We float down the river, his inner tube tied to our younger daughter, our older bravely floating alone far ahead. In conversation he mentions he has never done this before. He reminds me that once, so long ago, on our first outing as a couple we were supposed to go tubing. But the previous day’s massive rain and the dangers there-in had turned a planned leisurely day on the river into a hike up Humpback Rock. And ironically that arduous event was precisely when I fell deeply in love and knew I’d found the man I wanted to marry.

I flashed back to that day almost exactly 15 years earlier. I wasn’t in horrid shape, but the combination of drinking, a late night and allergies took its toll. Out of the four couples in our group, I was certain I was fit enough not to trail at the very end. I overestimated my ability by a long shot. Seth, however, in perfect Marine shape could have carried me to the top and back again without the slightest bit of effort.

Beside him, I was slow and weary, ready to be ashamed.

But he gently guided me, and supported me, and totally allowed me to do it my own way. He took off one of two shirts and wiped the sweat off my face, with no judgment whatsoever. He encouraged me every step of the way with words and smiles and laughter, but never swooped in to do it for me.  There was not one moment of irritation, impatience or anger.  And once we finally got to the top, he seemed to revel in my accomplishment. We shared in the magnificent view, a quiet moment of stillpoint, holding hands in silence.

As we took the trail back down, I realized that this was what I had always wanted in a partner. A man, deeply comfortable with himself, who knew his own strength so well that he had no need to demonstrate it to others. Someone who would support me completely in being my own quirky, stubborn self, yet never lose himself in the process. A person of kindness and humor and deep compassion. By the time we drove home I was head over heels in love with the essence of my beloved. I knew in my heart that, even if things did not work out between the two of us, I was a better person for having experienced him.

Oh how funny life can be, I floated along thinking. The river carries us downstream, and we are far smarter to work with the currents than against them, trusting that they take us where we are meant to go. So many years I’d been sad over one boy or another not returning affection.  Lamenting in my 20’s that I hadn’t found the right man, assuming I actually knew what “right” looked like. And yet here I am in my 40’s with my perfect spouse in a package I honestly would have never imagined.

I’ve always felt that Seth and I have an undercurrent, a river deep below the surface that supports us fully as a couple. A river of love and trust and promise.

How lovely that our river took us to the mountain that day! Had we floated instead, would the inner workings of this dear human have been as evident? Would I have had the fodder to commit to our long-distance relationship so quickly? Could I have so clearly recognized my deep yearning for this complimentary Spirit who fits me so perfectly in every way? But we did, and I did.  And we have weathered oh so much more since that first adventure.

As I watch my Dearest laughing with my daughter, on a sunny day under the vast Montana skies, I am reminded again that all is always as it should be. The ripples are always perfectly perfect.  I have great reason to trust…and to love.

The post Rivers and Mountains or Why I Love My Husband appeared first on Ashley Folsom.

Timing is often comical to me. I had written a lovely piece about personal perception. Then out of nowhere: THE DRESS. If you are reading this 15 minutes after I post it, this social media phenomenon will probably be history, so let me remind you.

There is a dress. It’s posted to the internet and suddenly no one has a clue what color it is. Well, actually most people are dead certain what color it is. One side screams gold and white. The other side screams black and blue. And, oddly, both are right…though not exactly. The actual dress, when seen in person, is said to be black lace and blue satin. But in the picture more than half the population sees it as gold/white (or brown/lilac, or anything except black/blue).

And for these folks, they are REALLY, DEEPLY experiencing the dress in these alternative colors.

Families are arguing on couches all over the world as I write. Why has this taken up so much of our collective time in the last 24 hours? Because people want to stand on their perception as truth.

I’m not headed down that rabbit hole at the moment (though Holy Mackerel what a metaphor for our divisive society). Instead I’m returning to my regularly scheduled post. They will link in a minute.

Last week my precocious 7-year old began drawing a spiral, turned to her older sister and announced “I’m making an Optimistic Illusion!” Of course, she meant optical…and she was rather crushed when she discovered she had used the wrong word.

