hold our own Biggest Loser event.

Cheers to hope and a nice long walk with the dog!

Soon…

From a Train Window

2011-11-15T05:20:00.001-05:00

As I gaze out of the train window onto a thick fog, Liz Gilbert suddenly pops into my thoughts.

And I wonder.

I wonder if she traveled by train when she moved from place to place, as she wrote Eat, Pray, Love.

I wonder if she wrote longhand, in sweeping, cursive characters, or if she used an electronic device, as I do now.

I wonder if the view from her window was as hazy as some of the mental moments about which she wrote.

And I think about her discussion that genius is not to be had, but that it resides in each one of us.

I wonder about the historic buildings I see crumbling into the landscape. Why were these once glorious structures abandoned, and what stories are buried in the surrounding soil?

As I soar across France and Italy, I see an image not much different from home. Hills and valleys, farmlands and villages, graffiti-riddled relics and opulent castles dot the landscapes before me.

The cosmetics vary, yet the premise remains the same. Animals. Plants. People. Home.

Yesterday, I observed two young girls giggling as they tried to step onto the tops of each other’s feet. Though I could not interpret their words, their behaviors and squeals of delight were unmistakably universal, no different from children I’ve seen playing in their homelands of Mexico and America.

And I wonder, why, then, when we are so similar in so many ways, when we share so many common threads, when each of us holds within us the power of Liz Gilbert’s genius—the ability to create and manifest brilliance—do we war with one another? Why do we not emulate the grace of the land around us?

George Santayana wrote, "Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it."

Maybe then, the grace lies within the learning, within the rubble…

Soon...

Home is Where I Am

2011-11-08T13:40:00.001-05:00

I have been busy packing and planning for my first trip to Europe. I’ve made lists and more lists; lists for me and lists for my hubby. There are more lists for my children and the person who will be staying with them while we are away.

This morning, as I was thinking about this trip and the numerous items I still have to do (finish packing, change bedding for our guest, confirmations, notes to school…) some of our family trips blipped through my memory banks and I thought about conversations I’ve had with my children about home.

The expression everyone knows is “Home is where the heart is.” And yet, I’ve always believed that home is where I am.

We have traveled frequently throughout these past fifteen years, mostly short weekend jaunts, with a few weeklong events thrown in here and there.

Often, when were traveling, my children would ask when we were going to eat or swim in the hotel pool, or visit a particular place.

I would reply something like this, “When we get back home,” or “We’re going home to change, then we’re going out to eat.”

At first, this confused my children. “Home? But I didn’t think we were going home for one more day.”

But after many conversations, I think that they, too, have finally come to realize that home is where we are.

This is something I’ve done without thought or intent, but I feel it is an important detail to adapt into our lives.

If we are comfortable wherever we are—be it a luxury suite, a cramped hotel room, or sleeping in tiny twin beds at a friend’s house—if we take our hearts with us, then we are always home.

I am excited to see what awaits in my modest, temporary homes in Paris, Zurich, and the heart of Italy…

Soon…

When Life Sucks...

2011-11-01T13:44:00.000-04:00

A person who is lamenting the detachment and isolation of his son just said to me, "It's okay."

I'll never forget when I spoke those same words to one of my customers, in the early months after my son died.

"It's okay," I'd say to people, who would usually say some variation of, "Yes, it's going to be okay," or "I know."

But this one woman, she broke the mold. "No, it's not okay," she said to me.

And I've tried to remember that ever since.

Sometimes life sucks. And when it does, it's not okay.

As such, I'm resurrecting this post from a year ago.

We need to remember that, when life sucks, giving credence to the suckiness is a part of our healing...

Soon...

Webs of Joy

2011-10-13T11:27:00.000-04:00

"Why don’t we ever decorate for Halloween?”

That question by my youngest, nearly five years ago, was the beginning of an annual October party.

It spawned a collection of ghoulish decorations and home accent pieces that include a life-sized Sleeping Beauty witch, her outstretched hand offering visitors a shiny red apple…

Yesterday, as I drove home from work, the Halloween decorations were the first objects to catch my attention. Plastic signage, lighted decorations, and pumpkins filled the tiny porch of this run-down urban home.

But it was the teenager—standing on a wooden chair—that elicited today’s smile.

Where many teens could care less about decorating for the holidays, much less take on the project alone, this young lad appeared to be stringing faux cobwebs between the two side posts.

And by the flailing of his one arm, he’d apparently become entangled in the sticky material…

Have you had a recent moment of joy? Share it here!

Soon…

Happy Happens

2011-10-12T10:20:00.000-04:00

Happy happens as randomly as the hackneyed "shit happens."

Happiness is little more than a collection of the simple moments that bring a smile to our face, instances that surround us each and every day.

Let's pay homage to the joyful flashes that lift our spirits, for they are the springs that fill our souls, the many pieces that help bring about peace within us...

I'll be posting moments that make me smile and look forward to reading about your own happinesses that happen...

Soon...

Life in a Nutshell, Part 1

2011-10-03T11:39:00.000-04:00

I’m going to live to ninety-six-years of age. Well, just shy of it, anyway.

How do I know this? You ask.

Because I’m turning forty-eight this December.

And I think I’ve been experiencing the epic, Mid-Life Crisis.

No, after scanning through this article found upon a quick, online search, I know I’m symptomatic: Unhappiness. Boredom. Need for change.

Questioning past choices.
Anger at my spouse.
Inability to make decisions about future.
Resentment toward spouse.
Desire for a new, passionate & intimate relationship.

O! M! G!

Every. Single. One. Of. Mid. Life. Crisis’. Symptoms.

Every.

Single.

One.

I’d like to blame this most recent funk on the hormonal surge that has my face breaking out like a wet teenager’s.

I’d like to blame this ongoing feeling of the blues on anything and everything: My kids. My husband. My workload. My friends. Technological glitches.

But the truth is this: I am unhappy.

If I felt better, internally, then the rest of that which irritates me would be little more than a blip on my daily page.

I began this post on September 17, more than two weeks ago. On that day, I had a motivational moment that forced me to take the dog for a walk.

My mind and body desperately needed the exercise, the fresh air, the soothing sounds of nature.

I noted the wind rustling the leaves and the water gurgling as it, too, moved forward on its path.

The sharp CAW! of a crow pierced through my reverie, and then I noticed the quieter chirps of various other species.

And then I spotted them, this large handful of acorns.

My husband has been commenting all summer about how the acorns are scarce this year, and how the wildlife is coming in closer to our home to find food.

As I collected the nuts, one by one, I couldn’t help but notice how these seeds seem to mirror our mortal lives, which vary from pristine, to fractured by stress, to losing our tops, to being split wide open by blunt force trauma…

to be continued…

Soon…

Connecting Dots

2011-09-21T11:49:00.000-04:00

I’ve been in a deep funk these past few weeks.

I've been trying to make a post for five days now.

My frustrations have mounted as I haven't been able to log in with the new version of Blogger. I keep getting a "Runtime...ie8" error message. Anyway, I finally tried logging in through IE today, instead of going through my AOL software, and Voila!

