Rocking Chair

If you are blessed enough to have known your grandparents, you know there is a signature item in their house that will forever remind you of them. For some, it is a couch with a unique pattern or material. For others, you may recall curtains or drapes that adorn and envelop their living room. It could also be an old-school toy that sat proudly in their closet for years, with generations of children enjoying its company. For me, it is my grandma’s rocking chair. It was her throne. My brother, sister, and I knew. You ask permission to sit on it, and you never mistreat it. Every holiday at my grandparents’ house ended with time in the warm living room, with Gram in her rocking chair and Pop proudly sitting beside her, taking in all the love and happiness in the room. Sitting here, I pause and envision every vivid detail of her in that chair. Her perfectly styled her, her perfectly placed pearls, and her perfectly ironed outfit laying gracefully on her perfect, porcelain Dutch skin. She epitomized grace.

             As beautiful as she was in that chair, the memories that chair evokes are what wove the threads of our family into my heart. The most vivid memory is how the grownups often retired to the rocking chair room while the children played charades or “The Gong Show” in the musty but inviting basement. The gaggle of cousins would take turns performing and entertaining each other, with the older cousins consistently “winning” the competitions. As one of the younger cousins, I always knew no matter what Oscar-like performance I presented, the elder cousins would combine to provide a much higher score simply because they were older. While these shenanigans ensued, I vividly remember the parents upstairs hysterically laughing and enjoying themselves. I longed for the days to be an adult and partake in adult events. Often, I would fake an illness or con my parents in to believing my brother or sister did something to me just so I could catch a glimpse of what events were causing such hilarity and hysterics. Most often, their competitive game of initials caused eruptions of laughter, but sometimes my grandfather’s cheesy jokes filled the room with hysterics. I just remember, if I was lucky enough to enter that room, I simply focused on my grandmother in that chair, swaying back and forth with an ear-to-ear smile, breathing in all the love, laughter, and happiness.

             Fast forward thirty years. One day, I was on my usual walk with my husband. On our walks, we often review our days, solidify plans, or share information we prefer our children not to hear. On this walk, however, we were both extremely emotional. Our son, Brady, had just partook in his life dream. His lacrosse team qualified to play in the Lacrosse World Series. From the age of four, Brady has watched it on TV with the sweetest little voice, always conveying his dream to play in it one day. Well, his dream became a reality. They qualified! On this walk, my husband and I recalled every detail of that day. We shared how our stomachs lurched and twisted every time the other team scored. We shared how we could barely breathe, knowing Brady’s dream could dissipate. We shared how nothing compared to the nerves that wreaked havoc on our bodies and minds. Most importantly, however, we shared how we were sure nothing could compare to the pride we shared that day for our son.

             As our conversation unfolded, my husband began stated, “When I am on my death bed….” However, he paused, stopped walking, and continued by saying, “You know what? That is quite morbid. I will change that to, ‘When I am in my rocking chair, I will always bring my mind to this day and smile.” I immediately smiled and agreed that the rocking chair was much more fitting and appropriate for such a memory. From that day on, we have referenced the rocking chair when referring to memories that Velcro into our minds and hearts. Those memories where you lay in bed at night and replay every second of that day — every moment that led up to that time and every moment that occurred after it. Those memories where you carve out time just to relish every detail and pack it away in your subconscious but know you can retrieve it any time.

             When my grandmother passed away, I knew I only wanted one item of hers – the rocking chair. I felt if I owned it, I could not only elicit memories of her, but I could use it to spend some of that carved-out time when I replayed my family’s rocking chair moments. I could sway like she did and use it as my memory throne. The chair could serve as the catalyst for the next generation of adult time, replete with laughter, memory-making, and precious moments our children can communicate to their children. Finally, it can serve as the item that jolts our kids’ memories and brings them right back to our family room and that remarkable item that will forever remind them of our house, our life, and our love.

Pace

It was a Thursday afternoon. Thursdays are typically days when my family and I wind down from the week. Basketball practices completed. Homework is minimal. The night is ours. However, on this day, the number of tasks and chores was innumerable. Most pressing was Halloween preparation, especially since my younger son decided to change his costume for the third time. Yes, I should have encouraged him to stick with his original choice, but I am a sap, and watching his sad, puppy-dog face was just too much for my heart. Thus, we headed to “Spirit of Halloween” once again. Upon entering, it was clear the process would be excruciating because the store was decimated, and all that remained were the “has been” Fortnite costumes and a plethora of grotesque masks and weapons. Two hours later, and with lots of arguments, debates, and compromise, Cody selected “Where’s Waldo” as his new costume. As I collapsed into the car, dripping with anxious sweat, I reviewed the list of chores that remained for the evening.

After a long ride home through rush hour traffic, Cody flew out of the car, skipping into the house, excited to share his costume with my husband. I, however, pressed play on my “We Can Do Hard Things” podcast, praying a snippet of encouragement would carry me through the evening. Ironically, the episode “Parenting” began and spoke to me as if a dedication. The episode’s theme revolved around the many challenging parts of parenting and how we have the right to feel traumatized or downright exhausted, but one part of the podcast stood out the most. It discussed how I needed to permit myself to feel normal when I did not enjoy every sweaty moment in parenting. The “Oh my gosh, enjoy! It all goes by so quickly” burns in my brain because, listen, my friends, I wish sometimes I could press fast forward and avoid nights like this one. I am about to collapse, and the annual, make adorable Pinterest lunches have not even begun.

I listen for a few minutes longer, absorbing any advice I can, and then languidly enter my home. Addressing the members of my home in a faint “hello,” I ascend the stairs, collecting the many items to be properly placed in their respective bedrooms. As I enter my son’s bedroom, I notice he added a metal folding chair to his already robust X-Box set-up (he has clearly watched too many YouTube videos on the cool way to play video games). The number of times I implored him to pare down this video game construction raises my blood pressure, but I calmly placed the folding chair in the hall for its return to the proper location later that evening.

After a few more tasks, I got changed into my running clothes. Running is my escape. My refuge. My solace. It almost always puts me in the right headspace and allows me to accomplish the rest of the evening’s tasks with a little more clarity and comfort. With one sock on, I search for my running shoes. Growing increasingly more anxious about their location, I dart from room to room. Clearly not paying attention, I walk straight into the foot of that evil metal chair and stub my pinky toe so hard, I see stars, collapse to the floor, and writhe in pain. Hearing my screeching, my husband comes to my rescue but recognizes I need a minute. The pain. The gosh darn pain. My toe had a heartbeat. It blew up to double its size, and the colors of my foot resembled that of a 1990’s mood ring. Needless to say, the run never occurred, the lunches did not get made, and my night consisted of ice packs and Advil.

Several days have passed since that dreadful evening, and a lot has transpired. I spent three hours in Urgent Care, got x-rayed, now sport a super fashionable boot shoe for my broken toe, and I could not participate in the Halloween walk around my neighborhood. It was a bit overwhelming. However, I have learned a lot from those experiences. What I gleaned is my days are robotic. I follow almost the same weekly schedule, the same routine every night, and the same mindset day after day. Now, since slowing down and not rushing home to sandwich in a run before the evening mayhem, I do not enter the house like a hurricane. In fact, my mind and body have decelerated (my walk mainly because it hurts too much). I listen to my breath, feel my heartbeat, and focus wholeheartedly when people are talking.

Last night, I returned to that parenting podcast, and it was as if I had never heard it. I had not remembered half of what the speaker shared, the vignettes relayed, or the raw emotion conveyed when discussing intimate experiences with her family. I took a deep breath as I entered the parking lot to pick up my son, and because I was so appalled I couldn’t recall her words, I began creating a list of ways I could slow down even during the most chaotic times at my home. As tears streamed down my face, I was reminded of an experience with my dad months before this epiphany.

My dad has experienced trembling in his hands for years, and he was told it was likely just tremors from getting older. However, it began to progress, and with the encouragement of my mom, my siblings, and me, we made him an appointment to see a neurologist. As frightened as we all were to know the cause, we knew it was essential to get it diagnosed so that treatment could begin. His MRI was on a beautiful April morning, and as he, my mom, and I entered the hospital, we ballooned with fear, anxiousness, and love. We checked in with the receptionist, filled out the paperwork, and found our seats in the waiting room. As we sat, I stared down at father’s hand, held on tightly, and assured him he was going to be all right. When his name was called by the nurse, my hand transferred to my mom’s. With sweaty palms and a freight train heartbeat, we exchanged looks and did not speak until my dad returned to the waiting room.

Eventually and what seemed to be light years later, my father emerged and seemed to have a sense of relief. I think it was years and years of knowing this appointment needed to occur and it did. We would now have answers. We would have a diagnosis, and my dad could hopefully get some relief from years of shaking and wondering. As I sat there, relishing in my father’s happiness, he exchanged eye contact with a man about his age. The man shot him a smile, and then admired a painting in the waiting room. His eyes were laser-focused, and calm seemed to overwhelm him. With a tear in his eye, he returned his glance back to my father. Without saying a word, a clear understanding and contract between the man and my father transpired and was signed.