But the idea of an Optimistic Illusion simply delights me.

Why? Because unlike many of my cohorts currently screaming on social media about THE DRESS, I am fully aware that whatever I want to be true is what I will perceive. I’m not looking for the truth…I’m creating my own. And my truth is pretty doggone Optimistic.

I choose how I tell my story. More snow can be yet another forced holiday with my kids…or an unexpected reason to bake cookies. A missed plane can mean I didn’t get to a meeting…or that I had a chance to meet someone I wouldn’t have otherwise. My husband’s last minute business trip can mean more on my plate for the evening…or a chance to take the kids out and not do dishes. If I’m looking for the brighter side, that’s what I’m likely to find. I can choose to believe the Divine (in whatever form) is working with my best interest at heart, or I can choose to believe I have to beat the system, work harder to make it happen, overcome a multitude of obstacles. In the end, I get to choose. So in a way, all of it is merely a perception I have created.

And the best part: no one can tell me I’m wrong.

It’s my perspective. My viewpoint. Me, who gets to experience life as I want to experience it. Why would I choose anything but an Optimistic Illusion?

So this brings me around again to the silly lace dress. In the end, the dress is black and blue. And I tell you what, I would have bet a month’s pay that it was gold and white. I actually found the dress pretty in those luminescent colors. I didn’t want the dress to be dark…in that basic black that everyone always wears to formal events. I liked the lightness, the shine. After more scrutiny than I care to admit, I’m able to perceive the dress in its actual coloring. And it’s nice enough as black and blue. But I prefer the other, and obviously my eyes prefer to SEE the other. Because when I look back at it, it’s always changed to the gold and white. This truly is an optical illusion.

And as with all optical illusion where you can choose to see an old lady or a young maiden, a goblet or two faces, the static or the moving, neither one is right or wrong. They just are. Both exist; you get to choose what you perceive.

Why not focus on the one you prefer?

So next time you have the opportunity to tell the story of your day to yourself, be it one of the past or the day coming up, choose what you wish to see. Realize that what you want to see is what you get. It’s all an illusion, and you get to decide which part your eyes will focus on…and what colors you want to invite to shine through.

If you really want to know the story behind the dress:
http://www.washingtonpost.com/news/morning-mix/wp/2015/02/27/the-inside-story-of-the-white-dress-blue-dress-drama-that-divided-a-nation/

The post Optimistic Illusion: What You Want to See is What You Get appeared first on Ashley Folsom.

I’m not teaching my daughters to be nice.  Nope!  In fact, they are not allowed to use the word “nice” at our house.  When one accidentally says it, she throws her hand over her mouth as if she’s said the “s” word (which she thinks is “shut-up,” but I digress).  Immediately the offending daughter will replace “nice” with “kind”.

Nice and Kind are not interchangeable in my mind.

To me, NICE is a code word for “suppress your own needs and do what is best for the other person/people around you”.  And frankly, I am not okay with teaching that behavior to my children.  I want my girls to factor themselves into each and every equation…look at the system as a whole rather than simply doing the thing that in the moment will make the other person happy.  I’m all for teaching my kids to be good citizens of the world.  And believe me, I want them to care for others, the environment and society as a whole.  If my kids become selfish brats, I’ll be totally disappointed beyond belief.

But I’ll be more horrified it they become NICE.

Maybe your childhood was like mine:  as a kid, if you started to voice a complaint about another child, you were often told to “be NICE to your friend”. The interpretation was “stop making waves” or “letting the other person have their way is the polite thing to do”.  If you stood up for yourself and said “but that is my toy and I really don’t want to share right now!” you were told that you weren’t being very NICE.  No wonder so many of us as adults have more than a little difficulty setting boundaries.

We are too busy being NICE to one another.

Women especially spend an inordinate amount of time trying to figure out what others want and how to be NICE to them.  We invest way more time in that endeavor than we do in taking personal responsibility for figuring out our own desires.  We often leave ourselves out of the equation completely.   And here is where KINDNESS comes in.

