The space in between

Have you ever noticed that in writing, the parentheses often bookends the interesting details, the context, the stuff that makes the sentences rich?

I’ve been thinking about parentheses recently. I’ve been thinking about my life recently too. I’ve been thinking about this upside-down world and how to find the parentheses (the tranquil, quiet minutes and the loud, glorious moments)—the things that capture who we are amidst the now.

Friends and family voice fear, confusion, frustration, grief.  Time is lost as we watch the supposed-to-be  moments floating away like clouds. We are all talking about the hurt. Some louder than others. Yet it all whispers pain.

.

But smiling, shiny moments upstage the rest. Babies born. Children playing outside.  Families playing games. People locking arms for change. Kindness to strangers. Facetime wine dates. Intimate weddings. Neighbors acting like neighbors. Sigh-worthy rainbows.

I don’t know why things happen. (It seems random but not). If I listen too hard the cognitive dissonance behind my eyes is blinding so I focus on small things. Swinging on my porch watching the trees. Reaching for the book of poetry beside my bed. Morning coffee in the shower. Laughter with my son. Dreams with my daughter. Text messages with my mom. Bellowing rainstorms. A bird hopping onto my hand. (My own love story).

So what is the sentence and what is the parenthesis?  My hope for the people I love is that their paragraphs are not made of stressangerdepressionillnesslonelinessdespair. I want the paragraphs to be the beautiful things we create in our minds and lives. Yes…the painful parentheses are there. But the jarring depth of what is hard brings into focus what we must do to thrive. 

Every sweet breath keeps us alive. Not the dark spaces in-between.

The Oak

Sitting on my front porch steps this morning with coffee cup in hand, I feel the sun beaming on my shoulders as I look over the wooden round rising out of the grass. For years I held a mug or a glass of wine as I’d slip out onto these steps, as kids settled down, sneaking a conversation with you-- moonlight and leafy shadows against my face.

When I moved into my home 18 years ago, my beautiful oak looked regal to me. But my neighbor walked over, introduced himself, and pointed at the tree “you need to take the trees down. He is not well”. But my tree seemed strong and willful. So I willfully watched my tree through the years.

With hurricane winds he stood straight and strong. With ice storms he braced against the weather, dangling stunning, icy jewels from his branches, saying to me “these are yours” and I was smitten. 

Once a tornado crashed through our street pushing down tree after tree. Mine, however, fought the winds--standing tall amidst the others’ broken, downed branches. The neighbors deemed him Old Faithful.

Every spring I would watch vivid green sprouting from my tree. I’d notice curious squirrels scrambling through halls and splendid cardinals landing upon sills. Yet every year I softly noticed another naked branch standing still.

One year I spoke with an arborist who said the oak was safe if pruned but that it might be smarter to take him down. But I decided to just cut the branches. I wasn’t ready for more. My tree looked a bit bare but he’d still have coffee with me in the mornings and offer tranquil shade.

Over time the branches stopped bearing green and would fall with the rain. My children could no longer play beneath the leaves--the limbs were dangerous for those walking beneath. So I chose to say goodbye to my friend.

This morning I stare at what is left--the stump of my oak. Still beautiful to me with his artful rings of time, love, and  I struggle to remove the last bit of him.

A child walks in front of my home and leaps onto my tree. I call out “please play on it, it will be gone soon”. And the boy grins, gleefully hopping up and down from the wood to the grass and I watch—happy and sad with my beautiful memories of leaves, play, even shadows. And I know it is time to let the grass grow again where the hole will be.

I had 18 years of my tree. I loved this oak with roots deep and strong, seeing the good, committing to what was beautiful and true until the risk outweighed the good.

Understand, this is how I loved you too.

If I could just go back

My sweet, beautiful boy. The swim meet crowd bellows in the background. I watch you on the small platform poised to fly into the water--you hear nothing but the sound of the horn--focused, strong and precise-- you hit the water like an arrow until you surface above the blue.