I never asked my dad what the exchange meant, but I am confident I now know. That man and my father both wondered, “How did we get here? Where did all those years go? How can I get them back?” Those unspoken words gave relief to both my dad and the stranger. They were comrades. Partners in life’s precious memories. Passengers on life’s crazy freight train, and they would not waste another minute. Promise.

I am aware a stubbed toe will only temporarily slow me down. The chaos of each night’s chores and obligations will continue, and my absentmindedness with cause many more clumsy accidents, but I am also grateful for experiences that force me to slow down. The moments reminding me this pace is too much. The moments I need to create a self-imposed quarantine. Moments when only my family members are allowed to take up any of my headspace, any of my time, and any of my heart. I promise a new pace to myself, my family, and the new comrades who met that beautiful day in April.

Love you, Dad xo

Burrow

My family and I just returned from a vacation in Ocean City, New Jersey. In a casual family meeting before we left, we discussed many plans for the trip, including boardwalk rides, jet skiing, riding waves, the water park, and a wide array of menu items that only the shore could offer. Upon arrival at our rental, we set those plans into motion. Night one included riding waves during our preferred block of time (dusk until dawn), paddleball, and a delicious meal once we returned home. That night did not disappoint. With my brother and sister-in-law as guests, we enjoyed decompressing that night, discussing the number of belly laughs and incredible memories we made all in a five-hour block of time. As we ascended the stairs to bed that night, we embraced and agreed vacation was off to a fantastic start.

Many events transpired the next couple of days that enhanced our trip and put a checkmark on the figurative list we created. Everyone was happy, content, and amazed by how much we could fit into one day and still feel relaxed and maintain a vacation state of mind. Each day did not disappoint, and each evening transpired with appreciation and anticipation for the next day.

One evening the boys were in the ocean having a football pass, and my husband asked if I wanted to go for a walk. Walks were a daily occurrence for us, but with the added pleasure of sand and the calming sound of waves crashing, I immediately agreed, and we began our stroll. We were about five minutes into our walk when my husband noticed an interesting creature in the sand. It appeared to be a crab, but it looked different than the ones we typically saw crashing onto the shore. Quickly, he scooped it up and observed its curved back, pale shell, and ticklish claws that stroked his palm. After a few minutes of notice, we watched the crab burrow back into the squishy sand. Our walk continued, and our discussion turned to mundane topics.

As our family walked home that evening, my husband relayed his interest in the crab, and as with his usual practice, he researched this exciting creature. He discovered it was called a sand crab and classified it in the scientific genus of “Emerita.” Sand crabs have many unique features, including, most interestingly, that they do not move forwards or sideways. They only shimmy backward. They behave this way, so they can attempt to escape predators more readily. Acting as a periscope, their broad eyes canvas the area. Once they safely burrow in the sand, they congregate in groups as they shift back and forth with the incoming tide, and their heaving armored back allows them to move freely and safely.

Searching for sand crabs became a family routine. After dinner each night, we returned to the beach to enjoy the absence of sun and the presence of beautiful and refreshing ocean breezes. Most evenings, we would play paddleball and attempt a million boogie board rides. The night always concluded, however, with searching for sand crabs. In my husband’s research, he learned the importance of digging deep for the creatures because of their ability to burrow far into the sand. Thus, equipped with a shovel, our boys unearthed the congregations of sand crabs, and as if in a shuttle run, they would empty the shovel and anxiously count how many creatures they unearthed.

On our last night there, I chose to be an observer. With a cold beverage in hand, I sat in the sun-kissed sand and absorbed all the fun and laughter transpiring between my husband and children. These moments were precious, and I smiled so widely grateful we were able to escape the noise and stress of the world. I knew we were soon to return to reality. My husband would return to work, I would begin decorating my classroom, and the boys would enjoy their last few weeks of summer. I yearned to sponge up those moments and burrow them into my heart to retrieve them when needed.

I became entranced in my thoughts and had to snap myself back into reality. When I did, I couldn’t help but think of those silly sand crabs. Something about them genuinely intrigued me. As I attempted to figure out why, an epiphany hit me like an overwhelming wave during high tide. Those amazing burrowing creatures were analogous to my family this past year.

When Covid hit, waves of uncertainly pummeled us. There were no answers. No solutions. Nowhere to run. On March 13, 2001, we hunkered down, burrowed in our houses, and avoided social interaction. These times were scary. There was no research to be done by the general public, and we had to rely on the doctors and medical professionals to guide us. We had to have faith.

In hindsight, as scary and uncertain as it was, I truly appreciated the time to slow down and enjoy the comfort of my family. The memories we made, the new hobbies we discovered, and the creative and exciting new routines we established likely only occurred because of a forced quarantine. I never wanted a virus to so pervasively hinder and harm the world, but I am grateful for the shifts in my mindset. Why did it take this virus to slow us down? Why didn’t we create downtime for ourselves? Who says we must be this busy? Why do we have to reply yes to every event to which we are invited? When does our family get prioritized? Why can’t we burrow when we want and create downtime?

As the sun faded into the horizon that last night, we retrieved our belongings, returned to our bikes, and began our journey home. As we approached the first stop sign, I yelled for my family to halt and return to the beach. They peered at me quizzically, but I once again demanded they return. In unison, they dropped their bikes and pivoted back to the beach.

I demanded an embrace when we reached the beach, and as we embraced, all eyes glared at me. After a minute or two of me lecturing them on how we need to treasure these moments and relaying just how deeply I loved them all, I challenged them all to sprint into the ocean as a family. A cohort. A congregation. My sons shared it was a bad idea since I was in regular clothes, but I assured them I did not care.

We all needed that moment. I knew they would think I was completely crazy if I told them what I was really thinking — that we are analogous to those sand crabs – that we need to observe with eyes wide open — that we needed to wear heavy armor — that we can burrow whenever we chose. I kept those thoughts to myself. By the looks on their faces, I knew the sprint into the ocean would be absorbed and treasured, and it would carry us through the next few weeks or months of uncertainty.

Thus, as my family and I sprinted into the ocean, my face froze in a smile. We all erupted in laughter as we immersed ourselves in the frigid, salty water. Ironically, as I emerged from the water, a crab grabbed my foot and clutched onto my sole. It wasn’t a sand crab, but how poetic and symbolic to serve as a reminder to clutch my family tightly, treasure the time we get to burrow, live life with eyes wide open, and use that figurative periscope to canvas for predators that could sabotage the family time we so treasure. I wish this for you all, my friends.

Love, The Mom of Goats xoxo

Acorn

Acorn

I have always been intrigued by the acorn. I love its carrying case. Its variety of light to darn brown colors, and most intriguingly how abundantly they grow from the sturdy oak tree. What I learned recently about acorns is they are edible but not in their raw form. They can actually be toxic, and there is a specific process one must take to allow it to be eaten.

According to legend, the acorn is a symbol of how hard works pays off over time. Like other things that are grown from a seed, the acorn is nourished by the earth and warmed by the sun to help prepare it to eventually emerge a mighty oak tree. This process and its symbolism for life has resonated with me.

Taking a step back, as a child I used to glean the sidewalks to collect as many acorns as possible. My friends and I used to hold contests for who could gather the most, and that contest flourished into many other contests; the prettiest one, the biggest one, the pointiest one, and many other redeeming qualities of the acorn held court in our contests. We had a blast, and it was such a simple task that epitomized the innocence of our childhoods.

Like many other childhood experiences, I passed along the idea of acorn collections to my children. Since the time they could walk, we would allot time for acorn collections. As typical of my boys, Brady always wanted to locate the most redeeming one with the best quality of casing and the best hue in color. Cody, on the other hand, just wanted numbers. How many could he get? Could he beat me and Brady in the collection of them?

Then one day, Brady asked me why acorns were important. Why did they exist? He was aware they fed the squirrels, but why are they so abundant in number, and why the heck are they so big. No joke, in that exact moment what seemed to be the largest acorn in history bonked me on my head. It hurt. It jolted me and caused me some serious pain.

The boys relished in my pain and were doubled over in laughter as I fell to my knees. After the hysterics subsided, I suggested we finish our journal of acorn collection and return home to learn more about our newfound hobby.

Within seconds, the Google search was complete, and we were replete with knowledge about the acorn. We learned it is the fruit of the oak tree. It most often contains one seed, and rarely but sometimes two seeds. For full growth, it takes between 6 and 24 months, and we learned that birds such as jays, pigeons, and some ducks and several species of woodpeckers rely on them and are a staple in their diet. Small mammals that feed on acorns include mice, squirrels, and several other rodents. Interestingly, large mammals such as pigs, bears, and deer and also consume large amounts of acorn and in fact, acorns consist up to 25% of the diet of deer in the autumn.

After acquiring this knowledge, the boys seemed even more proud of their collection and were excited to complete our hobby another day. Once again, ready to turn it into a contest.