KINDNESS holds within it, not only respect for others, but respect for ONESELF.

And respect for the wholeness of all involved.  The ramifications of that are far more wide-reaching than those of NICE.  My favorite example is a personal one.  My 9-year old asks at 7:30 p.m. on a Friday, if she can stay up and watch a movie with us.

NICE says “Sure.  It’s Friday and you are a good kid!  You have worked hard at school all week, and I know you really want to see this movie.”

KIND takes a deep breath, thinks for a moment, and looks at all the factors. “You haven’t had much sleep this week.  You and your sister have a birthday party to attend tomorrow afternoon.  Daddy and I get alone time starting at 8:00 and haven’t seen each other much this week, because he’s worked late. Your sister wants to see this movie too, and she will probably fall asleep before it finishes.  And there is another movie I really want to watch that isn’t suitable for you to see, and I want to get to bed by 10:30.  It is not a good idea for tonight, Honey, let’s look at other times instead.”

KIND does not always say “no”.

But KIND looks at things from a systems perspective with a longer-term view before saying “yes”.

And we all simply have to start teaching this to our kids…and living it ourselves.  It takes more effort but it is so worth it in the end!

A KIND child shares the toy with a friend, but gets a turn himself…or finds a way for both to play at the same time.   A KIND child learns to speak up for herself, to ask for what she wants, to negotiate with those around her as needed, to work out arguments by saying “when you behaved that way, I felt like this…so I would prefer that you do this instead”.  A KIND child learns to recognize when something does not seem equitable: whether it is not fair for them or not fair for someone else.  A KIND child asks questions, finds different solutions to problems, and is absolutely a beautiful sight to behold…because she knows herself, she respects herself, and that makes her more willing to treat others with respect as well.  Not with deference.  Not in a way that keeps from ruffling feathers.  Not in a mambsy pambsy NICE way.

And KIND children become KIND adults.

KIND adults take the time to find out what they really want before jumping forward to make the way better for others.  They are the adults that remember to put the oxygen mask on themselves before putting it on someone else.  They are the adults that commit not out of a sense of obligation, but because they want to.  They have less resentment, more connection to the world, and fewer bouts of rage for no apparent reason.  They know how to create boundaries when it comes to family and friends, and they rarely feel like door mats.

KIND people factor themselves into the equation.  They are KIND first to themselves.  And, think about it, when you take care of your own needs…be they physical, emotional, spiritual…you are keeping others from trying to do so for you.  You are freeing them up to be KIND to themselves.  You are saving them from being NICE.

I’m starting a movement.  A KINDNESS movement.  Out with NICE, in with KIND.  Join me, won’t you.

I do believe it is the KINDEST step you could take for yourself.

The post It’s Not Kind to Be Nice appeared first on Ashley Folsom.

Today is my 45^th birthday.  Feels rather like I am squarely in the middle of my one wild and precious life, as Mary Oliver would say.  I have clear visuals of both ends of the spectrum. Last month my grandfather turned 90, and this week I cuddled the sweetest smelling 3-month-old little girl you can imagine.

And here I am smack dab in the center.

Seems as good a time as any to evaluate, assess, redirect, envision.  I find myself neither looking back on life with regret, nor feeling concern for the future.  I am perfectly at peace with my present.  I like that….a lot.  And I attribute this state to the fact that I completely embrace my power of free will and choice.

My family would attest that I have always insisted on doing things my own way.  It’s a distinct stubbornness passed along the female lineage.  But for me, free will is more than wanting my own way.  It’s about tapping into that innate creativity that each of us has…the part that allows you to take all that is (guidance, old ways, new ideas, inspiration, information) and make it your own.  I’ve never been willing to just accept someone’s word for anything.  I have to feel it, try it out, experience it my own way. Understand all the “whys”, decide how it should shift, determine whether I agree. Mold whatever it is to suit me, or reject it completely.

That is free will.