As a toddler you would pretend to hear nothing as I frantically chased and yelled after you racing toward the water. I knew the potential dangers of backyard ponds, grandparents' pools, even bathtubs--but you, my fearless tadpole, would wriggle free of arms and even watchful eyes. You belonged to the water and it to you.

We enrolled you in the emergency swim classes. You hated being thrashed around in the water this way--pushed and pulled under by your teacher. He tried to give you a healthy fear of the water but once the sessions were over, you simply kicked through the water with a grace that left others wide-eyed.

The tub, the pools, and then the ocean...I could barely keep you from the sea. It called to you over and over...over my voice warning "Joshua, stay here!" If I could just go back to that first moment, that first trip to the beach, and watch you dip your tiny toes into the sea foam, the delight you must have had.

But I don't remember.

I remember your glorious fiery hair and your brilliant blue eyes and your laughter and the smell of your skin. But I missed that moment among the laundry, the packing and unpacking, the doctors' appointments, bills, school, homework, discipline, fighting and the slow distance that grows between a growing boy and his mother.

So I watch you now. And I cheer for you. I see you in the water. And I will remember it all.

Bruce

Bruce is my best friend's father. He passed away a couple of weeks ago. I think he left quietly and peacefully after an incredible life full of meaning and joy even in the face of an awful disease. I know the last years were hard on him...I'm sure they were. Huntington's disease takes everything from a person. Except their impact on everyone around them. This will be celebrated tomorrow.

To me, Bruce was more than my best friend's father. He was like a father to me too. Looking back on how engaged he was with us, how much he planned activities and played--he was an amazing dad to Michelle...and to me. I wish I was as good of a mother as he was a father.

As a teacher he had his summers off. And luckily I got to tag along with him and Michelle. He signed us up for cooking classes, reading contests at the library, Tom Sawyer day camps, diving lessons. He took us swimming and to the park. We went on walks and we got to choose whether it was a junk walk or a nature walk. We'd take a bag--gathering tinfoil, glass and bottle caps for "junk" or nuts, leaves and buckeyes for "nature". These were amazing treasure hunts.

My favorite memory is when he turned a refrigerator box into a clubhouse. In the family garage he laid down scrap carpet and put the box on top. Somehow he created 2 rooms in our clubhouse. He cut out doors and windows. He added a lightbulb through the box ceiling to light up the inside.  He then gave us an enormous bucket of crayons and told us to decorate our house. So we spent days giving it brightness and color. We loved that clubhouse so much.

He loved to make us laugh. I remember him tucking us in during sleepovers. We would have staring contests to see who Bruce could make laugh first. Michelle would usually lose. No one could make her laugh harder than Bruce. Isn't laugher such a beautiful expression of love?

But he wasn't always easy on us. There were times he would catch us being mischievous. I remember one time he walked me home telling me he was disappointed in me. It was awful. On vacation we got caught coming home past curfew once and we were grounded. But we had so much respect for him that these were huge teaching moments. He made us better people.

He was a teacher and a coach at Atherton High School. As a kid I would go to his games but I didn't realize how much he impacted and inspired his team. Now I'm hearing story after story about how he shaped their lives. It's rather awe-inspiring.

As an adult I was in a play and Bruce came by himself to watch the performance. I could hear him laughing in the audience. In retrospect it means so much to me that he wanted to be there to support me.

He also came to my wedding. Michelle was a matron of honor. By that time his symptoms were very prevalent--with Huntingtons your body becomes very jerky. I remember him walking back and forth by the dance floor waiting for the opportunity to dance with me. It is hard to admit but I was uncomfortable with the symptoms. I didn't know how we could dance. But when we did, he was able to dance without the movements and the whole time he happily told me about making a hole in one at his last golf game. Even in the midst of a horrible disease he found joy. I'm so glad we had that dance.