Now that I'm here, here's the first little blip, the one I wanted to post five days ago...

I have three teenagers.

One has what appears to be a serious case of senioritis, can’t wait “to get out of this place,” and is going through all of the growing pains needed to help discover who she is, independent of us, her parents.

One is away at college and rarely phones home. Despite how happy I am for his accomplishments, for his independence, he is far enough away that trips home are only a couple of times a year. I struggle from time to time with this distance, with the lack of conversation, with the lack of being needed.

My youngest is equally independent. And yet, he started my Saturday off just right when he offered to make me breakfast. Scrambled eggs and toast. Yummy eggs and toast.

"I'm doing this," he said, when I offered to help." He spread his arms wide, as if protecting his territory.

After this delicious meal, one of my girlfriends accompanied me on a day of errands. I was grateful to have an ear upon which I could vent some of my angst.

As I headed down an aisle in Walmart, the cart of theatre-sized box candies jumped out at me. My friend always has a box of Dots in her car, so I tossed one in my cart.

“You can give that to her,” I nodded to my pal and instructed the cashier after she rang up the item, “she loves Dots.”

Something else was said that caused us to chuckle. And then this. “She’s awesome,” my pal said to the clerk.

"It's just a box of candy."

“You’re awesome,” she said to me.

Funny thing is, a one-dollar box of gummies, a sincere thankfulness for a random and ever-so-simple gesture, and I did feel awesome.

A little appreciation and the stress melted away from me like sugar in water.

What's your box of Dots story? I'd love to hear how an unexpected moment helped change your mood.

Soon...

On Spiritual Paradox

2011-09-09T13:36:00.005-04:00

Two days ago I watched an interview with Marcy Borders on The View. Marcy is a survivor of 9/11 and the woman whom was captured in the now-iconic photo, “Dust Lady,” on the day of the heinous attacks on our country. As a means of coping with the shock of the event, Marcy succumbed to alcohol and drugs, which led to her losing custody of her two children.

Nine years into her ordeal, however, Marcy entered rehab and began the climb to reclaiming her life. Today, a few days shy of ten years since her ordeal, Marcy is clean, sober, and has regained custody of her two children.

Marcy, who was in rehab when Osama bin Laden was killed by U.S. military, gave repeated thanks to God for saving her, for giving her another chance, and made mention that she felt God was working in two different ways to help her, on the day that Osama bin Laden was killed in an attempt to apprehend him. Her belief in God and the Bible have been instrumental in her recent healing.

The same day I watched the discussion with Marcy, I read a story about Tina Anderson, a woman who was raped at the age of fifteen by an elder member of her church. Tina’s attacker impregnated her, and when the pregnancy was discovered, this young girl was forced to apologize to her congregation for her sin in becoming pregnant.

Her mother and the church pastor arranged to have her sent away to a home where she was homeschooled and forced to give her baby up for adoption. Now married and the mother of three more children, Tina had--until officials approached her a few years ago--kept her ordeal a secret, believing (as too many rape victims do) that she—an innocent—was to blame. I would surmise that she has experienced conflict with the role of God and the Church in her life.

Within the same week, I read about a young man who had publicly announced his homosexuality. He also indicated he wasn’t sure about his faith, that he had doubts with regard to God. I can understand this conflict, especially given the view and teachings of so many churches that homosexuality—much like Tina’s out-of-wedlock pregnancy—is a sin.

Like so many others before me, and so many to follow, these are the questions that ravaged my mind and body after I experienced the death of my son, two miscarriages, and an affair between my husband and one of my best friends:

• People say God isn’t a cruel God, but the definition of cruel is to knowingly inflict pain on another.

• God knew I would suffer greatly if my son died, so why would he take him.

• Why aren’t my (not to mention my family’s) prayers being answered?
One religious organization sent me a pamphlet in the mail, shortly after my son died. This organization’s belief is that my newborn was sacrificed for my sins.

• What horrific sin did I commit, to cause God to kill my child? Am I really a bad person?

So much of the scripture and inspiration I received after my child’s death indicated that God had chosen my boy because he was special, that God had a purpose and a reason and a plan, that, somehow, it was okay for God to act in a way which caused me so much suffering.

And then there was the fact that my son suffocated. I cannot fathom the horror of such a slow death, for breath is the source of our existence, it is instinctive. Panic rises when we cannot breathe.

These thoughts made me think about people who burn to death in fires, about elderly persons who die by falling down a flight of stairs, about selfless, compassionate individuals like Princess Diana and our service men and women who work to make life better for those both near and far. Generous souls who are severely wounded and suffer greatly before taking their last breaths.

Not that any person deserves to endure a painful or prolonged death. But the thought that such benevolent people have to suffer so intensely seems nothing shy of unjust. And therein lies the paradox of spirituality.

As the tenth anniversary of 9/11 approaches, my thoughts, like those of most of our nation, are with the families and friends of those lost on that day. As I watched Marcy’s interview, however, I couldn’t help but think about all of the families who are still trying to reconcile the spiritual element of their loss, to heal that spiritual facet.

For me, the spiritual element was the last, and most difficult to resolve, following my string of losses. I was fortunate enough however, to find a woman who offered just what I needed to create peace within me.

This is what I gleaned from one short hour with this wise woman.

• Divine intervention is rare.

• God doesn’t choose how or when we will die.

• God is in the room crying with us when we are suffering. From that, I later had this epiphany: God is also in the room celebrating with us when we are happy.

Those three things were all I needed to finally realize that my prayers weren’t being overlooked because I wasn’t praying in the right way or hard enough. That I wasn’t being punished for some indiscretion. That, indeed, the God I believe in is not a cruel god.

Today, after twenty-one years of studying loss and healing, these are a few things I know for sure.

• Our experiences, environments, learned behaviors, and beliefs create the individuality within each of us. What might bring about healing for one person could create additional conflict for another.

• Sometimes, what we need to create our “Ah-Ha!” moment could be as simple as hearing the same inspiration, but with a different set of words or analogy.

• The strategies we use will change as we learn and grow as individuals; in other words, “What worked last time might not work this time.” Don't give up. Keep learning, for in knowledge we will answer our questions and resolve our conflict.

• In loss, we have every right to grieve. We also have every right to heal.

• Though reaching out for inspiration and encouragement and knowledge is ever so beneficial, we must weave what is relevant to us, individually, and discard the rest; what I call Heal it Your Way.

Soon...

A Pretty Side of Peril

2011-08-28T15:04:00.004-04:00

As I write, Hurricane Irene is fizzling out, southerners are accessing the damage, and northerners will soon be following in their footsteps. We are far enough North that only the storm’s outer bands have reached us. The wind outside my home is blowing branches and hurling raindrops. But in spite of the gray skies, the chime on my deck rings a beautiful tune, a soothing, harmonious melody.

Such is life. The good, the bad, the ugly, the indifferent…they coexist, sometimes running parallel, and sometimes colliding head on.

When a fire destroyed every shred of the business my family and our friends had toiled seven years to build, nothing was left but black, charred ash and mangled metal. And then there was this gem: The glaring fact that we had decided against moving our family (or anyone else) into the building’s empty second story.