Returning to the acorn’s symbolism and its impact on my mindset, one might wonder how in the world and why I have been thinking about the acorn. I laugh as I think of my readers wondering what is going on in my brain. Well, here it goes. I was most recently reintroduced to the Alex and Ani bracelets. I have a couple, but I never really wore them.

However, my family and I recently visited Jamaica, and in the airport on the way home, I was meandering around, window shopping and passing time as I waited for our flight when a jewelry store caught my eye. Being a huge fan of costume jewelry, I moseyed into the store but with no intention to purchasing anything. However, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the Alex and Ani bracelets. Knowing how so many women adored them, I chose to investigate their allure.

Within a millisecond, I spotted an acorn version. Knowing my affinity for them and the history I have with their intrigue, I was taken aback when I realized there was literature that came with the bracelet. The description read as follows: “Unexpected Blessings—potential. The acorn is a reminder that one small seed of hope has the potential to grow into something mighty. A blessing that is full of possibility with just a bit of nourishment will thrive and prosper. Open your mind, hear, and soul to life’s unexpected blessings”

I gulped. Literally gulped so loudly it caused a woman behind me to ask if I was alright. I emitted a small giggle and politely shared I was fine. However, inside I was not completely fine. I was jolted by a painful memory. A memory that had, up until now, been nestled in my subconscious and reluctant to ever rear its ugly head.

As I approached the register in slow motion, everything around me melted into the background. The noise of my family rushing me along, the boarding announcements, and the rolling of bulky suitcases all cascaded into one long, laborious growl. I was alone with my thoughts. As far as I could tell, I was alone in the world in that moment.

I do not recall how I paid, what the cashier requested, or how I exited the store that day, because all that resounded in my head was the impact the acorn description left on me.

So here it is: acorns symbolize protection, prosperity, and perseverance. Digest that. Really digest that. Imagine how that tiny seed results in the grandeur of such an austere and mighty oak tree. Coupled together, they represent new beginnings, strength, and durability, and without one, the other could not exist.

When my mind became clearer and the nebulous of my thoughts jolted back to reality, I boarded the plane, and in that moment, I immediately reached for my writer’s notebook. I was incredibly grateful I brought it.

I needed to reflect on why the acorn symbolism was so painful. What in my subconscious caused such agony? It didn’t take long before a painful memory entered the forefront of my mind, and the promise I made with association with it invited me to recall the promise I made to myself.

Though I share how we lost our baby girl in 2009, I left out a huge part of the story. The effect that loss left on me was much more than emotionally. It took an incredible physical toll, and many don’t know that after I had the surgery and had to say goodbye to our girl, I was left septic. I didn’t know it at the time because it would take days for my body to respond to the toxicity the baby left behind, but a few days after my surgery, I became gravely ill. I was rushed to the hospital and was given an unknown diagnosis. The doctor share with my husband they would try to save me, but the level of toxicity would likely take my life.

So, this is not meant to be depressing, and I don’t want to dwell on the pain and suffering, but I do want to share with you the promise I made to myself and why the acorn’s description had such a profound impact on me.

About three days into my hospital stay, as my body lay weak and fragile, I recall staring out the window. It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining brightly, and cars bustled around enjoying the splendor of the quintessential spring day. The scene was the antithesis of how I was feeling, and yet, I was comforted by it at the same time.

As my eyes grew foggy with an onslaught of emotion, I gulped deeply and shed a small tear. I recall being so envious of all those cars. The mundane chores they were likely running, the feverish drive to drop off a child at a sports practice, or piano lessons, or the stress of arriving at an appointment on time all seemed thrilling to me in that moment. I would have given anything to be one of those cars. To revel in the beauty of the mundane. To salivate over a Macchiato as I accelerate to drop off a child on time. It struck a chord and it hurt so painstakingly so.

As the tears began to burn my pillow, I laid back, closed my eyes and began to sob. I was so angry at myself for not relishing in the simple moments. For being angry when I was late, or when road rage encompassed my body and turned me into an ugly version of myself.  Those simple, humdrum moments sometimes end up prospering into so much more. A small seed to a mighty oak tree, and yet they are so taken for granted.

When I recovered, my body became healthy, and I was ready to leave the hospital and begin my healing process, I made a promise to myself. I would drink in the sun. Take notice of the same tree I saw a thousand times, but this time I would recognize its beauty. I would happily listen to the chirping of a bird and wonder about the message it is sending.

It is such a beautiful world filled with prosperity and possibilities, but because of the chaos, the fears, the mundane tasks we take for granted, we don’t notice. Really notice. Absorb it and allow it to penetrate us to our core.

Unfortunately, that day in the airport I was given a rude awakening. I rescinded my promise. I don’t take notice. I don’t relish in the beauty of the world all the time. I don’t observe the possibilities of moments that begin with a tiny seed, or if I do, they become a distant memory, and I am back in my own head. I don’t want a traumatic experience to snap me back into shape and into reality. Sometimes the most uneventful days hold the most beautiful showcases of opportunities.

My friends, it is time to return to my gratitude journal. I have started and stopped it a million times, and here is my observation. When I am gracious in my day and reflect on the grateful experiences of it, I search for them. I hear the tiny voice inside my head say, “Melissa, this something to be grateful for. Remember it. Take it in. Swallow it and allow it to permeate through your mind and body. These are the moments of prosperity, security, and abundance.”  Take notice.

My friends, I hope it doesn’t take an acorn bonking you in the head to remind you of life’s beauty. As one of my favorite singers, Dierks Bentley reminds me, “Some days you’re just alive and some days you’re livin.” We are graced with one life. One opportunity to live our best version of ourselves. Plant many seeds and watch them grown and prosper. Nourish them. Protect them. Let in the sunshine and watch life blossom.

The Journey Continues

When I first wrote the title to this post, I typed, “The Journey Ends.”It made sense. I began this blog with the title, “The Journey Begins,” so the logical ending was that it ends. But then I paused. I sat back from the keyboard, looked outside, and consumed a large inhale. Given the breadth of stories, experiences, and lessons expressed in the past 15 weeks, I couldn’t make this post a finale. With a large exhale, and an upright stature in front of my keyboard, I deleted “ends” and replaced it with, “continues.”

I had no idea where this sabbatical journey would take me. On day one, I felt liberated. The years of yearning for time and space finally presented themselves. I recognized that I was alone. Alone with my thoughts. Alone in my home. Alone with opportunity. I quickly realized I needed to exhale years and years of fears, anxieties, and life lessons that created a permanent home in my subconscious and nestled comfortably in my gut. It wasn’t until I began writing that I became keenly aware that these stories needed to spew out of me via words, phrases, quotes, and emotions. My writing became the vehicle of catharsis and with every post written, I felt lighter, healthier, and more in touch with who I am.

Recently I was watching a cooking show. I was half-listening as I drafted a list of final chores that required my attention before I returned to work. Then something abruptly caught my attention. A chef was explaining the uniqueness of the strawberry. He relayed how the strawberry is one of the only fruits that proudly displays its seeds on the outside. While most other fruits conceal their seeds and protect themselves with various shields, the strawberry surrenders itself to vulnerability.

Intrigued by this phenomenon, I researched the strawberry more in-depth. I figured there had to be something profound. Alas! The strawberry is a symbol for Venus, the Goddess of Love because of its heart shape and red color. Medieval stonemasons used to carve strawberry designs on altars around the tops of pillars in churches and cathedrals. In addition, the strawberry symbolizes purity, decency, and nobility of spirit.

As I scanned the words and digested each perfectly suited word, I relished in its beauty. My smile increased even larger when I made the analogy to myself during this meaningful time of my life. For the first time, I became that strawberry and bore my heart and soul to anyone who would listen. Instead of being fearful of what people would think, how they would judge, and what they might say about me, I erupted with personal stories. Stories of struggle. Stories of hope. Stories of love.

Each week as I completed a blog entry, I pressed “send” with apprehension. I would squint my eyes as I gently tapped the key, and my stomach would immediately lurch in fear. But each time this occurred, I was quickly cajoled to keep writing. Message after message, I was encouraged by friends, family members, and acquaintances to keep writing. Strong connections ensued and friendships reignited or grew stronger. Friends from high school would reach out and apologize for being unaware of my struggles. Family members would cry with me as we relived some of my most difficult journeys. With each one of these connections, my heart swelled, and I inhaled confidence and exhaled doubt.

So now as I make the final preparations, cross off items on my checklist, and spend my final days alone, I reflect with pride. As Brene Brown reminds me, “You can’t get to courage without walking through vulnerability.” I did just that. I opened my heart, shared my innermost struggles, and in doing so, I became aware of my strength. For the first time in quite a long time, I recognized the magnitude of trying something even if it scares me. From these experiences, I feel empowered. I am reminded that I cannot fail if I am being myself. I like who I am becoming. A lot.