I wish I had gone to visit him more. He was so important to me growing up. I wish I was a better friend to Michelle who is now living with Huntington's. I know we all do the best we can. But I just haven't quite learned how to deal with anticipatory grief--knowing something awful is happening or will happen...and how to live with it every day...compartmentalizing the sad so it doesn't consume you. I tend to want to put my head in the sand and ignore the grief. To go away and pretend there is nothing there. This is a flaw in me. I'm going to do better.

So there he goes....teaching me again even in death.

Bruce, coach, dad....we will all miss you so much. We are all better for knowing you and your loving spirit. RIP Bruce Veneklase--love you so much.

The second half

Monday is surgery day. A long time coming and definitely necessary but if I'm being completely honest, I'm not quite ready. I procrastinated for two years and finally came to the conclusion that it was time to let go and look ahead.

Having talked to a number of women I think feelings of grief are perfectly normal. I think many of us, from toddler years onward, dream of being mommies. And how blessed am I to have realized those dreams with the most incredible of little people who challenge, fascinate and inspire me everyday?

"You should not have this surgery if you want more children" the Doctor said two years ago when I still wasn't ready to let go...


hazy reverie of an intact family, maybe a third little one...an easy-happy nine months of love, support, collective excitement


As recently as winter I pondered the possibility with someone. From a pure rationality perspective for all involved I knew it was a risk...but for a minute I believed in the magic of possibilities. That brief hope sadly faded with the season. But that ending did bring clarity. I embraced where I was with the best people in the world who need me at my very best. And called the doctor.


So I will probably shed a few more tears, maybe indulge a few angry thoughts for vacuous promises, love on my babies and get excited about Phase 2 of my life.


Here's to the second half...

Footprints and Snow

Tonight while carrying groceries, I glance at my footprints in the freshly fallen snow. With each snowfall I am sad to sully the still perfect white. But I am late with children to feed and the snow is wet and cold on my face.

For a senior year poetry class in college, I wrote "A Memory of Snow". At the end of the course my professor remarked that it was the "most moving "of the semester although it still needed work. I have yet to finish it...

The poem is lonely. I have always been melancholy over footprints in the snow.

Making soup in the kitchen I look out my window at the white pouring from the sky. Through the streetlight, the flakes sparkle. Still I feel sad because life is different. Just my children and I on a snowy night. The kitchen is messy and I still have a pantry of food to put away.

Dad playing games with the children....keeping the fire warm.
Mom finishing dinnerand starting cocoa. Kids laughing over plans to sled.

All of us.

Alone I am lucky to keep a candle lit and to find one pair of matching gloves.

One child whines there is no hot chocolate although I know it was among the bags. I throw on my boots and shuffle to the car in hopes of finding the missing box. Sure enough, it had fallen on the floor.

Grabbing the cocoa, I slam the car door and walk toward my porch where I notice the footprint has disappeared under a new layer of shimmery white. I smile.


and the snow falls

 

You're so vain...you probably think this post is about you...

It has been quite a while since I last posted. I've had a lot of alone time to think and feel and play with my kids...bolster my business. I just haven't felt inspired to write. But apparently (and flatteringly so)....people continue to read my blog. And in some instances personalizing what I've said. Even asking "was that about me"?


I dated a musician/songwriter once and I had so many fantasies about him writing a song about me....which never happened sadly....it could have been a great song...but oh well, and I digress...


So let me just say this...Sometimes it's about you. It usually is not. If I thought something about you then....I probably told you about it because I say too much anyway. I am about as mysterious as the guy in the gorilla suit on the side of the road with a sign saying he will buy your gold.


But because you asked....I'm going to jot down a bunch of secrets about you and you and you--some for 20 years...feel free to guess what goes where.