After my son’s unexpected death, it seemed as if I would forever be motherless, as if I were perpetually gasping for air, as if an elephant were sitting on my chest, as if the whole world held me responsible. And then there were my salvations: Friends and family and acquaintances who put aside their fears of death to listen, and time, time that seemed so endless in grief, and yet, time that afforded me knowledge and clarity and perspective and peace…

When an undiagnosed, long-untreated depression finally caught up with me, nothing was left but a black hole in my chest, a self-loathing that entwined my internal organs, a fear and shame that had become my outer skin. And then, there was the beautiful, artful nature of growth and learning, a talented psychiatrist with whom I was lucky enough to find and then trust, the powerful effect of a low-dose antidepressant, and, again, friends and family…

When I discovered that my husband and my best friend had been having a year-long affair, my heart felt as empty as my womb had after my son’s death, shame and fear and doubt and self-loathing found their way back my remaining organs. And then there was this, the fetus filling the space in my womb, breathing and kicking and counting on me to bring him into the world six weeks after I uncovered the adultery, and again, friends and family and my counselor…

It matters not what threatening situation we face, there is always a silver lining if we are willing to see it. And, speaking of perils, the sanctuary from which I now write is featured over at Pauline Gaines’ blog, perilsofdivorcedpauline. In the midst of dealing with a filthy rich, scheming and vengeful ex-husband, Pauline has put together this wonderful place, Blogger Space, where she showcases the rooms from where others write. Despite the hardships she deals with day in and day out, Pauline has found a pretty side of peril…

Soon…

Minding Weeds

2011-08-17T14:38:00.010-04:00

This summer’s northeast weather has been ideal for weed growth. A wet spring followed by a record-setting heat wave. Thankfully, I only have a couple of areas I plant, and those are filled with low-maintenance, perennials.

Who has time to toil in a garden, when they are working, raising a family, tending a house, and running a business? Certainly not I. And, to boot, I don’t like pulling weeds, mainly because I don’t find pleasure in sweating dirt from my pores. It’s not that I’m opposed to dirt; it’s just not my thing.

Needless to say, scrub grasses, an assortment of unidentifiable weeds and four-foot-tall wild plants that are bowing from their own weight have overpopulated my gardens this summer. My lawn looks like crap. And it’s been bothering me.

The hot spell broke last week, and we’ve had some nice soaking rains these past few days. Yesterday, I began thinking about how easy the unwanted vegetation would pull out of the ground. This morning, as I returned from my carpooling regimen, I decided it was time. I thought about coming in to the house for a pair of gloves, but decided I might well find some distractions and postpone the job, one more day. So, I dropped my purse on the front step and went to work.

The weeds lifted from the soil easily. And as the roots surfaced, so did inhabitants who love dirt. Earthworms. Giant earthworms nearly as big as my pinky finger. Okay, so that might be a bit of an exaggeration, but they were big.

After a few of the slimy creatures burrowed back into the earth, I thought about my family. My husband and our children love to fish. As we live on a farm, they typically harvest worms from beneath piles of rotting wood and rocks, before heading out to the pond.

Knowing these slimy creatures would bring my family great delight, I gathered up an old coffee can, and the nerve to pluck them from the ground. My reaction to the worms made me think about our pet snake (a whole post in itself) and the reaction so many people have to her. Which led me to thinking about the many facets of weeds…

Our lives are littered with weeds, objects, and instances that cause us conflict and grief. And, yet, what to me is an annoyance is to another, well…not. The snake I’ve come to accept and love (and TRUST me, I was deathly afraid of snakes prior to conceding on this pet) is to many the most ghastly form of life.

The nuisance that is my unwanted plant growth is to another an opportunity to be with nature, or to work in a little exercise. The fat and squishy, slippery specimens that I could do without are desired by those I love the most.

Truth is, as annoying and unattractive as I consider the weeds, they do have purposes on earth: They give off oxygen, which we need to survive, and they provide sustenance for wildlife. They also supply a habitat for my family’s coveted worms, not to mention insects, and life’s many other creepy-crawly critters that are a vital part of our ecosystem.

I have lamented many times, “I hate fishing.” Though I find no enjoyment whatsoever in the sport, I do like being with my family and with nature. I also happen to like eating most of the fish they put in our freezer. So, to bide my time and make the experience a little more personally palatable, I carry along a book to read or a journal and pen.

A few years ago, it dawned on me that my words didn’t reflect my inner feelings, and quite honestly, were separating me from my family rather than endearing me to them. Thus, I began rephrasing my words, “What I love about fishing is being with nature, hearing the chirping crickets, the tweeting birds, the rustling wind in the trees. But most of all, what I love about fishing is watching the joy you have when you’re fishing.”

Norman Vincent Peale said “Change your thoughts and you change your world.”

When you are feeling frustration and conflict, ponder these simple truths.

• Our thoughts are constantly moving and evolving. Motivation that might work for you today might not be effective tomorrow.

• Sometimes we will be able to pluck the weeds of our lives as effortlessly as pulling unwanted vegetation from rain-softened soil. And sometimes it will feel like we are pulling the roots from cement-like, drought-riddled earth.

• You may disagree with aspects of another’s religion or lifestyle, but you should not discount the overall value of their experiences and wisdom. You never know what small element might benefit you, until you try it on.

• No matter how elusive your inspiration might seem, it lies like the worms and the weeds, just under the surface, waiting to be culled from the recesses of your mind…

Soon…

Optimism

2011-08-06T13:16:00.004-04:00

Optimism
A Five Facets Poem

The grass
is always
greener.

After
it rains.

Soon...

On Grief

2011-08-05T10:26:00.004-04:00

Every hour, across the globe, stories of loss are headlined in newspapers, on radio and television. Each story, however, is both intricately and simply personal. As these stories unfold before the public eye, the griever is entering Elisabeth Kubler-Ross' 5 Stages of Grief, a complex web of emotion and thought.

And though grief is a natural and essential part of life, so, too, is healing. Healing--the reconciling of these emotions and thoughts--is where we want to be, and yet, arriving at this destination is as random and complicated as the grief stages themselves.

That is where The Five Facets of Healing come into play. The self elements which bring about our grief, are one and the same with those we use to heal. The focus, however, is shifted toward healing, the thought not as much about why we grieve, but how we can heal.

Below is an excerpt from my unpublished work, Digging for the Light. Little did I know when I wrote this memoir about coping with the loss of my child, depression, and infidelity, that the premise would blossom so beautifully, into something so much bigger...

"Nearly two years after I wrote this manuscript, I read Dave Pelzer’s trilogy, beginning with A Child Called 'It,' which chronicles the child abuse he endured and his struggles to rise above the role of victim. In A Man Called Dave, he writes, '…my story is not about my being a victim of child abuse, but of the indomitable human spirit within us all.'