But at this point in my life, it’s magical that I clearly see that free will and choice extends both to what happens to me as I move forward as well as how I choose to see my past.  I literally get to choose the story of my first 45 years on this planet.  I can choose to focus on people who hurt my feelings, pain of events gone awry, jobs that ended abruptly, tragedies, and disappointments and lack and fear.  Or, I can remember those who befriended me when I needed it most, the opportunities that sprang up from the dust of moments that initially felt like failure, jobs that developed skills I’m proud of, joys and abundance and the amazing amount of love I have around me.

I get to choose.

That does not mean that I’ve taken all the bad moments and stuffed them down.  That would only serve to make me sick and very tired and not in the slightest bit fulfilled.  Instead I’ve felt all the emotions associated with the past and I’ve learned from them.  They help me choose differently next time.  But I don’t dwell.  And I clearly see that each step helped me learn and grow.

So I sit here at 45 amazed at my past, the adventures I’ve had, all the opportunities that have come my way.  And I look around in the moment at the people I hold dear, the life I’ve created, the wonder the world offers me.  Then I look toward my future and I am certain that I get to continue exerting my free will and choosing in each moment that which suits me most.  And part of that is getting to teach others to do the same.  Yes, this is a good life.  I am blessed.

That’s my story…and you can be assured I’m sticking to it.

The post 45 Years on this Earth appeared first on Ashley Folsom.

On this anniversary of the September 11 attacks, I find myself in uncharted territory.

Usually this date sets me on edge.  Many living here in the DC area are understandably on high alert, silently wondering if this will be the year something dreadful happens again. Flags at half-mast fly in every direction.  Traffic is re-routed.  Speeches, and marches, and motorcades abound. It’s frenetic.   It’s palpably painful.  Many around me are choked up and near tears as they attempt to go about the day’s activities.  Wanting to remember, yet trying to forget. Deep emotion is just under the surface.

And in the past, for me, this date has always brought back a flood of traumatic memories.

My husband and I were married three days before the tragedy.  We were on our honeymoon when our lives changed completely.  I married a Marine who was considering getting out and moving on. Within 72 hours the playbook had changed.  Twelve years later his devotion to the Corps and to the country remains as steadfast as his love for me.  And despite deployments, months of separations and times where I thought my heart would break out of concern for his safety, I have not once regretted my choice of spouse.

So along with the country’s mourning, I used to hold a personal sorrow for what might have been.

But that has shifted.

I still feel sadness for lives taken too soon and innocence lost.  But this morning as I was rerouted past the Pentagon, I did not feel fear for my husband who was sitting at a desk deep within.  When I missed a turn (as I so often do in DC) and serendipity took me past the Lincoln Memorial, down a street where I could see through stones of the Martin Luther King Memorial to the dome of the Jefferson Memorial, and then within sight of the Washington Monument, I felt honored to live near our nation’s capital.   As I drove up to the Marine Corps Barracks (my destination), I was filled with pride to be associated with men and women who have dedicated their lives to serving our country.

So today feels different.

Instead of bearing the weight of life’s uncertainty that comes from thoughts of “How could something so tragic happen? Could it happen again?” I am struck by the fact that life IS uncertain, and that’s part of the elegance of it all.  If I think about anything I truly cherish and work backwards to tell the story of how it came to be, it’s almost always a hero’s saga.  When a horrifying, painful or tragic event occurred, I would never have believed at the time that something good could come from it.  But the chances of good rising from bad, like the mythical Phoenix from the ashes, is always high.   Twelve years ago I could not have imagined all the blessings I have today, not in spite of the terrorist attack, but because of it.  That day shifted the trajectory of my marriage, my career, my general perspective on life, moving me to a place that is far better than where I was headed.

I still mourn for those who were senselessly killed on that tragic day.  But as I look at the flag at half-mast, along with the sadness, I can see people who moved to different cities or tried new experiences because 9-11 taught them to take nothing for granted.  I hold dear the family members who remember fallen loved ones, but are equally blessed to have new loves in their lives.   I honor the men and women who joined the military, learned new skills and changed their lots in life because they were inspired by the patriotism 9-11 stirred in them.