• Because of you, I still think about eating peanuts on my carrots.
• You taught me to love poetry and changed the course of my life.
• You won't be faithful to her either--you quit every time the going gets tough and look for a new shiny thing. I feel sad for you...but mostly her.
• Everytime I smell Drakkar Noir I think of you.
• There were a few nights I woke up every couple of hours all night long --I would remember you weren't in my life anymore and then cry myself back to sleep.
• You snore but it's ok.
• You snore but it's not.
• I wish you kissed differently. It is why we broke up.
• I can picture seeing you for the first time and everything else went out of focus. To this day...I feel that way sometimes if I think of you.
• I haven't seen you for years since you were married but your wife "liked" a bunch of my facebook photos. I  didn't know someone could do that who wasn't a facebook "friend". I was scared for a minute. I hope it's because she really liked them...
• I kept dating you because of your dog. I threw away your pictures. I kept one of him.
• You are one of the most amazing people I have ever known. I was so young and immature. To this day I am haunted by the fact I hurt you. Seeing your newborn son was poignant and amazing. I was not good enough for you.
• I will always be polite and civil...but you will never be able to hurt my feelings again. I will not risk being your friend....you bite people who offer their hand to you.
• When you kissed me for the first time and cupped my face with your hand...it was a moment I won't forget.
• I wanted to tell you I loved you. Because I think I did.
• I thought I loved you in a romantic way but I really didn't. I'm sorry I said it because I know it confused you. You deserved better from me. I appreciate and respect you more than you know.
• Why didn't you ever ask me about what I liked?
• You told me the same stories over and over and I pretended it was new...every. single. time.
• 4 of these are about you.
• I want to say something kind about you but years later I'm still too sore.
• You smell like heaven.
• I can't forgive you.
• I'll never forget you.

Well that was freeing....Now onto the next 20 years!!

The Item

So imagine you've had a bath and you are ready for a relaxing night at home with Netflix. And you put on the most comfy yet ugliest pair of pajamas you own...which may singlehandedly indicate why you are home alone. When alas, you realize there is no cat food.


So you decide to be "that person" and venture to Walgreens in said pjs to get cat food and some necessary toiletries. So you go...and it is shockingly crowded. And people are looking at you...in the ugly pjs. And you are slightly humiliated so you are trying to keep a low profile.


So imagine you arrive at checkout...and a crowd of people are lining up behind you. A mixed bunch of people....families, young guys and an alcoholic painter. And the cashier begins to ring you up.


 Now think of the one ITEM you need to buy that you pray no one notices. The ITEM that makes you duck your head as she scans it. Well, in my case, as she scans said ITEM...she yells "oh no" and gets on the intercom and says "I need a manager...computer shutdown". So as everyone in line looks to the counter to see what has shut down the Walgreens computer system...she holds up the ITEM to me and loudly says "see I scanned it here and it just shut the whole thing down".


So I turn to the entire line of people and say "yes...my ITEM shut down the computer and I'm wearing my pajamas".


If you are gonna be humiliated...might as well own that baby. The end.

First Kiss

So my last post was love at first sight. This post is about first kisses. Although this isn't my creation it made me so happy to see.

I am so in love with this video about 20 strangers kissing after meeting each other for the first time. The background song is so perfect too. Live and Love because life is so short and precious.

Click below.

Enjoy this amazing Tuesday!

The Nose Knows and Love at First Sight

A while ago a friend asked me if I believe in love at first sight. Immediately I said "No". I told him that I believe in lust at first sight. I referred to a magazine article written about "The Science of Love" which pretty much says we are a bunch of animals sniffing each other for reproductive compatibility.

The article detailed how the infatuation stage is made of up of the release and exchange of pheromones between people who are genetically more diverse (which means better babies!). These couples are the most attracted to each other.  People who are too genetically similar (think Deliverance--the far and scariest end of the spectrum) are not as "attracted"--there is a lack of a spark.

I have a super sensitive nose. So I bought into this whole theory. I mean....I have dated the nicest, most amazing men and I know there isn't a future. I swear I can sometimes detect an odor--not even a bad odor--just a smell. It's not breath. It's not a lack of deodorant. It's just a faint scent. But it repels me romantically.

Another article I read said that if the scent reminds of a brother or father--you are genetically similar and not the best fit for procreation. Again, think Deliverance. I've experienced that too and for me, that scent can make or break a romantic relationship. "Hey you....you kinda smell...can we be BFFs?"