"A vast many of Dave’s words resonated with me, though none related to child abuse. I connected with his spirit, his courage, his sense of purpose, his determination…

"On a broader level, I believe his story is about overcoming loss. Loss, you might ask? Yes. Loss. As a child, Dave found himself stripped of his dignity, pride, confidence, his ability to trust and other basic, primal needs: his mother’s love, food, warmth, the refreshing feeling of a warm, cleansing shower…

"Loss comes in many forms: you can lose a pet, your wedding ring, a body limb, your house, a family member, your memory, friends, even a lifestyle.

"My daughter’s girl-scout troop merrily sang a song—to the tune of God Bless America—about a girl who cherishes her only pair of underwear.

"Imagine if she lost them.

"Don’t misunderstand me; I’m not trivializing grief—but grief isn’t as much about the loss as it is about the emotional attachment to that which is lost.

"You can purchase a new ring, wear a prosthesis, bear or adopt or foster a child, make new memories, meet new friends, and in most cases, you have other relatives. A new physical presence is created, but it can’t replace what you’ve lost; it is similar in context, yet vastly different—it lacks the original, emotional connection.

"We’ve all heard it, child loss being hailed as The Worst Loss. In my opinion, this reference works only to intensify a grieving person’s suffering.

"Child loss does defy the essence of life. It violates expectations and dreams. So does child abuse, Alzheimer’s disease, depression and infidelity, to name a few.

"This story, though initially centered on the death of my son, encompasses so much more than what I lost in his death. It encapsulates my struggle to rise above tragedy and pain. It reaches beyond the realm of loss and into the spirit of living."

Soon...

Training Sleep

2011-08-02T23:49:00.001-04:00

Two nights ago, I trudged up to bed about half-past midnight. Normally, I fluff my pillow beneath my head, lie back, and proceed to fall asleep. Instantly. On this night, however, I couldn’t turn my mind off of from a few unnerving thoughts.

One teenager is half-way across the country, “just doing his thing,” with a female friend whom he claims he isn’t dating. Another long distance connection, and I wondering if he doesn’t have some misguided conflict about relationships, especially given the turmoil that has existed in his parent’s married life. Infidelity is far reaching, that’s for sure…

Another teenager faces her senior year, college and courtship angst, and the ever present adolescent anxiety. And I wonder, have I instilled in her enough confidence, despite the typical teen and female insecurities? Have I done an adequate job as Mom, despite my own lack of confidence? One more year and she will be on her own, away from home. Have I prepared her well enough? And on this particular night when I couldn’t sleep, a different sort of worry after she and her friend asked to sleep in the camper. Moms and dads across America will relate, Will we be receiving male company in the middle of the night?

My mind raced. I put on a robe, grabbed a flashlight, and headed to the great outdoors, under the guise of saying goodnight and asking if the girls needed anything at 1:30 in the morning. Satisfied we didn’t have any unknown house guests, I returned to my bed, where my mind continued to ramble.

And then, shortly before two, I remembered the beach. It’s been years since I’ve had to employ the meditation technique. Some fifteen years ago, when my life was filled with conflict beyond my coping skills, it would take me hours to fall asleep, at times.

One night I remembered hearing that thinking about a relaxing place helps invite sleep. But my mind kept wondering. So I implemented the cue, “the beach,” to draw my focus back to my restful place. I’d imagine myself sitting down in the sand, burying my toes into the warm granuals, and conjure an image of the rolling water. I made it a priority to remember the practice each night, to be conscious of my wandering, fretting mind, and to employ the prompt.

As the days and weeks passed by, my practice paid off and I found I could turn off the rambling thoughts and initiate sleep much more quickly. Eventually, I had perfected the mediation so well that I could hear the ocean waves rolling in, and on cold nights, I could actually will my feet to warm as I envisioned tucking them into the sand.

Years later, someone told me that what I’d been doing was practicing self-meditation. No formal guidance is needed, just simple dedication to your goal. And I’ve since talked with many people who use this same strategy. One woman I met goes to a lush field she played in as a child. Others fish, swim, lie in the sun…

Do you have a special place you can retreat to when your sleep doesn’t come? Try it. Think of a place, Create a word cue. Then practice seeing the area, hearing the sounds, and being in the space. Each time your mind drifts back into the chaos that’s keeping you awake, call upon the signal… Sweet dreams are only a place away…

Speaking of slumber, it’s time for me to turn in…

Soon…

Summer Warmth

2011-07-22T21:45:00.003-04:00

I climbed out of bed at eight this morning and headed straight for the kitchen. Four hours later, I had finally finished cleaning up after preparing several gallons of bottled lemonade, tea, and water; making two pounds of macaroni salad; two dozen deviled eggs; cutting up an enormous, juicy watermelon; assembling paper products, condiments, table coverings; and gathering an assortment of portable, outdoor games.

Three hours into the project, I remembered the hour I spent earlier this week making hamburger and sausage patties for our outing. And the thought occurred to me, Is all this effort worth it? Why don’t I just buy all this stuff? Yet the answer is simple: The monetary savings is great. The costs we save by being frugal on a regular basis allow us the means to do so many other things we want to do.

My husband has waited thirty-some years to own a boat, and last fall his dream came true with a new-to-us –end-of-season-Ebay-find. So far we’ve enjoyed a few summer jaunts with his new toy. And tomorrow we’re sharing the fun with his family and are having an outing at a state park about an hour from home.

We’ll tube and try out my son’s wake board. The one he purchased last summer—long before the boat would be a reality—because he and his cousin thought it was a bargain. We’ll eat and laugh and enjoy the summer fun. The trip will be a great escape for all before my father-in-law’s heart surgery this coming week. At the back end of all this summertime joy, and at the rear of my husband’s mind, will be his concern about his father’s health and recovery.

The excursion will also be an escape from the heat wave that has gripped the nation this past week. This morning, as I walked across my burnt lawn, the dried up blades crunched beneath my feet. The only patch of pale green that I can see rests beneath a quarter-century tree in our front yard. In the twenty-some years I have lived in this house, I do not recall a time when the lawns and sweeping fields were this parched.

It is hard to believe how dry we are after a winter and spring that included large amounts of snow and rain. As I walked across my yard I was thankful we are no worse off. I thought about all of the locations across the nation that have been under drought conditions for the past several years. Water supplies threatened. Thousands of acres scorched by raging wild fires. Thousands of humans at risk of overheating and dehydration. Heat index warnings announced daily, and in parts of our country that are rarely affected by these staggering numbers.

A few days ago, one scrolling headline talked about a man who opened a fire hydrant to allow local children a bit of respite from the oppressive heat. A photo showed several youth jumping elatedly in the spray. The man argued the justification of his decision, despite being against the law.

Another rolling headline depicted the horrific details of the murder of eight-year-old Lieby Kletzky. The article included the now iconic photo of the innocent young boy with dark hair, glasses, fair complexion, and a delicate nose.

Last night, just before going to bed, another headline led me to an article about a Memorial Fund established by Leiby’s parents. More than sixty-thousand dollars was raised in the first day, which their new organization will use to help youth and families in crisis and need.

I felt the warmth of more than a thousand people who have already contributed to this cause. And I believe, without doubt, that our country’s generosity—even in our own economic dark times—will raise funds that far exceed the family’s goal of one million dollars.