In three days, I return to work. I am filled with a flurry of emotions. I am excited. I am nervous. I am joyful. I am afforded the opportunity to return to the job I love, interact with amazing students, and reconnect with colleagues I have not seen since June. What excites me the most, however, is the awareness I gathered during this sabbatical. Awareness of who I am, what I love, and how I react to various situations. First the first time ever, I have learned to breathe. It is disheartening to realize I never learned how to breathe. Yes, my body naturally inhales and exhales to keep me alive, but I now realize the quality of breath matters.

The most powerful revelation that occurred because of my blog catharsis is this powerful awareness. For years I have struggled with anxiety and that monster created stomach problems, reflux, trouble sleeping, and panic attacks. I was on tons of medicines, visited a plethora of doctors, and insisted on further testing to pinpoint the “problem.” Friends. The answer is simple. I didn’t know how to breathe. I was unaware of the importance of the breath and its impact on my health.

When I think back to all the times at work when I needed to close my door because I needed to sit down and hope my stomach pains went away. All the nights I was scared to go to bed because I knew I wouldn’t sleep, which meant a domino effect of an awful day subsequently. The answer is now clear. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

Thus, on Tuesday, when I wake up from a productive night’s sleep, I will first breathe. I will continue to inhale confidence. Exhale doubt. I will crush day one and every day after that. Friends, my journey has just begun. My journey is leading to better days, better experiences, stronger friendships, and more positive experiences with everyone with whom I interact.

Thank you, my friends, for following me on my journey of sharing the story of my life.

 

 

 

Countdown

New Year’s Eve is a unique holiday.  Endearingly titled, “Amateur Night” by my husband, it is an event where young kids are allowed to stay up way past their bedtime, and teenagers are out past their curfew feeling empowered and mature.  For many my age, it is a night where we are dreading the next day of removing the decorations from the holidays or are uneasy about the return to work.  One commonality, however, among all ages is that the night is dedicated to being with close friends and family who wait anxiously for the countdown until midnight when the brilliant ball drops in Times Square indicating the start of a new year.

As midnight draws near, kids and adults adorn themselves with hats, glittered glasses, noisemakers, and props to indicate it is time to celebrate.  Champagne is poured.  Loved ones draw closer, and the television is turned to the appropriate channel.  With the joyous sounds of pops, noisemakers, and celebratory chatter permeating the walls, everyone slides into proper position to ensure he or she is near their loved ones when the clock strikes midnight.  It is quite a scene. A vignette of happiness and of elation.

This year, my family and I celebrated with my husband’s closest friends from childhood.  When the time arrived to countdown to the new year, we situated ourselves in position in our friend’s house.  My husband and I embraced in excitement, my sons stood below us, and we all made eye contact as if to give approval for being ready.  Once comfortable, I looked around the room, canvassing the room of people we loved, the children who were popping out of their seats, and the bright decorations that completed the vision of celebration.  My smile grew large, my heart skipped a beat, and a surge of strong emotion came over me.  The moment had arrived, and I was feeling blessed beyond words.

Ten…nine…eight…seven…the moment was drawing closer.  Typically, this countdown meant my eyes would be fixated on the screen, my knees would be bent, and my hugs would be ready for the moment the clock struck midnight.  For some reason, I decided on a different approach this year.  It was as if time stood still.  The words from the television hosts sounded jumbled, almost as if they were in slow motion, and I reached anxiously for my phone.  I quickly turned to the video screen on my phone and decided to tape the reactions of the many loved ones in the room when the countdown reached zero.

Though this meant I would miss out on the moment myself, I am incredibly grateful for what I observed.  To see the elation on the faces of so many in the room was not only heart-warming, but it was a vision of nothing I have witnessed in my life.  For some, it appeared they breathed a sigh of relief.  Maybe it was a difficult year.  One of sorrow or loss. For heartbreak and disappointment.  Maybe they wanted to put that year behind them and move forward. For others, their reaction indicated excitement and possibility.  Maybe an exciting event would take place in the upcoming year, or a milestone would be celebrated.  For others, myself included, it was a time to wonder.  What would the year bring?  Would I finally write the book I aspired to write?  Would the goals projected finally manifest themselves?

No matter what the reactions demonstrated, I knew each member of the house experienced something that was truly their own.  A moment of release.  A moment of uniqueness, and a moment that was their minute one of a new year.  As Brad Paisley so eloquently stated, this moment was “the first blank page of a 365-page book.” Each member of that house was awarded a privilege– the privilege to write their own book.  Time for the opportunity to place unique words in their stories. Unique vignettes of their life.  Time for choices to be made and chapters to fill each page of the upcoming year.

When I reached the final moments of my recorded video, my hand shook and my eyes welled with ponds of emotion.  I reached my husband embracing our two boys.  Because of his position so close to me, I was able to witness the precious moment so personally.  Individually, he bear-hugged them and relayed his love for them.  His first words were, “I love you,” followed by, “I am proud of you.” My ponds became lakes, which lead to rivers of tears.  “I am proud of you.” These are not typical words recited on New Year’s, but they seemed perfect in that moment.  He was genuinely proud, and the boys received his praise with affirmation and reciprocated pride.  It was a precious moment and one I would have missed if I followed my typical New Year’s routine.

When the dust settled, the confetti dropped to the floor, and each member of the house moved on with their night, I collapsed on the couch.  I watched the video over and over again, observing a new reaction or a new face each time.  It was eye-opening and quite interesting, and I was grateful I captured these moments.

After I was confident I didn’t miss anyone, I sat alone and pondered.  I created a list in my head of all the countdowns that occur in a year: birthdays, wedding days, retirement, holidays, ends of sporting events.  The list seemed endless.  I then wondered how often people observed the reactions of people when they are near the end of the countdown.  Often we are too caught up with our own thoughts to witness the reactions of others, yet it would be so incredible and fulfilling to observe these moments and their variations.

Equipped with this epiphany, I made a mental note to make a conscious effort to be more cognizant of these moments. Thankfully, a moment arose quickly for me to experience this revelation. A couple days after New Year’s, my older son had a basketball game.  His third-grade travel team participated in a tournament, and they learned they were playing all fourth-grade teams.  This was daunting and frankly frightening for both the players and their parents.  From the moment we entered the gym, it was clear the fourth-graders were taller and fairly more skilled than our players.  Nerves grew and emotions were high.

Recognizing we had to surrender to the present moment unconditionally and without reservation, the boys huddled together, put on their game faces, and entered the court equipped with confidence and teamwork.  Almost immediately, we all realized our boys were ready.  Moment after moment, our faces dropped as we recognized the boys hung in there and gave the fourth-graders a run for their money.  The boys played well, and the scoreboard indicated nothing but pure competition and excitement.  Nothing was more indicative of this than that out of the four games the boys played, two of them ended with nail-biting ping-pong scoring and buzzer-beater endings.  We were amazed and so incredibly proud of our team.

After one of the games went into overtime and ended in such a tight match-up, I recalled my new revelation, and I made sure I was attentive during the second nail-biter game to observe during the final countdown (cue Europe) of the game.  Instead of watching the clock and fixating on the baskets, I scanned the room. Parents from both sides were on the edge of their seats, and the players almost fell off the bench with excitement.  It was incredible.  Nothing but pure heightened emotions and natural competition.

When the final seconds ticked and the ball was stolen from one of our players, I could literally watch the excitement erase from our parents and players and amplified on the faces of the opposing team.  I knew the ending.  The inevitable loss was palpable and sadness and disappointment washed over our sides’ faces, but to witness this transformation was amazing.

Each person handled it differently.  Some hung their heads low, some grew upset, and some even looked away.  However, the one commonality was that after each reaction was over, we all turned to each other in admiration and pride of our boys.  They fought hard and battled tough.  As cheesy as it sounds, they were true winners.  They did not relent.  They did not cower, and they most certainly did not go down without a fight.

I left the gym that night feeling so fulfilled.  Not only was I proud of my son, but I was grateful to have witnessed so much more than a basketball game.  I observed the raw emotions of players and their parents as they battled on the court.  It was incredible and yet so new to me.  Never before did I witness the reactions of so many in so little time, and little did I realize all this time that I just had not paid attention.

On the ride home, I was quiet.  I was curious and quiet.  For so many years, I have been caught up in my own emotion and my own reactions that I missed the reactions of others.  It is analogous to watching a movie or reading a book more than once.  Each time, a new observation is made or a question is answered, while new revelations take place almost simultaneously.  The key is simply paying attention.

A strange event happened yesterday.  I was getting ready in my bathroom and the song, “Praying” by Kesha came on my Bluetooth speaker.  For no apparent reason, I began bawling.  Like the kind of cry you experience when you’re five and you lost your puppy.  It was an uncontrollable cry that shook my body and burned my eyes.  After what felt like an hour of sobbing, I stared at myself in the mirror and out loud stated, “What is your problem?”

Within seconds, I knew.  I was paying attention and I knew.  The countdown of my sabbatical had begun.  The final three weeks are presenting themselves, and I became completely aware in those bathroom moments.  However, what I quickly recognized was these were not tears of sadness.  They were tears of pride.  Tears of happiness and tears of accomplishment.