And then there have been those few men who could cradle me beneath their arm-pits and I would breathe in like an addict craving opium. In all honesty....these men just happened to be some of the worst dating ideas I have ever had. But wow the scents. And there went the sense.

Now where am I...?  *sigh* Oh yeah....love at first sight.

I never deluded myself into thinking those good-smelling hunks were proof of love at first sight. Quite the opposite. It proved my pheromone theory. We are animals. Romantic love is something spiritual that can't happen instantaneously. It is about intimacy and growth and intellectual connection and emotional compatibility. Love is not a musky armpit.

Then I met someone online. And frankly he wasn't my "type" from pictures and I was slightly iffy as to my interest level based on our texting or e-mails. But the first time I saw him from a distance...the room around me seemed to be moving at a different speed than I. I became nervous and shaky yet comfortable and totally entranced by his every word.

By date two--the words "I love him" were echoing through my head. "WHAT THE HECK IS WRONG WITH ME?" popped into my brain next...thankfully snapping me back to reality to maintain some semblance of dignity. I told myself that I was needy, lonely, tired or crazy. Love at first or maybe second sight is not real. It was a chemical imbalance that kept getting worse until I felt like a basket-case of new feelings and thoughts and ideas...

Sadly, love or not, that particular relationship ended very quickly. I wasn't ready for something serious whether or not I was ready to admit it. And that subconsciously sabotaged the whole thing. Timing can be such a pain....

 

Since then I have thought more about the idea. The moment I saw my children I loved them desperately. It was something more deep and pure than I have known before. That is love at first sight. Yes...those babies were a part of me for nine months but if you understood my difficult pregnancies...you'd know that "baby-in-my-belly connectedness" might not be a good thing in my case. And yes these babies do depend on us to survive...and we have instincts about caretaking...but I also know that there is something magical that happens between a mother and child that is inexplicable.

It is Love at First Sight. So is a first-time romantic, magical, spiritual moment between two people who are destined for love possible?

I don't know.

I think only time will tell what is love and what is not love. The scientist in me looks forward to further down the road when I can look back on that particular relationship and see if I still think I might have experienced love at first sight. I can't pinpoint anything that would have made this interaction different than my other relationships (and there have been plenty)...it was just different.

Interestingly enough--the article I mention before does detail a lengthy study of the brains of couples who were newly in love. Over the course of years they did brain scans of all the couples to compare the brain activity of both partners at the beginning of the relationship and then over time. Sure enough, there was an area of the brain that "lit up" at the beginning of the relationship but that became inactive over time.The partners still "loved" each other but no longer felt the spark and butterflies in the belly consistently...if at all.

However, there were a handful of couples who claimed that the spark had never gone away after years and years and years. Surprisingly, there was something different in their brain scans too. The areas of the brain that were active during the "infatuation" phase were still active. These couples claimed to be as deeply in love and as passionate as in the beginning. There is no scientific explanation.

Is that  evidence of love at first sight? I don't know. And I certainly believe you can love someone gradually which, I have to believe, is just as meaningful.

But looking backward, the romantic in me has begun opening her mind to this love at first sight thing. Maybe it does create a deeper and more passionate connection over time for those select few lucky souls who experience it.

If that is the case...and time will tell...I hope it can happen twice.

Whale or Mermaid? (repost)

This was posted through the Facebook page "Daily Transformations" in 2012. But man, can I relate. This curvy girl sitting down drinking coffee this morning has grown to mostly love and embrace how I look. I could be stronger, healthier, exercise more and quit eating so many chips and queso...but in general...I am who I am at 42 years old and I have more confidence than ever before. That's what I'm trying to teach my child who already has concerns about her body. It kills me to hear it. I'm trying so hard to teach that we all have our own shape and that there is no "wrong" or bad.

She and I are starting a mom/daughter intro to yoga class. And walking together. But I tell her it is for our minds....to stay happy and less anxious. And to become stronger women so we can lift more and feel better. It is hard to teach what we don't believe to our core. But as they say "fake it til you make it". Here is to sending a better message to our daughters....