September 11, 2001 changed us all.  I hope we have risen as a country.  I hope history shows that this is a hero’s saga.  I hope from the ashes, there is something here for the United States to cherish.  And today for me, instead of fear, it feels good to hold hope in my heart.

The post Uncharted Territory appeared first on Ashley Folsom.

10 years ago I sat alone on my couch with a horrid sense of dread, staring at the blasts of “Shock and Awe” as the United States led the invasion into Iraq.  I had not spoken with my husband in almost two months.  His letters, written hastily on recycled rations boxes, were worn from my constant touch.  Knowing he was moving from Kuwait into Iraq made my mind reel.  I had no idea what war would mean, but I did know my life as a Marine spouse would shift radically.

A decade later, I sit wiser, if perhaps slightly more jaded, on that same worn couch (moved through 8 houses since).

I now know what it means to have a loved one fight in a war (two, in fact).  I’ve watched countless men, and some women, gear-in-hand step onto gleaming white buses to start the journey to foreign lands, their eyes wide or weary depending on experience.  I’ve held the hands of wives and mothers, brothers and children who were so afraid they couldn’t speak the words for fear the worst would come true.  I’ve seen babies born to fathers they would never know.  I’ve seen marriages crumble, kids lash out at returning parents, and mothers fall to their knees over caskets draped in the American flag.

Lost lives, lost limbs, lost love.

Sometimes the pain of the people around me is almost more than I can bear.

But I have also seen beauty as Marines reunite with their families, young men and women strive to bring the hope of America to small children overseas, and families draw together to support one another.  The sheer depth of character, resilience and faithfulness to the cause and to one another is breathtaking.

I am no longer shocked; now I firmly stand in Awe.

Unfortunately, what I see today is a great divide.  Those Americans who have suffered most from the effects of our country’s involvement in two wars are separated in numerous ways from the majority of her citizens.  Despite Oprah’s attempt to support the military by gifting high-end Favorite Things to select spouses on her holiday show, or Michele Obama bringing visibility to the need for post-military jobs through  Joining Forces, many Americans don’t quite know what to do with military families.  We are an enigma.  We make them feel awkward and uncomfortable.  Maybe we hit on “there but for the grace of God go I.”  Or maybe they simply aren’t sure what one person can do.

So I have a few suggestions:

1. Remember, it’s not over. There are still 68,000 troops in harm’s way.  I am often flabbergasted that mainstream media chooses to cover Justin Beiber’s lack of a shirt in public while virtually ignoring the military men and women who are still fighting daily.  And now, many are doing so while worrying about how sequestration and other political problems are affecting their families back home.  Not an easy burden to bear when you think your country has forgotten about you.  So try to stay educated and engaged.  A cursory glance at the official Department of Defense website will give you a broad brushstroke without much political hype. http://www.defense.gov/

2. Actively seek military families. I guarantee we are out there.  We are your neighbor, the gentleman who opened the door at the grocery, the mom with the haggard face at the airport trying to wrangle two crying kids.  If you suspect but you aren’t sure, ask.  I do this a lot, and when I’ve been wrong, I’ve never had anyone become offended.   Then once you know…

3. Acknowledge the sacrifices we’ve made. Please do not say “I could never do what you do.”  That simply is not true.  If you had to, you would.  And you have.  You have made sacrifices for someone you loved.  You have believed in a cause.  You have seen people you cared for die.  Military families do all this within a broader scope, but you understand the fundamental principles behind it.  And we appreciate it when you take the time to tell us whole-heartedly and authentically that you understand our service and sacrifice.   My husband stands there flustered and a bit abashed because he’s not one for praise.  But in his heart he is glad that someone noticed that the military is comprised of individuals.  And I am always appreciative when someone recognizes my efforts as well.

I’m even more appreciative when someone treats us as normal.  I cherish the non- military friends who have hung in there through moves and deployments.  They have helped my husband reintegrate at the neighborhood barbecue when he was still on high alert, having patience when his language was still a little rough and understanding why we weren’t interested at the moment in fireworks.  Dear Ones made sure I had mom’s-night-out while my husband was gone or invited me to dinner with the usual couples even though I was by myself.  Daddies played with my kids at school for Father’s Day while their own was away.  These lovely souls have loved and supported us in all aspects of our lives both military and non.