Such is life. Our spiritual seasons are apt to change as rapidly as the environment around us. And just as our physical hemispheres experience alternating weather patterns, so do we mortals. My current, glorious season of summer is another’s stark winter.

But one thing is for certain, no matter how dark or dreary life might seem, there is always light glistening in the periphery.

Soon…

On Depression

2011-07-07T14:14:00.016-04:00

Depression. It lives all around us. In every walk of life. It often resides in unsuspecting places. In unsuspecting persons. And yet, sometimes it sits undetected, right in front of us, in a Hidden Objects picture, of sorts. We know something is there, inside the image that is Our Self, but we just can’t put our finger on it.

I first learned of my own depression some fifteen years ago. At the time, the therapist I was seeing indicated I’d likely been depressed since my teenage years. The thought infuriated me, especially the part about needing medication. I didn’t like the idea of pumping pills into my body. Not that I’m against modern medicine, but depression didn’t seem like a justifiable reason. When my counselor posed the question, “Would you deprive yourself of chemotherapy, if you had cancer?” I came to see Depression in a new light. Depression is an illness. A bonafide sickness. Depression needs treatment, just like any other disease.

A low dose antidepressant, coupled with continuing therapy, brought about a new clarity. Depressed thinking is always askew. Sometimes the thoughts are merely a little off kilter, and sometimes they are drastically distorted. For those who have lived with depression for an extended period of time, the one consistent is that the skewed thinking is considered normal, it isn’t questioned, it is believed to be how everyone exists. Yesterday, the Oprah Winfrey show featured a young woman named Chelsea, who as a seven-year-old girl was forced to live in a dog crate. Not having any other examples, she believed her experiences to be no different than those of everyone else. One of the most important details to note, however, is that she wished for something different. She recalls finding joy and longing in pictures of her teacher’s daughter, who had her hair all done up in pigtails and pretty bows.

When we suffer depression we, too, long for something different. We don’t like the feelings of frustration and failure, hopelessness and helplessness, sadness and self-loathing. We want to feel better. We yearn for confidence, for positive and uplifting feelings. That longing, especially when the emotions last for an extended period, can be a sign of depression, for depression is often an insidious illness, appearing to us as slowly as the objects in a complicated I Spy game.

I have been planning this post for weeks. I have looked forward to the end of the school year, to the end of June, which I describe as a hamster wheel month. I wanted to wait until I could give the writing the attention it deserves, when I could carve the post out without feeling rushed by one of the many parental or household obligations. Had it not been for a series of figures who recently came into my field of vision, I might have procrastinated my reflection a bit longer.

Two weeks ago, I was speaking with a woman who had been concerned about her own forgetfulness. Though this lack of thought focus often leaves us worrying about the possibility of Alzheimer's, her physician diagnosed depression, a common symptom of grief, and one that is certainly unsurprising given the unexpected death of her child a little over a year ago. Yesterday I read an article about Britney Spears and thought about how she has overcome such a troubled past, one so painfully played out in the media. There had to have been some level of depression present during that troubling time. This morning I happened to catch a snippet of an interview with Rick Springfield on The View. The words depression and book caught my ear. A quick search on Amazon tells me his book, Late, Late at Night was released last October. Rick’s memoir details his long battle with this disease. Who knew? That is one of the most incongruous, ridiculous features of this illness: A person can appear bubbly and happy and successful and living a fairy tale life, when in essence they are coping with one of life’s most unglamorous, too often closeted facets. Depression.

I uncovered my final clue about a month ago. I noticed, once again, that I wanted to run away, after a difficult family situation. I could just move to some place like France and start my life over. This fantasy, in and of itself, doesn’t depict Depression. We all want to escape our lives from time to time. Why, Calgon’s slogan, “Calgon, take me away!” has lasted for more than four decades. But my depression symptoms have been slowly surfacing since last fall: a perpetual feeling of overwhelm, a perpetual state of forgetfulness, intermittent thoughts of self loathing—those that come from the gut, beyond the typical questions of worthiness. This Escape Plan, however, is a whisper that comes from deep within, revealing itself like the Sixth Sense that we often ignore.

Acknowledging these subtle undertones is the first key. Depression manifests itself differently in different people. Some of us treat our friends and family badly. We recognize we are being snippy and snarky. Sometimes we give credence to this behavior by turning the behavior into sarcastic humor. Some of us turn into ourselves, becoming introverted and less active. We recognize our frustrations and feelings of overwhelm, placing blame on the shoulders of the extraneous.

Our external lives do impact our moods. We all face stressful times. Life is an ebb and flow of demanding, restful, traumatic… This fact makes it difficult for us to decipher if what we are experiencing is indeed Depression or situational discomfort. Death. Loss of home, job, limb, security. Middle Age. The changing or declining health of ourselves, or our parents. The cyclic nature of parenting, our children’s detachment as they discover who they are, as they mature and evolve into adults, themselves… Every event impacts our psyche. The level and length of the impact will help in determining if we are depressed, and the appropriate course of treatment. If you are unsure, talk with your physician or schedule a visit with a therapist.

The realization that Depression had likely reentered my life disheartened me. The knowledge that I could do something about was inspiring. Tracing my behaviors of the past months, the first point I recognized was that I had slowly eliminated my daily vitamin regimen after last year’s family vacation. I had simply gotten out of the habit. The B vitamins are excellent mood stabilizers, and had been a part of my supplemental intake for more than ten years. My first step was to reinstall the intake of vitamins into my daily routine. Now I want to work on breaking the other behaviors that are counterproductive to my good mental health. I want to return to the lifestyle of eating less and exercising more… Chuckle. Chuckle. A saga for so many of us!! And yet, the choices are ours. The power is within us, if we choose it. If we work to create new habits…

We know that comforting occasions affect our state of being as much as the uncomfortable. That is why we long for moments that bring us joy, why we celebrate the approaching rest periods with “Over the Hump Day,” “TGIF!”, and why we count down the days to our vacations. Research has also proven that exercise and light are often key elements in helping prevent or combat depression.

Guess it’s time to begin plucking more of those healthy images from the Hidden Objects of my life. It’s two o’clock in the afternoon. Time to shower. Time to walk the dog. Time for some fun in the sun with my kid…

Soon…

Respite

2011-06-28T21:32:00.003-04:00

In my last post, I spoke about finding respite during a busy time of my life. That is one virtue I’ve been trying to teach my teens these past few years: There are times throughout our lives when we must appreciate simple moments of rest and relaxation, for there are stressful periods when we cannot afford the luxury of leisurely breaks and long vacations.

Even during the hamster wheel that is my month of June, I still have laundry to wash, dishes to clean, garbage to take out, bills to pay, groceries to purchase, phone calls to return, schedules to assemble and reassemble, meals to cook, fuel to purchase… Each of us has similar schedules, similar obligations we must take care of. If we didn’t do these tasks, our utilities would be turned off, the house and our clothes would stink, we would either spend a fortune in eating out or go hungry. And for those of us with children? Well, we’d likely be reported to Child Protective Services for neglect.