From the moment my sabbatical journey began, I set goals.  I dreamed big and wrote a timeline for these goals.  Minute by minute, I drew a draft in my head of which ones had been checked-off and completed.  I was overwhelmed with what I noticed.  They had all been completed except one– to put all my thoughts and blog entries into a book- to round-out my journey by compiling them into a book.  So, friends, the Mom of Goats has reached the end of my journey of blog-writing for now.

It is time to enjoy my last three weeks by taking in every moment, being present, observing the faces of loved-ones along the way, and soaking in each second of time and space I have left before returning to work.

So many have asked me if I am apprehensive or upset to return to my job.  The answer is absolutely not.  I miss my students and colleagues.  I miss the fulfillment I receive each day when I leave my school, and I miss crafting new ideas for lesson plans and activities to complete with my students.

What I will miss, however, is the time and space this sabbatical has afforded me.  The time, space, and availability it provided for my family.  The mom and wife that was calm and at peace. I will miss watching my kids step off the bus and greeting me with a smile.  These moments will be sorely missed.  Yet, for all these moments I am grateful.  Thus, as my countdown begins, I will observe my own reactions. My own moments.  My own vignettes of time.  And, on New Year’s Eve of next year, I hope I will enjoy the countdown, react with happiness, and look back on my year with joyful reflection.

Thank you for listening and experiencing life with me.  I appreciate your support, your kind words, and your willingness to be vulnerable with me.  I am forever grateful.

Love,

The Mom of Goats

 

 

Service

I had many goals at the beginning of my sabbatical. Many have been met.  Crossed off.  Accomplished.  A few are still lingering. Waiting for their turn.  One of those goals was accomplished just yesterday, and it has been patiently waiting for years.  The goal was to run a particular route to a particular road at a particular pace.  The thought of it churned my stomach, ached my knees, and caused me to breathe a little heavier.  I attempted it several times before but never saw it through to the end. It has been frustrating, disheartening, and disappointing.

When I awoke yesterday, I decided it was a good day to face it head on and no matter what, I would finish the “race.” These five miles seemed exponentially farther than they actually were, but because of my hesitation and fear of failing once again, I created a monster out of them.  Five miles became a marathon in my head, and they began to control every painful move as I began to prepare for them.

As I grabbed my running clothes and shoes, I began coaching and convincing myself that today was the day.  I bellowed out loud with a motivational speech and then began feverishly completing a jumping jacks regimen with calisthenics as a finale.  With every passing second, my motivation grew, and as I propelled myself down the stairs to collect my headphones, I felt ready.

Brandon Flowers, the lead singer of “The Killers” was my choice of music.  The first song resonated strongly from the headphones to my eardrums with the words, “Dreams come true” echoing their powerful force in my ear.  No, this wasn’t necessarily a dream come true, but the lyrics were motivating enough to release myself from my house and begin the five-mile journey.

The sun shined brightly and acted as a spotlight for the inception of my race.  With one foot in front of the other, I began running.  It was a brisk pace and one I knew I could not maintain, but it remained in rhythm with the music and with the fake voices of people cheering me on from the sidelines.

I felt strong.  I felt determined and ready.  I felt this truly was the day.  Then, about a quarter-mile into the run, I turned the corner from my street to the next leg of the run and was quickly met with a baffling image.  A young man somewhere between the ages of 18 and 21 was running with a military backpack strapped to his shoulders and holding what appeared to be at least 10 pounds of items stuffed into it.  He was pouring sweat and lumbering with every move.  His breath was heavy.  His legs were full of cement and his arms grew limp as he painstakingly moved through the cold air.

This moment immediately gave me pause.  My eyes grew wider.  My heart skipped a beat.  My music seemed to screech to a halt.  It took every ounce of my being to motivate myself to leave the house to run five miles, and this man is running with a bag of bricks on his back.  I suddenly felt pathetic and weak.  Embarrassed.  Ashamed.

With a pond of tears filling my eyes, I slowly ran past him making note of his appearance.  Attempting a half-smile, he nodded in affirmation and courteous notice of a fellow runner trodding along his path.  I returned the smile but felt incredibly guilty as I briskly ran by him.  From that moment on, I knew I would finish this run.  If this soldier can run in that manner, I most certainly could finish five miles with nothing on my back by the brisk wind swimming over my sweaty shirt.

Each mile became increasingly more difficult, but the vision of this man remained in my head.  I would not stop.  No matter what the pace, I would not stop.  When I reached the two-and-a-half mile turn around, the sun blinded me and the wind overtook me.  The back nine of this run was going to challenge every last bit of me.  Again, I convinced myself nothing would stand in my way.  I am healthy and strong.  My legs and arms work and my endurance is strong enough to make it to the finish line.

At about mile four, I was gassed.  Not much left in my tank.  I was not confident I could do it.  At this point, I began talking out loud and envisioning the military man encouraging me and screaming out motivational phrases that would propel me through the wind and carry me to the finish line of my driveway.

When I approached the final 1000 feet, a gentle tear fell down my face.  I knew this goal would be accomplished.   I knew I had made it.  With every foot that met the pavement, a few more tears cascaded down my face, and by the time I sprinted the last 100 feet, tears multiplied until they became a faucet.

As I made my last step to the finish line, my body doubled-over and I collapsed onto my lawn.  By this point,  my tears were uncontrollable.  They fell because of a conglomeration of so many thoughts. Yes, I was proud.  I was darn proud.  After all those times of failing, I finally met the finish line with pride.  Accomplished.  Another goal checked off my list.

But those tears mainly collected because my mind couldn’t help but think of that soldier.  I wondered where he was in his run.  Did he make it to the finish line?  Did his legs stay strong? Were his arms stable enough to carry that load to the end?  Then, my thoughts took a completely different turn.  Instead of considering that young man’s accomplishments in our calm and safe town, I pictured him on the battlefield.

As these thoughts penetrated my heart, I made my way up my driveway and languidly entered my home.  I stumbled onto the couch and removed my headphones.  In complete silence, I bawled.  Tears burned down my sweaty face and rolled sadly down my saturated shirt.  With blurry eyes, I canvassed my family room.  Bright and cheery Christmas decorations met my eyes with joy, and the shiny lights from the tree danced in a cheerful dance as they meandered up and down the tree.

Though these were beautiful visions and made a valiant effort to lift my mood, I just couldn’t release the soldier from my mind.  This young man was probably preparing for battle.  The heavy backpack was likely replicating ammunition or even a fellow soldier.  His run was training.  His exhaustion was nothing compared to the exhaustion for which he was preparing.

I was paralyzed with emotion.  While I sat there and soaked in the beautiful decorations and waited for my healthy and strong young boys to get off the bus, his mom was at home likely crippled with fear.  Though I am sure she is incredibly proud of her son, I cannot imagine how scary it is to send your son into battle.  The mere thought sends chills down my spine and causes my heart to break every so slightly.

With a sudden jerk, I stood up and grabbed a pen and paper.  I crafted a list of all the services I do, my children participate in, and future projects that we can do as a family.  At the top of that list was the kindness Advent calendar I created for my boys.  Each day of December they complete a small act of kindness.  They range from sitting next to someone new at school to bringing coloring books to sick children in local hospitals.  They have been completing this calendar for approximately four years, and with each year, the acts become increasingly more intricate and helpful.

I am proud of this calendar and I am proud of the list I created.  It ran the gamut of various aspects of life and with various people in our lives.  As a mom, I am hopeful this will teach my children some humility and integrity, and they will take these lessons with them throughout life and their small acts will multiply as others observe their actions, and eventually, our world will be transformed.  Ghandi once stated, “The best way to find yourself is to love yourself in the service of others.” Thus, this relay race of kindness is sure to resound with others and they will work for a cause, not for applause.

As I become increasingly happier and proud of the small services my family and I have completed, my attention once again turns to the holidays and the time of year in which we take part.  Christmas is a time for family.  For gratitude.  For love.  For happiness.  It is a time to stop and pause.  Recognize the beauty in the decorations and the way the lights dance in happy unison.  The way the smells of Christmas cheer permeate through our houses and their aromas meet us with pleasure.

With all this love, beauty, and refreshing scents come traditions, and we relish in them as we take part.  They are ours and ours alone.  Each one holds a special place in our hearts.  Without them, the holidays would seem a little empty and incomplete.  They are a part of us and they create the cloth of family.  They are the fabrics of our happiness and joy.

One of my favorite traditions as a kid was the candlelight service at  our church on Christmas Eve. No matter how crazy the holidays became or how stressed my parents were leading up to that service, I knew the finale of the sermon meant the lights would dim and each congregation member would receive a candle.  I recall such precious moments as each of my family members would tip their candle to the next family member and greet them with a pleasant smile and gentle kiss on their cheek.  It was almost as if there was an unspoken, “We did it,” as the candle lit and the flame grew taller.