Today, my husband is home attending a military school, our two kids are thriving, and I run a successful business.  But the ghosts of all that has happened in the past decade reside with us.  And we’ve been fortunate not to suffer from severe post traumatic stress, traumatic brain injury, or a dozen other things that would make life so much more challenging. But military life is hard.  Even when my husband is not deployed he is often away training, or we are in the process of a move, or we are struggling to help our young children deal with the complexities of constant change and uncertainty.  A little kindness and understanding from you, today, in the place we currently call home…that just might make all the difference.

The post Bridging the Divide: Connecting with Military Families appeared first on Ashley Folsom.

Ten years ago today I was sitting in a limousine in a sparkling white dress eating red Twizzlers, legs bouncing nervously.  I was not wondering if the man I was about to marry was the right one for me.  That was a given.  But I was completely freaked out at the idea of being someone’s wife.  I simply feared that I was too selfish to share my life with another soul.  Heck, I hadn’t even had a roommate except for the first year of college and that had been a bit of a disaster.  So the idea of sharing not just my space, but my entire existence with another for the rest of my life was petrifying.

Had I known what was to come next, I’m fairly certain at a minimum I would have eaten the entire bag of Twizzlers.

That was September 8, 2001.  Three days later as we woke up on the last day of our honeymoon, the first tower had been hit and within minutes the second would be as well.  It felt like the world was ending.  My fears about marriage had faded the minute I walked down the aisle and looked into my husband’s eyes.  All would be well.  All was at peace.  Life flowed around me and I was one with all that was good.  But now here I was watching everything else crumble to the ground.

From that moment forth, change after change cascaded over my small family of two.

We lived in a world of uncertainty.  For me the role of spouse shifted completely.  I was no longer just a new bride trying to figure out how to share my space and irritated that my new husband left his work boots in the middle of the bedroom.  I had real concerns about where those boots were going to be in the coming months.  And the role of military spouse went from something I was a bit unsure about, to something I better figure out since I had dozens of wives looking to me for guidance.  I had no time to worry about being selfish.  My life suddenly felt like it belonged to someone else and was completely out of my control.

The first year of marriage he deployed and we spent our first anniversary apart.  The second year, war broke out in Iraq and we spent almost five months without my knowing where he was and with no real contact.  The third year we were suddenly living under the same roof while he attended school.  Both of us suffered from the affects of trauma and stress.  Our marriage was still in the stages of infancy as we’d yet to spend 365 days collectively together.  But we survived and we remembered why we loved one another.  We grew individually and as a couple.  The fourth year brought our first beautiful daughter.  The fifth began a year in India.  In year six we bought our first house together.  Year seven was a second daughter and a third deployment.  Year after year, wave after wave of changes and adjustments and trying to keep my head above water.

Life felt like it was being done to me.  I was just sort of along for the ride.

But I was wrong.  It took me a while to realize it, but I was making choices every single day that reflected my individual purpose in this life.  I was becoming exactly who I wanted to be.  I was gathering experiences, gaining knowledge, and living life on terms I was setting.  The context around me was not in my control, but my experience of it…that was all mine.

When I look back on the 32 year old girl in the limo with friends and family gathered around, I am so excited for her.  She has no idea what is around the corner, but she is going to share it with the most amazing husband.  She is going to find strength she does not know that she has.  She is going to see places she has never even dreamed of.  She is going to learn so much about her own abilities and what she has to offer to the world.  She is going to experience life in a way that is completely different than it has been up to this point.  And she is ready for it.  She is up to the challenge.  She has all the right stuff.  And I send her so much love for the courage she possesses, the love she always shares, and the joy she finds in even the hardest circumstances.

I whisper to her “You’ve chosen the right man.  You have chosen the right life.   All is perfectly perfect.  Walk down that aisle and embrace this day.”   And, the thing is, I know she will.