Daily Transformations with Banya Dutta and 32 others

"I didn't write this but absolutely love what this woman wrote. So well done! Please read; it's quite enjoyable and share.  

A while back, at the entrance of a gym, there was a picture of a very thin and beautiful woman. The caption was "This summer, do you want to be a mermaid or a whale?"
...
The story goes, a woman (of clothing size unknown) answered the following way:

"Dear people, whales are always surrounded by friends (dolphins, seals, curious humans), they are sexually active and raise their children with great tenderness.
They entertain like crazy with dolphins and eat lots of prawns. They swim all day and travel to fantastic places like Patagonia, the Barents Sea or the coral reefs of Polynesia.
They sing incredibly well and sometimes even are on cds. They are impressive and dearly loved animals, which everyone defend and admires.

Mermaids do not exist.

But if they existed, they would line up to see a psychologist because of a problem of split personality: woman or fish?
They would have no sex life and could not bear children.
Yes, they would be lovely, but lonely and sad.
And, who wants a girl that smells like fish by his side?

Without a doubt, I'd rather be a whale.

At a time when the media tells us that only thin is beautiful, I prefer to eat ice cream with my kids, to have dinner with my husband, to eat and drink and have fun with my friends.

We women, we gain weight because we accumulate so much wisdom and knowledge that there isn't enough space in our heads, and it spreads all over our bodies.
We are not fat, we are greatly cultivated.
Every time I see my curves in the mirror, I tell myself: "How amazing am I ?! "

 Repost by : ♥♥ FB Page ofwww.glowingembers.org ♥♥See More

 

perfect

I was talking to a friend of mine yesterday and we were sharingscomplaininglaughing about our up-until-now funny, failed attempts at dating.

She claims that her problem is that she is like a teenager trapped in a woman's body upon meeting a man of interest for the first time. Where all of her teenage insecurities rise to the top and she reverts to a young insecure girl who pushes men away romantically before they push her.

I, on the other hand, am fine with the flirtation dance. I'm good at that piece. My failure is how to function within the relationship once the casual, performing phase is over and sh** gets real. That's when my "pushing" begins.

Laughing about our collective awkwardness we decided that if we could merge our strengths into one woman we would be unstoppable. We'd be close to perfect. We'd conquer the world.

When I was a little girl, a family member pointed out to me that my ears stuck out like Dumbo. I was a pretty little girl...but from that day forward, I never wanted to wear my hair pulled back. I refused to wear pony tails or barrettes in my hair for fear my ears would show.

And then in middle school an older boy pointed out that I had thick ankles. And that my calves were too big. From there-on-out, I was self conscious about wearing shorts or short skirts.

I had a great singing voice and had dreams of becoming famous...singing on Broadway, recording an album...but I literally told myself that I couldn't really be a singer or be famous because physically I wasn't perfect. And how could I go to Hollywood and not wear my hair pulled back or show my legs? Because once people saw that "flawed" part of me...that would outshine all of my talents...they would stare at my ears, my legs and all of that admiration would dissipate.

I think most women do this to themselves. We think "if only I had this", "if only I did this", "if only I looked like this"...my life would be so much better. I know women who isolate from the world--who are unhappy with how they look...or their careers...or their relationships. And they are waiting to come out of their cocoons until they get to a point where they are closer to their visions of perfect. They are afraid of being seen. Of rejection. Afraid of life being less than what they want...because they are telling themselves that "they" are less than ok. Being afraid of a lesser life becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.

"You are too sensitive Beth"...is the critical statement echoing in my head right now. A voice tells me that if only my skin were a little thicker that I would be a better mother, a better friend, a better partner/lover/girlfriend/wife. I've thought if I could somehow get a hold of this trait and squish it into a new and improved shape that my life would be different, be better.

I've been writing about this trait a lot. It's the pendulum swing. I've gone from hiding it to screaming it. I look forward to when the pendulum simply centers on acceptance.