We do have options. We could simply say No to the extraneous: No to overtime. No to school concerts and plays and sporting events. No to Play Dates. No to anything that doesn’t fit into our Daily Routine. We could say No to any one or all of the extras.

I am blessed to have three children who are active youth. They aren’t overachievers who are Altar Boys, Class Presidents, Team Captains in three school sports, play at least one instrument, sing, dance, act, write for academic newspapers, and serve at soup kitchens when they aren’t working at their paying job. My children are, however, each involved in sports year-round, and do participate in service classes through school. As such, there are numerous opportunities for us to be a part of their lives, and many events we choose to attend.

Someone once said to me, when I was rattling off the list of events I’d attended that week, probably in a state of overwhelm, “You chose to have those three kids.” Correct. The person who made the comment to me is one who seems to have mastered the art of No at a younger age than the rest of us, and appears to have little qualm in allowing the family’s teenagers to participate in school events without parent representation. Our choices are different. I look at it this way: I am only a mom once and I want to be there to experience their achievements and failures. I want them to know I am interested in their interests. Though I do schedule in time for myself, I consider my children my priority, and am selective about my personal choices, engaging in those activities that bring me joy, peace, or satisfaction.

This year, as June came to a close, I found myself preparing for my family to spread out across the globe for various activities. In hindsight, I might have fared better had I said No to all of the overtime that presented itself to me. And yet, the way I looked at it was this: The chaos had a definite end, only a few weeks away. And hubby and I would be able to use the extra money for an anniversary weekend getaway.

Part of teaching our children (and ourselves) is the act of doing. As they say in the writing world, “Show. Don’t tell.” By spending a few quiet moments each day, be it fifteen minutes (or so) in the hot tub each night, watching an hour of American Idol or America’s Got Talent with my husband, curled up on the couch to read a few more pages in the book I’ve been carrying around for months, or writing in this blog, I am demonstrating to my children the importance of relaxation, while creating patterns for myself that had previously felt a bit awkward. Raise your hand if your parents showed you how to be a hardworking person, and if you are familiar with the expression that correlates idle with the devil.

Last week was the most grueling. I ended up packing a few dirty clothes, some favorites I knew I could wash when I reached my destination. I left the house with clean laundry on the sofa, leftovers in the fridge, flower petals and dirt on the porch and deck, a dining room table full of papers and notes, a dirty bathroom, an unmade bed. But the most important things were done: Notes for my children to let them know how proud I am of them, and how much I love them. The bills were paid. And the rest? It will be waiting when I return.

My last June obligation behind me, I began this week with a lazy, relaxed sense of calm. My youngest son and I have been moving at a snail’s pace, sleeping late, eating whenever we feel like it, visiting with out-of-town family, reading, writing… Right now, we are both stretched out on a screened in porch, he a book in his hands, and me with my laptop. A southern storm passed through about an hour ago, bringing with it brilliant streaks of lighting, booming rounds of thunder, and a wind that carried away the stifling heat.

I’ve been doing some internet browsing today and stumbled across several blogs of note. I began this post with the intent of sharing with you 8 Ways to Optimize Your Life, a post I found at one of those sites. That’ll have to wait until next time. Right now, my stomach is moving me toward the kitchen, and America’s Got Talent is beckoning me into the living room…

Soon…

Bright Moon Grateful

2011-06-12T21:41:00.004-04:00

The few weeks before school ends are always full. I often find myself running from place to place, chore to chore, and looking forward to the end of the academic year, for then the hampster wheel that is June with active children will end.

Despite the hectic schedules and perpetual scheduling, rescheduling and planning, my husband and I have been trying to take time at the end of the day to rest and relax. The hot tub is one of our most soothing places to be. Last night was probably the most spectactular of all our evenings since purchasing the used tub last October. The fireflys flitted across the field like fairies waving their magic wands. The bright moon illuminated hubby's chiseled features.

Tonight, after a busy weekend, we ended the day by heading to the pond in the woods. Kids, fishing poles, the dog, and the book I'm reading... Hubby and the kids fished; I read. A gently breeze lifted the stress from our bodies and carried it off over the hill. As I made the long walk back home, the leaves serenaded the moon, which hung brightly in the sky. Such a beautiful, peaceful energy.

Twice this week, I've been fortunate enough to find myself in the belly of a farm, at a pond's edge. Both days, the temperatures have been moderate, a brief respite from the stifling heat that has consumed much of the country of recent. And tonight, as I close this eve, and head to bed, I am grateful for the these calming times, a respite before the chaos returns. I leave you with this poem I wrote a few days ago, as I sat at water's edge.

Life in Threes

I am late.

In a breeze.

I am here.

Dear Maria

2011-05-23T19:50:00.001-04:00

I empathize with the trials you and your family face. Yesterday, today, tomorrow, thousands of people have already or will enter a similar circumstance. Some will come as a surprise and live closer than you might imagine, while others will connect from afar. No matter the distance, we are neighbors in grief, and allies in healing.

The details vary, yet the foundation upon which an affair occurs is fairly consistent। What I have come to understand is that the infidelity has nothing to do with the spouse, and everything to do with the adulterer. And, though we may acknowledge this truth academically, the emotional element of the self often creates a deep, inner doubt. Doubts that often undermine how we feel about ourselves as a spouse, as a friend, as a woman (or a man), as a mother... Some of these conflicts will be resolved quickly, while others will nag at us for what seems like much too long to come...

Neither the level of our pain nor the outcome of our healing will be determined by our social status, our education, nor by any one of our individual traits, really. Our five facets--the academic, emotional, physical, social, and spiritual elements--blend together seamlessly. And though we may use one of these elements to propel us forward in healing, the end result will be a collaboration of all that comprises us.

My therapist once said to me that "there is too much emphasis placed on the affair." It is as if the affair becomes the bull’s-eye of our relationship with our spouse and with our self. And though the affair is the cause of the current conflict, it is just that; the catalyst to the affair needs to be targeted, for therein lies details that can help bring about a better understanding, and afford us powerful insight and knowledge. Untangling the academic from the emotional is one of our greatest hurdles, yet one of the most useful instruments in healing.

This task of discerning the separate entities that comprise your grief may be convoluted by public scrutiny. The truth is, as you well know, that people talk. Regardless of national attention, small town gossip, or chatter amongst a small circle of friends, rumor, speculation, and dissection of our lives exists. And it doesn't matter if it is an affair, a physical tension, an outright verbal fight, or a seemingly trouble-free relationship. Even in what is perceived as "the perfect couple or family," people analyze... For some reason, however, it's the "dirty laundry" that is hung from every natter's flagpole... Nevertheless, any doubt, fear, humiliation, sadness or stigma we experience would exist no matter our circumstance.

Below is a September 2006 journal excerpt, written two days after I uncovered my husband's second affair. I added it as an end note to a body of work I created once I had resolved inner conflicts I endured after the unexpected death of my firstborn, two miscarriages, hospitalization for depression, and a subsequent affair between my husband and one of my best friends. This first woman was a person whom also happened to be someone I employed, someone I entrusted my fears and doubts to, someone I welcomed into my home and into my heart, someone I encouraged my husband and children to embrace...an occurrence much more common than we wish to believe…

"Today…

"Today, I face a new challenge in my life. To my utter dismay, I discovered, two days ago, that my husband has once again been unfaithful.