In unison, we would sing, “Silent Night.” I recall even as a kid becoming overcome with emotion.  I still cry thinking about it.  Silent Night.  Yes, silent.  Calm.  These are not common terms spoken during the holiday season, but in those moments, there was a blanket of warmth, comfort, and silence covering the congregation.  We were in it together and we felt it deep in our hearts.  It was incredibly powerful and meaningful.

So, as I sit here and think about events of the past twenty-four hours, I sit in calm reflection.  I am reminded of a quote by Hellen Keller, “I am only one but still I am one.  I cannot do everything, but still, I can do something, and because I cannot do everything, I will not refuse to do something I can do.” This resonates with me because no, I cannot run a marathon yet, but I can run five miles.

That young soldier likely feels compelled to fight for our country because he is young and capable.  He feels determined to stand up for what he believes, and likely adopts the mentality of the memorable and honorable soldier, Travis Manion, who believes, “if not me, then who?”  For this I am grateful and I thank you for your service.  Because of you, my kids enjoy a beautiful Christmas.  Because of you, we can attend church services in peace.  And because of you, I will approach daunting tasks differently.  I am sure your mom is incredibly proud.  I pray for you.  Honor you and respect you.

Merry Christmas everyone.  May you enjoy your holiday season with calm and peace.  With family and tradition.  And for whatever service you take part, take a look around and relish in its beauty and with whom who is in attendance.  Whether it be in a church or in the comfort of your home or that of a loved one, I wish you a silent and calm night filled with love and family.

Love,

The Mom of Goats xo

Love Connection

Please tell me you have seen this show. Hosted by Chuck Woolery, it premiered in 1983, and the premise spotlighted either a single man or single woman who would watch audition tapes of three potential dates. The three options would discuss what they look for in a significant other.  Based on their answers, the contestant would pick one of the three for a date. Then the producers generously foot the bill for the blind date, but the date part was private and not taped. The rule was between the end of the date and when the couple reappeared on the show together, they were forbidden to communicate, so the next phase would be authentic and interesting.

A couple of weeks after the date, the contestant would sit with Woolery in front of a studio audience, while the date would be backstage but on a large screen, so the audience could see them.  The two would share details about the date and about each other. Sometimes the couple would venture into explicit detail about each other or even insult one another in various ways, but sometimes the dates were so successful they lead to marriage and babies.  Either way, at the end of each episode, the audience would vote on the three contestants, and if the audience agreed with the guest’s choice, Chuck Woolery offer to pay for a second date. I always hoped this was the case.  The love connections made me happy.

The memories of this show make me giggle, smile, and contemplate them at the same time.  Love Connection is the same as modern-day Match.com and other dating sites.  The difference is, of course, that Chuck Woolery doesn’t pay for the date, and from what I understand, you don’t see videos of the prospective dates on Match.com, but the end goal is the same. Love.  Connection.  Possibility.

As I sit here and watch some of the old episodes, I attempt to spot a theme.  What makes some of the dates work?  What causes their demise? Yes, sometimes it is merely a lack of chemistry or attraction, but my intuition determines something different.  Connection.  I hear it all the time from my friends who are dating or have dated in the past. “There just wasn’t a connection.” But, what does that mean?  How do you know you have made a connection with someone?

I am not sure anyone can define a true connection.  It’s ambiguous.  Nebulous. Seemingly undefinable.  Friends have not truly been able to define what connections them with someone and how it impacts the outcome of a date.  Sure.  It could simply not having much in common with someone, or the appearance of the date isn’t what they had in mind, but when confronted with what caused the disconnect, they are stumped.

I am certainly no expert on dating, but if I could guess based on mere conjecture, the connection lacks because of a lack of empathy.  This is not because either of the dates is ice-cold or callous, but in such a short time, it is impossible to connect on that level.  The truth is if the initial attraction is not there, who would even want to delve deeper, yet I have heard story after story about couples who reunited from high school years later and maybe many relationships later.  Or couples who connected because of traumatic experiences.  Couples who are both divorced and ready to move forward in life and ready to meet someone with whom understands their circumstances.

What unites these people?  What causes their deep connection?  Often, it is because they empathize with each other. Truly get each other.  Feel the pain, grief, or trauma the other experienced and want to assist them in healing.  This is a connection.  A deep, empathetic connection.

Empathy is defined as the ability to understand and share the feelings of another.  It is the action of understanding. Being aware. Being sensitive to and vicariously experiencing the feelings. Their thoughts.  Their experiences.  Their pain.  Conversely, it is putting windows in your walls and allowing others to penetrate into your heart.  Helping to heal it and pacify you.  Console you.  Connection is about two people making the conscious effort of opening up sharing much of themselves.

Clearly, relationships are not all about pain and suffering, but as I reflect on the relationships I know– the connections of people I know and what made them connect so deeply, it is meeting dark roads and facing them together.  It is understanding each other’s shortcomings and determining their cause and their inception.  It is the social-emotional connection that binds their hearts and their souls.

There are other relationships besides the ones whose goals is a lifetime together.  There is other love besides the one of a life-partner.  Besides a romantic connection.  In fact, love presents itself in many forms and in so many different capacities.  There is love for a friend.  Love for a child.  Love for a pet.  Love for a student.  The list could go on for infinity, and the various loves are defined in various ways, but the one thread they have in common is the connection of empathy.

When you think about all the counselors in the world.  All the teachers.  The motivational speakers.  The nurses.  Doctors.  The social workers.  The list goes on, but when you truly ponder on the best ones, you likely realize their commonality.  The most effective ones have experienced trauma themselves.  They have been downtrodden.  Have experienced pain and suffering.  Addition.  Sadness.  Depression.  Failure.  Yet, they have risen from the ashes, soldiered-on, and made it their life goal to assist others in healing.  Assisted them.  Cared for them.  Cried with them.  Truly connected with them.  Their empathy is palpable and truly felt by their client, their students, their patients.

As I reflect on myself and those with whom I connect the best, it is no different.  I was a difficult child.  Had to have the last word.  Had to be the center of attention.  Had to be popular.  Had to stand out.  For what, I am not sure, but I can now embrace my downfalls and use them as a toolbox or resource for those with whom I interact.

For example, as a teacher, my job is to learn with my students, and it is also my job for my students to see me as a human and someone who makes mistakes.  A person who has made bad choices and learned from them. A person who regrets my choices but uses those choices as leverage for a brighter future filled with new positive learning experiences.

Over my career, I have shared a plethora of stories with my students.  They love them.  This is how we connect.  They know I hated reading.  Despised it.  I was the kid who made any possible excuse to get out of reading.  I would hide in the corner and pretend to read.  I would ask to use the bathroom every day during independent reading.  I would pretend to leave my book at home and ask if I could go to the library so I could count down the minutes until the independent reading time was over.  My students know all of this, and for those who do the same thing and share the same patterns, we connect.

My students know I was an awful writer.  In fact, my high school teacher wanted to recommend me for Honor’s English, but her hesitation was how pitiful my writing pieces were, and she just couldn’t do it.  My students know this about me.  They know I struggled.  They know I failed.  This is how we connect.

They also know my social life meant everything to me.  I had to have endless friends.  Endless social events needed to fill my calendar.  This meant my schoolwork suffered.  My grades declined.  My schoolwork was low on my priority list, and my students know this about me. For that reason, we connect.

My list could fill pages and pages, and my stories are endless, but I am sure if you asked a counselor or doctor or social worker about their stories, they could do the same.  We all want to connect.  We want others to soothe us.  We want them to be willing to listen.  Empathy is a choice. A vulnerable choice and likely one, not everyone chooses to embrace, but at our core, the truth is, everyone hurts.  Some people just hide it better than others.

I am not a hider.  My heart is an open-book, and if you asked anyone who knows me well, they would tell you,  I don’t hold back.  I probably share too much, but I yearn for those human connections.  I know that by sharing my own stories and making others feel comfortable with my carefree spirit and openness, that maybe they too will feel relaxed enough to share as well.

One of the many stories I shared was about the loss of my first baby.  It pains me every day, but when that occurred about ten years ago, I was amazed by the number of people who reached out to me, sent cards, or shared a similar story to mine. People I hardly knew shared in my struggle and were willing to share their struggles as well.  Colleagues I don’t even think cared for me wrote heartfelt letters about their sympathy and their willingness to listen.  This is what empathy does and how connections work.

Then there are those times we want to help and we just cannot.  As I mentioned in prior posts, I suffered a ten-year battle with anorexia.  Though some would think I still suffer, I was thirty pounds lighter than I am now. I was a frail ninety-five pounds.  My cheeks sunk it, my bones protruded, and my ghastly-white complexion resembled that of a ghost.  I was malnourished.  Sick and disgusting.

And the one person who wanted to help me the most, couldn’t.  My mom.  Knowing now that you are only as happy as your unhappiest child, I empathize with her.  I was sick. She is my mom.  Clearly, this equation meant she would rescue me.  It seemed simple.  But it most certainly was not.  I had to do this on my own.