So who is the "perfect" woman? Couldn't "I" be the perfect woman? What if everyone in the world was as sensitive as me? Maybe we would be kinder to each other... Appreciate the sound of the ocean more... Create more art...

But that would be saying that there was something wrong with people who are different, who are more analytical, more cognitive. So creating a new version of "perfect" is simply the mirror image of the same problem.

Everyone talks about the issue of women striving to live up to false ideals. The true irony of it is that we now all feel flawed because we are worried about striving toward "perfect". So we are hard on ourselves for being hard on ourselves. It's a never ending plummet down the rabbit hole. It's the image of a mirror facing a mirror and on and on.

So back to my friend and I discussing how we would be the perfect woman. If we could merge into each other we would have perfect legs and nice curves. We could walk up to a man and charm the heck out of him. Enter into a relationship where we can talk art and sports. And cry appropriately. And be patient. And fun. And live happily ever after.

But when I think about the most beautiful parts of life...they are often imperfect...

my 2-year daughter saying "what dat noise was"?
the scar on my lover's lip
an ocean after a storm
family laughing about an inedible dinner
a singer's voice whispering, cracking with emotion
oyster shells
stretch marks
watercolors
fall leaves
an elderly couple holding hands
crackle glass

So I think we all know that there is no perfect. And that we shouldn't strive for something we can't attain. We know there are false ideals that exist. And that we beat ourselves up for not being better.

We "know" all this. But we don't feel all this. I think we just have to be more aware of what we think. And say. And do. And not do. Because it does become a self-fulfilling prophecy when we assume by "being" that we will create a less-than-perfect life. We miss out on all the beauty of the imperfections by closing our eyes out of fear.

Over and over I've read the phrase "perfectly imperfect". I think I prefer "imperfectly perfect".

Happy Birthday Joshua

When Joshua was three years old he placed his forehead against mine and whispered "I will always protect you from the monsters". No truer words have been said.

 

My son is courageous and strong.

 

He feels deeply and loves hard. He has a fiery temper but apologizes after the blaze.

 

Joshua loves hip hop dancing and he head-spins like a pro.

 

He still wants to cuddle with his mom and dad. But is fiercely independent and hates the word "no".

 

Josh likes pizza for breakfast and chamomile tea at night. He proudly sports a Mohawk. But secretly watches Disney movies about princes falling in love.

 

Everyday my son protects me from the monsters of idleness, impatience, selfishness, stagnation, fear and isolation. He helps me be a better person.

 

Joshua and his sister are the reasons I am here and my biggest dream is for them to happy.

 

Josh is seven today. HAPPY BIRTHDAY my precious son!

 

 

Feeding the Crow

Feeding the Crow

Blue-black wings
shiny onyx
close enough
I see her eyes
peering at me sideways
knowing
the question between us.

Outstretched palm

facing the sky
toward her, I answer
with my bread;
“take this” and eat.

Expecting gratitude,
communion
I catch her gaze
knowing her.

And then she knows.

Falls back, lifting
coal wings skyward

in difference.


--Beth Northup

Tear

I admit...I cried two times this week. And I have been thinking about it quite a bit. I haven't been thinking about the reason for the tears....but instead why crying is something about which I'm pondering.

When I was a little girl, I would watch myself cry. If I was sad enough I would sit in front of a mirror and study myself, which, strangely enough, brought me peace. Sometimes I would think of sad things just to see myself cry. I thought tears were pretty...like rain on a window. like rain on my cheek.

I've caught my son doing the same thing actually. I wonder why he is doing it...why I did it. To see what sadness or anger look like? To validate grief or hurt or anger? I remember thinking that I looked pretty crying--a strange thought for a shy little girl who was unsure of herself. Perhaps kids inherently know that tears are good. Healing. But somehow as I grew up my beliefs changed.

I'll give you something to cry about
big boys don't cry
you're faking it
cheer up
don't manipulate
suck it up
have a tissue

In other words, "Don't cry". It's no wonder we hold back our tears.