Because she did!  And I am so proud of her.

Now I am off to kiss that amazing man.  His stuff is packed for another deployment.  It stands in the corner a reminder that once again we only have days together.  But I wouldn’t trade any of the last 10 years.  And I have a feeling that my 52 year old self is sending me love and saying “You can do it.  You’ve chosen the right man. You’ve chosen the right life.  All is perfectly perfect….”

And I am one with all that is good.

The post A Celebration 10 Years in the Making appeared first on Ashley Folsom.

It always amazes me how much better I feel after hearing my husband’s voice.  Until recently this was something I was a bit ashamed of.  After all, I am a self-sufficient woman who did not marry until age 32.  Before that I lived alone, travelled the world, owned my own home, thrived professionally.  Heck, I even said often (and loudly) I would rather live single than compromise on the type of equal partnership I dreamed of.  So wasn’t this a dependent throwback to old societal roles:

Little wifey needs big strong man to make her feel brave enough to face the world.

When I began to date my husband, I was totally swept away by the love we share.  It was unlike anything I had experienced before.  The word “glorious” comes to mind.  It was a connection to something greater, a definite sign that I was a part of something larger than myself.  Everything felt “right”.  But I was certain all that would fade with time.  I’d still love him, of course, and we would still adore one another.  But the connection would surely have to change.

In our first years of marriage, he was gone a lot and I stayed self-sufficient.  We added children to the mix.  He was sometimes home, sometimes gone.  And I was not only self-sufficient, I managed an entire household very well.  But still, hearing his voice whether he was home or gone would give me a sense of connection and grounding that nothing else ever gave me.

Recently as we went through yet another set of changes with him far away, I was speaking with a friend (OK, I admit, I was all but crying into the phone in frustration) about how angry I was that I could be all over the place emotionally and then suddenly hear his voice and all was better.  “Why can’t I get my OWN act together?  Why do I need HIM to get that calm feeling?  I HAVE to find a way to ground myself so that I don’t rely on him!”  My very patient friend said “Is that true?  Do you really think it is a bad thing that he helps you feel that way?  You might want to consider being glad that you have a source that provides you that kind of comfort and peace.”

I grew very quiet (always a sure sign that something meaningful has been said, since I am rarely struck dumb).   It occurred to me that, though what I was experiencing with my husband was absolute love, I was analyzing it from a place of fear.

I was afraid that allowing his voice to soothe me was giving away my power.

But fear always clouds reality.

Once I shifted my perspective a bit, I realized that hearing his voice is simply something observable that occurs during a genuine exchange of love between the two of us.  When I am fully open to that love, a calming peace naturally follows.  None of my personal power is compromised; it is reinvigorated by the purest source of energy there is.

Love.

Allowing pure love to flow over me from a source I trust completely, my amazing husband, is an act of strength.  Being open, allowing, trusting, welcoming that love gives me a greater ability to affect the world than I had when I was single.  That is certainly not to say every woman needs a man.  There are many access points to Pure Love.  And every soul should find what works.  In fact, I’m looking into other avenues myself: nature, my children, anything that touches me deeply.

But This Woman needs and wants That Man.  And there is absolutely nothing wrong with that.

So now when I am amazed at my reaction to my husband’s voice, or sometimes his emails, or most especially his comforting presence in my life, I see it as a gift that I embrace fully and use to send additional love out into the world.  For after all, everyone deserves to have a sense of peace, love and joy.  I am just lucky that one source for mine comes in a very handsome package!

Namaste

The post Trusting Love appeared first on Ashley Folsom.

I should have known it was coming. It truly was only a matter of time. I finally hit the wall.

That’s what usually happens when you run fast enough from something and keep looking behind you to make sure it hasn’t gotten you yet.

All was fine…not great, but fine. We were moved to the temporary apartment, the kids were settled in, the desert was a new adventure, the husband was gone more than expected but the pool was close and we had cable, house-hunting for a more permanent place to live was on-schedule. There were lots of balls in the air, but I had it covered. Or at least that is what I kept telling myself.