"You are not alone.

"When the initial, gut-wrenching shock wore off, mere hours after my discovery, I realized how strong I have become these past years. I remembered everything I’ve shared with you in this book. I cried on my friends’ shoulders until I felt my soul had been emptied. But by the end of that night, I also realized that his brief sexual rendezvous with another woman had absolutely nothing to do with me. Nothing.

"I know not where our marriage will go from here. But I do know this: I have considered Warren one of my best friends for twenty years. I believe his remorse is genuine, and as such, I must remain loyal to our friendship. I must help him realize that this sort of behavior bodes ill for his personal well-being and for that of any relationship to come.

"I don’t hate him, but I do hate the pain his actions have brought me. Nonetheless, I still love him. From this point forward, our relationship will be different. The original, emotional attachment is no longer intact; yet, no matter what, he will remain a friend, be it in divorce or in a marriage that will adapt to the changes.

"Initially I cried over this written story, my messages of hope, courage, triumph, and perseverance. I bawled as I asked my friend, ‘How can I still publish my book when my marriage has been nothing but an illusion? How can I inspire hope and courage in others when my life has returned to this sordid mess?’

"As angry as she is at Warren for hurting me so deeply, she replied, ‘This is a ‘for worse.’

"She is right. This challenge is a “for worse.” And this I know: My marriage hasn’t been an illusion. This situation is a tornado in my life. The winds will die down, the dust will settle, and we will begin to rebuild a new life. A different life.
"I often tell my children: ‘Life is what you make of it.’

"I choose to begin each day anew. Warren has sought the help of a professional. Warren and I remain in the same house, but in separate beds. We take time out of every busy day to discuss the issues we face. I talk (Yes. I’ve screamed a few times… Okay. More than a few times.) Warren listens. Warren talks. I listen.

"No matter the outcome of my marriage, I will be okay। Better than okay. I have faith in my strength, confidence in my courage to move forward despite the turmoil, and the ability to celebrate the marriage that existed prior to this upheaval.

"The merry-go-round of my life, with all of its upswings and downturns, continues… One day at a time.

"I am not alone."

What I can tell you, nearly five years later, is that the initial shock I speak of turned out to be layered, as is the case following distressing events. I guess you might say those words, written two days after I uncovered his second sordid dalliance, were the first following a sort of Groundhog Day sticker shock.

Like an ocean, the realizations came in waves, as equally rewarding and subtle as they were random and staggering।

I was blessed beyond measure with a therapist who helped me realize that my husband's affairs did not diminish or discount his love for me। His gaffes did not mean my marriage of seventeen years had been a sham. The two actions--loving me and breaking our wedding vows-- were as autonomous as night and day. Pairing the two is ever so easy, yet so counterproductive to healing.

That early knowledge was also crucial in helping me in my role as Mom। The one issue tantamount to my healing was the well being of my three children. Though the error of his ways placed him in a pool of lousy spouses, his marital mistakes did not change who he was as a father. Loving the father while loathing the partner is difficult at best, but it is imperative that we do not place our children in front of the proverbial moving bus.

The road to healing is a long journey, one where the topography resembles a California highway when the poppies are in bloom: on one side is the most luscious landscape, the most vivid hues we'll ever witness, while the other side of the road is similar to life without nurture, it is dried up, the vegetation brown and seemingly dead।

The way of this passage will be detailed with stretches of smooth, flat surface and runs of hilly, choppy, shifting terrain। The atmosphere will shift from thick to thin, from hot to cold, from stormy to still… When you remember to breathe, to notice the scenery's beauty, the turbulence will settle, affording you respite along the way…

May your coming days be blessed with moments of vibrant color and clarity...may courage be your constant companion...may the love of family and friends lift you up। And may you know that, whether your name is Maria, Elizabeth, Sandra, Shania, or Person Next Door, you are not alone...

Soon...

Sweet Tart Tears

2011-05-13T13:49:00.000-04:00

Original post from May 11, which disappeared from this blog...

Today marks my oldest son’s twenty-first birthday, that magic American number, our vision of ultimate freedom.

I have had this day planned for weeks, but as I sit here, I cannot seem to find my stride. My every intention has been to celebrate this day. I ordered a surprise for my college kid to pick up, a special dinner since he cannot be with us this evening. I made plans with my husband and my other two to dine out, tonight. I planned to pamper myself and write a blog…

Yet, I sat here for twenty minutes, with a title (initially Birthday Bash), the opening seventeen words, and a blinking cursor… I asked myself if I should be upbeat for the sakes of all those who mourn. I wondered if I should tie this into some teaching moment—a motivational and inspirational approach. I asked myself if all the words before have held meaning, as readers do not respond. I have often wondered if it is because my writings hold no inspiration, if I have been deluding myself, or if you are afraid to share your thoughts, or if the topics don’t lend themselves for a response…

The real truth of my doubts, however, stems from a place of sadness, of wistfulness that will always be with me. Don’t get me wrong, I am still celebrating my son’s life, am still grateful for the brief time we had together in this world. But, as is the human way, I want more. And now I smile, as the little voice in my head says, “be careful what you wish for.”

If my son were alive, I would no doubt be fretting about his safe return this evening. I would be worrying if he and his friends were making safe choices, if they had made plans for a Designated Driver, or planned to take cabs, or planned for us—the dreaded parents, the keeper of rules and regulations—to transport them… Yes, it is possible—though unlikely—he wouldn’t be pursuing his newly earned right to drink beverages of the legal sort… But twenty-one isn’t the only worry for moms…

It is a complex emotion, this twist of happy and sad. It is its own sort of Sweet Tart; one suck makes us pucker and brings tears to our eyes, while the next taste draws a smile… And, again, I smile, with tears in my eyes… Sweet Tart Tears… My boy is grinning and shaking his head in disbelief at that, and probably thinking how bizarre his mother is.

Such is the cycle of Motherhood. We come in and out of reverence; some days our children are grateful for us, and some days they wish they’d been born into another family. Such is life, all life: Some days we are grateful for the gifts we have, while other times we wish for something different, we cry out for another story, an alternate ending…

Last night I went to the theatre to see Water for Elephants. I couldn’t have been happier with the film’s adaptation of the written work, how it brought the story to life, rather than recreate it. The book is one of my all-time favorites. Though I must admit I much preferred the ending the screenwriter chose for the film. To me, the big screen conclusion suited the story line much better.

What I do know is that my son’s short life was but one of the endings my life will experience. Though my son isn’t physically here, his presence is. He knows how much I love him. He will smell the aroma of the restaurant, and, if he’s anything like his father and siblings, he will be cracking jokes and adding a joyful flavor to the event.

Twenty-one years ago, the sky was a dull gray. A dreary, cold mist hung in the air and seeped into human bones. Today, the sky couldn’t be bluer, the sun couldn’t be brighter. The air is balmy, allowing me to write from my deck, which looks out over a hillside and spring-green fields that have awakened after a long, cold winter.