My battles were ugly.  What started out as a boyfriend telling me my calves were really big in comparison to the rest of my body, resulted in a numbers game of deprivation and starvation.  Since I couldn’t control his words and his actions, I would control my food intake and my calories.  I would win this game.

But, this meant my family would suffer.  My mom would cry.  My parents would fight.  But my battle ensued.  I went from 1,200 calories to a mere 300 a day.  I yearned for naps so I wouldn’t have to feel the demon of hunger in my belly and the aches and pains that wreaked havoc on my body.  Then there was the dizziness that was a direct result of a dearth of calories my body needed to survive, and of which I chose to deny it.

My mom couldn’t force me to eat.  She couldn’t convince me of it.  She couldn’t sway me to get help so I wouldn’t miss out on life.  Miss out on the experiences of an 18-year old.  She knew I would regret it, but she most certainly couldn’t convince me of it. I had to win this battle on my own. And for that mom, I am sorry.  I can’t imagine observing one of my boys suffer like I did.  I can’t imagine feeling that helpless.  That lost.

And for these reasons, friends, I hope there is one reader out there who I am helping.  Maybe a colleague.  Maybe a friend.  Maybe a complete stranger. Whatever the case, please know I understand.  You want to help.  You want your daughter to heal.  You want your son to seek help. You want your sister-in-law to confide in you.  I am sorry friends, but it may not be possible.  They must fight their own battle and do it in their own way.  My mom used to cry at my feet for me to overcome my battle.  To trust her and to hold her hand through this fight. And when my dad had to rush me to the hospital because of my excruciating stomach pains, he wanted me to see the devastation of this disease, but I wouldn’t.  Couldn’t. This disease controlled me.  Every ounce of my being and no one could help me overcome it.

Eventually, I defeated it, but I did it on my own.  What once consumed my every thought and every action now lays dormant inside me. It will always be there, but now it serves as a reminder that I am stronger than I think, and I have the choice.  I choose to be healthy.  I choose to not watch my parents suffer.  To not watch my family cry and feel helpless. I choose a life filled with wonderful experiences and delicious food. Food that nourishes me and fuels my body.  I choose to live.

And from this experience, I also choose to help.  As some of you read, please know I am here to listen.  To empathize and to assist you in any way I can.  I know the signs.  I recognize the pain.  I am completely aware when someone is suffering from this debilitating disease, and I so badly want to reach out and tell them I understand.  But, from my own experience, I know my help is likely not to be received.  They will do it on their own time.  Of this, I am certain.

I am not shameful of my experience. As Brene Brown states so eloquently, “if we share our story with someone who responds with empathy and understanding, shame can’t survive.” Yes, friends, there are those out to hurt you.  To make you suffer and struggle.  There are those who smile and feel happy when you are struggling. But, those people are likely struggling themselves.  They could be filled with shame. Shame that controls them and their actions.

Though no one heals themselves by wounding another, they will try. They will doggedly try to boomerang their pain on you.  Their jealousy and their insecurity will rear its ugly head, and it will attempt to defeat you along with it.  Just know, these people are in pain.  They are screaming for empathy, but they don’t know how to find it.   Just observe but do not allow it to overtake you because true empathy requires you to step outside your own emotions and to view things from the perspective of another person.  Don’t judge them.  Just observe and allow your own empathy to feel their pain.  In time, they will heal.

In short, I am thankful for the negative experiences in my life.  They opened my eyes to the good things of which I wasn’t paying attention to before.  These experiences built character in me, made me stronger, and most importantly, they allowed me to build love connections among the many important people in my life, as well as with strangers with whom I may connect in the future.  For all of those connections, I won’t just listen to your words.  I will listen to your tone, watch your body movements, and your facial expressions. I will hear everything you say and everything you don’t.  We will connect.  We will empathize, but most poignantly and powerfully, we will make a love connection that bonds us forever.

Scaffold

Recently, my family traveled to the Great Wolf Lodge in the Poconos.  For those who don’t know, it is an indoor water park that is tailored to family fun and creating lasting memories.  I had heard about it for years, but my kids were always too young to truly appreciate all the resort had to offer.  A few weeks ago, I stumbled upon a Groupon for the Lodge, and it seemed like the perfect opportunity to get away.

We ended up choosing the Monday and Tuesday before Thanksgiving, and our boys were elated.  They couldn’t believe we would allow them to miss school.  We we were all so anxious and looking forward to some family bonding time that is rare because of the insanity of all our schedules.

When we pulled up the resort, I felt like we had arrived at Wally World from Christmas vacation, except that it was actually open. In fact, throngs of families were bustling to unload their cars, and kids were stumbling over themselves to get inside this wonderland.

Our boys were practically in the front seat clawing at us to park and unload our caravan of supplies for the weekend.  When we grew tired of their impatience, we located a spot. Then, after a painfully long walk and our arms tired from carrying our bags, we approached the door.  I peeked inside, and my exhausted body immediately grew taller.  My smile grew three times the size, and I was filled with memories from childhood when I saw Disney World for the first time.  I knew in an instant, this trip would include happy times and happy children.

After checking in and placing our wolf ears on our heads, we headed to our “Wolf Den.” I have never seen the boys so excited.  It brought a tear to my eye.  I had felt guilty for not bringing them to Disney yet, but at that moment, this was their Disney World.  They had their own “den,” replete with bunk buds and even their own television with a remote.  The excitement was palpable.

After the allure of the den wore off, the boys implored us to descend to the water park.  Though my husband and I wanted to just relax, we knew we could only deny them for so long before they would pull us by our arms and legs.  So, after making eye contact with my husband,  and giving an unspoken agreement, we obliged and with bathing suits on, a bag packed, and two anxious boys beaming with anxious frenzy, we made our way down to the park.

As we entered, the potent smell of chlorine ripped through my nose, and my eyes began to burn, but I was able to ignore these sensations because of the number of beaming children and their boisterous sounds of happiness that echoed throughout the water park.  The boys were ready to become a part of this euphoria, and they encouraged me to do the same.

We found a home base, and before I could open my mouth, the boys sprinted into the wave pool without provocation.  For a moment, I soaked in their happiness and watched them as their innocent faces smiled back at me. They were in their glory.

As I looked around the park, I observed all the options it had to offer; water slides of various heights, a wave pool, an obstacle course, and lots more.  This was sure to be an adventure for all of us.  I then made a checklist in my head about which rides I could handle and which ones were way too scary to attempt.  I was comfortable with my choices, and my attention turned to which ones the boys would try.  I knew the tallest ones weren’t an option, but I debated whether or not they would push their limits or be content with the more age-appropriate slides.

In the middle of my thought, Brady emerged from the water and begged me to attempt what I labeled the, “not likely to try but maybe if I find the courage, that would be my limit” slides.  My stomach immediately knotted.  My toes were clenched, and my teeth began to chatter.  Turning my head towards my husband, I knew by the look in his eye, I had no choice.  I couldn’t let either of them down.  Reluctantly, I stood up and began coaching myself to push past my fears and man up.

We approached the slides.  Tube in hand.  Brady exhibited no fear, and I was so proud of his fearlessness as he galloped up the stairs and looked back at me with a smile.  I, however, approached the stairs with butterflies flurrying in my belly.  With each hesitant step, my fear grew and my toes clenched the stairs as if I was holding on for dear life.  Of course, there had to be a long line, and as I waited and with every look down, my fear bubbled and my heart spun a little faster.

When we finally made it to the top, I felt safe.  Secure.  Ready to go.  We placed our bodies in the correct configuration, gripped the handlebars, and gave a “we got this” glance to each other as our tube began its descent.  With bellowing screams, we meandered down the tube with ferocious water splashing in our faces and ripples of water circling our bottoms.  When the end finally came, we high-fived and we were ready for more.

After several more slides and lots more laughs, we returned to our chairs.  We were exploding with excitement and encouraged my husband and Cody to try out all our favorites.  Cody immediately clamored, “NO!” He was shaking like a leaf.  Gripping onto my husband’s biceps, he shot us an evil glance and told us to leave him alone.  We did, and we felt bad because he was clearly petrified.

The day continued much the same way.  Cody remained in his comfort zone.  Swimming in the wave pool, completing the obstacle courses, and shooting hopes with the buddies he made. He seemed happy, and I wasn’t going to push him to do something with which he wasn’t comfortable.  However, towards the end of the day, when the lifeguards were corralling children out of the pool, I recognized that Cody kept staring at the slides. It was as if he was envisioning himself attempting them.  I smiled as I gathered our belongings to return to our room but never said a word to him.

The next morning, the routine repeated itself.  No sooner did the boys’ eyes open, then did they beg to return to the water park.  After about an hour of coercion, we returned.  When we located our spot and placed our belongings in a safe place, I noticed Cody turned to my husband and whispered.  I was hoping he found the courage to attempt a somewhat scary water slide.  My husband leaned down, clenched Cody’s hand, and with only a little resistance, they were on their way to the entrance of the slides.