Then, almost suddenly, I found myself on the verge of tears.

I stayed that way for a while and then just as suddenly, it was no longer the verge. I was full-fledged into the ugly cry…the no-one-can-understand-what-you-are-saying, dolphins are called forth and dogs cover their ears, scene from When Harry Met Sally, ugly cry. I hit the wall and the large monster behind me caught up and screamed in my ear:

“This is NOT the way it was supposed to be! All of this is hard! And you are, in fact, quite miserable, Sweetheart! DEAL WITH IT NOW!”

Well then. There you have it. And you know what, I did deal with it. I faced my true feelings and it was not nearly as awful as I might have thought. I embraced my sadness. I dove down into it and swam around for a while.  I wasn’t angry…angry would have been easier.

But I was, and I am, sad.

I don’t like parenting alone. I don’t want to look at places to live where my husband won’t live with us. I don’t enjoy the burden of making weighty decisions without someone to talk them through with.  As a matter of fact, I don’t like driving cross country the last week that Oprah will ever be on and missing the final 3 episodes!

As it turns out, whether what I don’t like is big or little, I have a right to not like it.

If it makes me sad, well, that’s just how I feel and that’s okay. Shoving my feelings down just because I think others have far greater issues does not benefit anyone…not me, not my kids, not my husband and certainly not the poor customer service rep helping me set up utilities once again.

If I am not honest with myself about what I am feeling moment to moment, even the unpleasant stuff, then I am missing the opportunity for genuine pleasure and genuine connection to others.

And there is something very sweet in recognizing your own sadness.

The sadness reminds me of how much I love my husband, of how much I love the life we have created together, of how lucky we are to have healthy children and parents who love us and a roof (well, several roofs of late) over our heads.

The sadness is mine. I own it. I don’t dwell in it or get caught up in my story about it. But I acknowledge it, and I feel it, and I give it the respect it deserves. I built a life that provides me a reason to be sad when I am not fully in it.

And, that, my friends, is something that truly should be experienced…and, as it turns out, it is far less painful that hitting an actual wall.

The post The Wall of Sadness appeared first on Ashley Folsom.

This month I had two experiences with “going home”.  One was coming home to Tennessee, to the house my parents have been in for 25 years.   These trips home used to be stressful.  It is challenging to be a grown up in the environment in which you once were a child.  You might find yourself acting like a belligerent teenager again.  Or you might bristle from an innocent comment which throws you back to a long ago hurt you still aren’t quite over.  But these days, I find I no longer return to the home of my early adulthood.

Instead I stand in the same old structure with a new sense of self, which I quietly refuse to leave at the doorstep.

I remind myself of how old I am now.  I am not just a child, but a parent.  Under this roof, I am not just a parent, but someone’s child.  I bring back to this house experiences I did not have when last I crossed the threshold.  Things no one here fully understands.  But the love shared here supports new experiences.  The love grows and changes.  It tries to understand, even when there are no words with which to create a completely comforting reply.

So I respect the context of the past in which my present now resides.  And I try to focus moment to moment on the here and now.

I watch my six-year-old’s face as she plays with a grandparent who vaguely resembles the mother of my own young self.  The thought “I was never allowed to touch that!” washes over me, but I watch it dissipate in the joy of my child’s delight.

I see my father’s infinite patience with my children’s antics, when patience would not have been there for me at the same age.  And instead of resentment, I feel genuine appreciation for how much he has grown and for the fact that my children experience only his warmth and love.

I listen to my mother read stories from the same pages she turned in my little bed years ago.  And the next night my children want the same story again, this time read by me.  As the words stick in my throat, I am filled with gratitude for my parents, for the dreams they had for me, for the dreams they willingly let go of as they watched me become my own person instead.

I love this house.  I love this home.  I am blessed that I carry a part of it around in my heart no matter where I go.  For the love in this place has stayed constant through change and uncertainty.

I chose to be here then, as I still am in this moment.

And for that I will forever be thankful.

The post Going Home, But Not Again – Part 1 appeared first on Ashley Folsom.