Below is an excerpt from the book I wrote, while trying to come to terms with my son’s death.

“Some time later, the hospital staff brought my son to me again. I cradled him against me, his body a perfect fit for my short arm, his weight pressing my limb into my tender belly.

“I drank in the beauty of his body: breathed in his new-baby scent, ran my fingers over his silky-smooth flesh, felt his skin next to my cheek, nuzzled him in adoration, and quietly loved him.

“I remember his round little face…a thin black coat of silky, fuzzy hair…his delicate fingers, and his ten tiny toes.
“He looked so perfect.
“He was perfect.
“Except he didn’t move…
“He didn’t breathe…
“He didn’t cry…
“I didn’t know it, and probably wouldn’t have accepted it, but I was not alone.
“You are not alone.”

That is one thing I know for sure. We are never alone. Not in our anguish, nor our celebrations!

Happy twenty-first birthday, son!!!

Soon…

On Love and Hate

2011-05-04T22:07:00.000-04:00

As a child--heck, even as an adult--I have felt others' pain. I have never liked mean-spiritedness. Jokes created at the expense of others (gay, religious, academia, mental...) have always brought sadness and frustration to my heart. We are one people. We are human. And though we were created as one existence, we were not created equal, for had we been, we would live as one shape, one color...one unanimous ability in our academic, emotional, physical, spiritual, and social selves.

I have strong faith in diversity, in its power to promote growth and reshape futures. Without it our world would be a stagnant, floating sea of listlessness.

That said, our differences are often confounding, at best. We fear what we do not understand. We either run from it or attack it. That is the way of life, really, a primitive response that is inherent in living creatures. Hence, the old adage, "fight or flight." When one or more of these traits is magnified by other extreme personality characteristics, the result can be daunting, and downright frightful.

Fear often manifests itself in anger. Next time you are angry in your gut, or find yourself yelling your angst, stop and ask yourself what you are afraid of. A fear of losing control might appear in the form of not being able to protect someone (parent, child, spouse) or something (home, auto, job, marriage). Often, we are angry when we are embarrassed (fear of shame). Some of us fear rejection, while others yet have a fear of failure or not being "good enough." Once we identity the fear, we have power to enact change over how it effects us. Because fear is often deep-rooted, we may have to make a conscious effort to recognize the feelings over and over, but if we can do this, eventually we should be able to create new behaviors and reactions.

Some people, however, do not address their fears and anger, which often turn into hate.

Hate begets hate.

When I was a young girl, my mom used to say to me "Kill them with kindness." In recent years, I have found I have been able to win over the hearts of several bullies, those who are closed to newcomers. Choosing to be nice is hard, arduous, and frustrating when dealing with meanness. In the end, however, what I found with these women is that they were transferring to me the anger they held toward my predecessor. That said, there have been many times in my life when I believed I wanted retaliation, though I refrained from acting on the emotion.

Many months after 9/11, I was sharing with my husband my concern over people saying they would shoot Osama bin Laden if given the opportunity; that they would "love to put a bullet between his eyes." I believe such behavior only perpetuates the hate, and I believe the hatred on both sides stems primarily from fear, and a lack of understanding. In my idealic version of life, there were one or more persons on this earth who have the ability to stimulate discussion and comprehension from bullies and terrorists... And yet, as my husband said, "There are some people you can't talk to or rationalize with." As much as I'd like his statement to be false, I know it to be true.

This knowledge saddens me, but no more than the recent celebrations resounding through the United States since the announcement of bin Laden's expiration. Though I felt a bit of relief, I fully understood that his death in no way eliminates terrorism, which makes me wonder what is driving the elation of so many?

I am not alone in questioning this type of behavior.

Jessica Dovey, an English teacher, made this comment, which has circulated like wildfire in the past few days: "I mourn the loss of thousands of precious lives, but I will not rejoice in the death of one, not even an enemy."

She went on to quote Martin Luther King, Jr., from his work Strength of Love. “Are we seeking power for power’s sake? Or are we seeking to make the world and our nation better places to live. If we seek the latter, violence can never provide the answer. The ultimate weakness of violence is that it is a descending spiral, begetting the very thing it seeks to destroy. Instead of diminishing evil, it multiplies it. Through violence you may murder the liar, but you cannot murder the lie, nor establish the truth. Through violence you may murder the hater, but you do not murder hate. In fact, violence merely increases hate. So it goes. Returning violence for violence multiplies violence, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.

Both of these quotes beg us to look at hate, and to ponder the merits of love. As you contemplate your own reaction to recent events, and consider your own fears, what thoughts, feelings, and emotions are unearthed? Does the inquiry provide answers to any of your questions? Most importantly, though, ask yourself if your reaction brings about any resolve, if it eradicates your conflict or turmoil…

Soon…

Celebrating a Gift

2011-03-07T22:17:00.000-05:00

The birthday card my mother sent me a few months ago was simple, a few watercolor flowers sitting atop a box; the creators had glued a tiny blue ribbon above the scrolling message. The words inside held a lifetime of sentiment that I will remember for years to come:

You are a smile and a gift

and an amazing story

of growth and change

and good times and tough times

and memories and love.

You bring so much good to my life,

and I'll always celebrate you.

The words "amazing story," "growth and change," and "good times and tough times" reached deep within my gut. I once said to someone who was embarrassed about her drunk father's actions, "Every family has a story." Truth is, every individual has a story, every life is an epic narrative.

We know that we change as we grow up, but we never really acknowledge these shifts in our attitudes until we are faced with hardships. Turmoil forces us to either curl up in a ball and deny the friction, or challenge the conflict, to look at the essence of our deepest secrets, desires, fears, and failures. For some reason, we mature believing that mistakes are something horrific, that to err means we are flawed beyond measure. And, yet, it is only through our errors that we can fully understand, internalize the knowledge imparted through action.

This concept isn't new. Inspirational guru, Tony Robbins, writes on his web, "Unfortunately, we're programmed to fear this thing called 'failure,' so we try everything we can to avoid it, which is pointless," he says. "Failure is often necessary for real learning to occur."

What I think tied all of this card's thoughts together and touched my spirit were the words "celebrate you." Celebrate. Though I couldn't articulate that desire after my son died, what I did know was that I didn't want to mourn him for the rest of my life. It wasn't until I reconciled the last piece of my conflict, which happened to be housed within the spiritual facet, that I could label what I did want: to celebrate his life.

On September 3, 2006, two days after I unearthed my husband's last affair, I wrote the following: "No matter the outcome of my marriage, I will be okay. Better than okay. I have faith in my strength, confidence in my courage to move forward despite the turmoil, and the ability to celebrate the marriage that existed prior to this upheaval."

Celebrate... Celebrating an amazing story/of growth and change/and good times and tough times/and memories and love. Celebrating mothers, marriage, memories, mistakes, mishaps...and the stories of our lives...

Are you able to accept any of the challenges of your life? Are you able to celebrate any of your tough times, in addition to the good times?

Soon...