I was able to see his little, scrawny legs waiting on the see-through stairs, and my heart broke as I recognized his obvious fear.  Screaming with encouragement, we made eye contact, and he continued to ascend the stairs. Brady and I then waited by where they would emerge into the pool, and we discussed how we knew Cody would enjoy it once he pushed past his fear.  Sure enough, he appeared from the bottom of the slide with a smile so large, he could fit a hanger in it.  Then, tripping over himself as he exited the pool, he ran to me and hugged me tightly as he relayed his experience.

I returned the hug and reminded him he is much braver than he thinks.  With a slight tear in his eye, he began apologizing. I was confused.  “For what?” I inquired.  “Well, mommy.  You’re just not as strong as daddy.  That is why I didn’t ask you.  I knew his legs wouldn’t let me go.” Though I was slightly insulted, I told him I understood.  Then, with a calm voice, I assured him I would hold him tightly as well.  “Just give me a chance.” He must have seen the confidence sparkling in my eye because he gripped my hand tightly, and we were on our way.

By the time we reached the landing,, Cody released my hand and confidently grabbed a tube.  He was ready to go down alone.  Though I was reluctant, I knew this was one of those mom moments where I had to relinquish control.  He made his choice of the orange slide.  I chose yellow.  Then, as I entered the tube, I shot a quick glance over to Cody and realized he was not in his tube all the way.  Before I could even release one of my legs, Cody fell half-way out of the tube and began falling down the slide.  I immediately yelled for an employee, and before I knew it, all the lifeguards were whistling they had an emergency.  I panicked. Almost threw up in my mouth as I hung over the railing in fear waiting for the lifeguards to rescue him.

What seemed like five minutes was likely only ten seconds, but those ten seconds were long enough to discipline myself for allowing him to go alone. To assume he would be fine. To think he was ready for this.  As the bull-rush of punishments surged through my brain, I watched the bottom of the slide.  As if taunting me, Cody emerged in the tube. Happy as a clam.  Confident as a bird committing itself to the air.

As I sprinted down the stairs and rushed towards him, I noticed his new-found confidence and smiled.  He then grabbed me by the shoulders and with a dead-serious look on his face, he stated, “Mom.  I am fine. It was awesome.  You don’t know how strong I am. I pulled myself up and totally crushed it.” With a chuckle and applause, I embraced him and relayed how proud I was of him for rescuing himself.

That moment gave me pause.  As if entering a hypnotic state, I reflected on Cody’s experience.  He experienced a scaffold of fear to bravery.  What once seemed impossible to him became achievable because of his ability to get over his fear.  He felt the fear and did it anyway, and his self-confidence allowed him to do exactly what he was afraid to do just minutes before.

Returning to reality, I had an epiphany.  We don’t really fear the unknown.  We fear what we think we know about the unknown.  If we could only run into fear, stare at it head-on, we would scare fear so much, it would sprint away.  Its power would be lost. Its ability to scare us– gone.

With pride in my heart and my confidence emitting a bright light, I huddled my family together and announced we would take on the most daunting slide. We would do it together.  As a team.  They all looked at me quizzically for a moment, but their confusion quickly turned to eagerness.  They were ready.  I was ready.

Though the millions of stairs that lie ahead turned my head and stomach into hysteria, I coached myself every step of the way.  I talked to myself.  Encouraged myself and convinced myself we would all be fine.  Then, as we approached the final flight of stairs, a woman caught my eye.  She was a few stairs below me and crippled with fear.  Paralyzed with apprehension.  Her eyes were brick red, tears cascaded down her face, and her knuckles were ghost-white from gripping the railing so tightly.

I so badly wanted to coach her much the way I did myself.  Tell her I understood.  Tell her that I was in her place the day before.  That I get it.  I wanted to tell her that fear is no joke.  I wanted to reach down and hug her, but it was clear she had to do this on her own. The image of her petrified face, however, stayed with me.

As my family placed our feet in the slots, gripped the handles, and cascaded down the slide in our four-man bobsled, I tried painstakingly hard to truly capture each moment of that descent.  My glances canvassed each of my family member’s faces, and I created a snapshot of their beautiful, exhilarated faces as we meandered to the bottom and hugged with excitement, success, and love.

When I exited the pool, I looked up and searched for the frightened woman.  She was nowhere in sight, so I assumed she was on her way down the tunnel. Sure enough, I heard a bellowing excitement echoing in the slide, and within a few seconds, she emerged with the utmost composure and confidence.  I was so proud of her.

That woman will never know the observations I made the day, and how she has been on my mind ever since.  Her fear and her reaction to the wait on the stairs became embedded in my brain and in my heart.

I decided to keep this experience to myself, but it dangled in my brain for the remainder of the trip, and when we finally left the Great Wolf Lodge, the ride home consisted of me reflecting on what I learned from those three memorable and incredible days.

A scaffold of fear was pervasive throughout the trip and an unspoken alliance was forged among Cody, myself, and that stranger.  It took small steps and layers to push past our fears, but each step provided confidence to support us in the next endeavor.  And when we reached the pinnacle of both the park and our crippling fear, we pushed harder. Gained more confidence and recognized how we could not give power to our fears and doubts.  We were in charge.  The inanimate fear was powerless when we stared it in its ugly face.

When we arrived home, I decided to journal everything I fear in life.  Whether it was something from the past or something that currently plagued me, I needed to see them in writing.  To stare at them and conjure up the strength to see past them.

As the list took fruition, I could feel my nose stuffing, my eyes watering, and my stomach churning.  I was appalled at all I feared.  Yes, some were insignificant: snakes, clowns, spiders. But there were other ones I didn’t even know existed.  Ones that are life-changing and tough to erase from my mind.

One by one I went down that list and made strategies to overcome them. Though I couldn’t ensure myself they would never happen, I gave a percentage to their likelihood and realized I wasted so much precious time being scared.  Somewhere along the way in life, I lost courage.  And I screamed in my head to myself and shouted, “Courage doesn’t mean you don’t get afraid, it simply means it won’t let fear stand in its way.”

When I picked myself up from the canvas after a barrage of angry rants to myself, I began a new list.  A list of fears with which I got past.  Ones with which I gained strength and survived.

If someone had told me a year before that I would lose my precious first child, a baby girl, I would have fallen to my knees, writhing in pain, and wailing in tears.  i would have kicked and screamed in excruciating pain.  I would believe I was absolutely not strong enough to survive such a devastating experience.  The traumatic experience could never happen to me.  But it did.  And I conjured the strength to become stronger.  To use it as an opportunity to test my fortitude. My ability to use it as fuel. A fuel of survival and strength.

If someone had told me I would experience ten years of a painful and traumatic eating disorder, I would have never believed them.  I was strong.  Healthy.  Why would I do that to my body?  Well, I did.  Ten long years of a debilitating disorder consumed every minute of every day.  Calorie counting.  Sleeping through events.  Ditching my friends.  Making excuses.  It was awful. I made it though. I got healthy.  I defeated the evil thoughts in my brain and gained control of my thoughts.  I won.

And if someone told me I would survive endless years of ruthless bullying by several groups of girls and in several times in my life, I would say there was no way. What people thought of me bothered me too much.  I couldn’t handle their stares.  Their gawking.  Their mean and malicious comments. But,  I overcame it.  I believed in myself as a good human, and I knew these girls would eventually have vision of the inherently good person in but remained hidden from them.

In short, by no means am I saying there aren’t more devastating experiences that could have happened.  I know my experiences could be more challenging.  But it’s what I know.  It’s where my foundation of confidence was built.  The scaffold that bore the foundation of strength. These experiences afforded me the opportunity to  accomplish bigger things in life without being afraid of them.

We are not born with fear.  Fear is learned.  We choose.  How far will we push ourselves?  How much will we allow fear to win the tug of war?  Do we face it head-on or ignore it so much that it makes us sick?

As a 43 year-old, I choose courage.  I choose to be on the other side of fear.  I choose to look back and watch fear crumble to the ground and dissipate.  I choose to ask myself what I could do if I wasn’t afraid, and step-by-step and day-by-day, I break down walls.  Brick by brick.

This blog scared me.  I had to overcome the fear of wondering what others would think.  The fear that others would judge.  But, each week enough people reach out to me, make connections with me, and sometimes even ask for help making the blog worth it.  I am finally allowing myself to be the person I have always wanted to be, and the confident person I yearned for during my younger years. I am proud of myself–something I wasn’t always able to admit.

I had no idea a family getaway would provide such wisdom. No clue that by observing my boys conjure up the confidence to push their limits, I would reflect on my own life.  Never thought a complete stranger could ignite a conversation in my head about who I am and who I want to be.  But it happened.  And from now on, I will believe every event in my life is an opportunity to learn more.  To acquire the wisdom to provide strength for myself and for my family.  To encourage my children.  To help them overcome their fears and be a soldier of confidence. Because what I need them to know is everything they want and desire is on the other side of fear.  Push past it.  Defeat it and you will dominate this life you are given.

Enjoying the view

This is the time of year that no matter how anxious or stressed I get, just one glance at these decorations puts my mind at ease and my mind in the right place.