I find it interesting that "tear" not only means the "watery fluid that comes from the eyes when feeling emotion"  but also "to pull apart and leave ragged edges or rip into pieces". I think there are so many negative messages--overt and subliminal--about tears that we become afraid to cry for fear we will rip apart or fall into pieces.

I was in a play once where my character burst into tears. When practicing that scene, I immediately cupped my face in my hands. The director said "Beth, we need to see your face. We need to see that she is crying". At first it was really hard to do--I was incredibly self-conscious. But eventually I was openly sobbing onstage with snot pouring out of my nose.  It was empowering. A woman came up to me after the show and told me that she cried for the first time seeing a play. I'm not sure my performance was that stellar but I think somehow seeing me cry gave her permission to do the same. It was a powerful moment for me. It was a step in the right direction.

And then there was the time I was sitting in a counseling office during my divorce trying not to cry. My counselor sat beside me and told me to touch my tears and look at them and see how beautiful they were. Frankly it was a completely awkward moment and there was no way I was going to stare at my tears and revel in their beauty. But when I do begin to cry these days, I do hear her whisper in my ear. And it comforts me.

So I have cried twice over the past week. I am hormonal. And I'm dealing with the life stressors of being a single mom and running a business and household.

And I am also dating. Which is terrifying. I'm good at a lot of things. But I cannot claim that dating is a strength of mine. So something happened this week which was a complete misunderstanding. I began to cry on the phone to this new guy. Sadly enough I feel shame even typing this. But acceptance is half the battle right?

I'm summarizing this story but he was really kind about it. He said he wanted to hear me cry. That it would help him know me. And that it was real and what he wants in a relationship--genuineness and honesty. Whether or not this relationship materializes into anything is still unknown. But it reinforces that I want to be with someone who is ok with my tears. That quality has made it onto my "must-have" list.

There are so many articles about the benefits of crying--that it releases endorphins, reduces stress, etc. But I think on a deeper level, and most importantly, it is about expressing who we are.

I want to be ok with my tears. 2014 is all about speaking my truth even when it hurts.

Even when it makes me cry.

RIP, Billboards and Curly Hair.

“No one is born hating another person because of the color of his skin, or his background, or his religion. People must learn to hate, and if they can learn to hate, they can be taught to love, for love comes more naturally to the human heart than its opposite.”--Nelson Mandela

A piece of my past life that I will always miss is the up-close diversity of my ex-husband's family. David had 2 siblings who were adopted. My brother and sister in law were black. I had this dream that my children would grow up unaware of any difference beyond what makes us all diverse and human.

Sometimes I joke and say "I must have been a black lesbian in a past life" because the issue of discrimination is such a hot button issue for me. There is nothing that makes me more angry than the injustice of people judged by color or sexual identity. I poke fun at myself about the depth of anger I feel about this issue because it really runs deep....more deeply than my personal life or experience could provide adequate context.

I took a personality test once during some career counseling--Myers Briggs--which indicated I was an ENFP. Apparently this personality type has a real issue with perceived injustice because of a strong values system. I can see this about me. I cry over things that are wrong. Over people that are hurt. Injustice makes me want to scream.

An example of my deep-felt sense of "fair" is my feeling about a really popular church in town. I have many friends who attend this church and love it. The speaking is good, the music is amazing. The church does do terrific things in the community. I know they give back through service and donations in massive ways. I, however, have sad feelings about it because of a perceived injustice toward others. It is not so much anger...but truly hurt.

When I moved back to Louisville having just left an advertising career, I was familiar with the cost of different media buys. Soon after I became a resident and got my voter ID, there was a billboard campaign that was funded by the church regarding the "Marriage Amendment". "One Man + One Woman=Marriage" on billboards throughout Louisville. I knew how expensive this billboard campaign was. These Billboards were on major, well-traveled thoroughfares throughout the city. I'd say it was over a six-figure investment.

There are over 13,000 homeless children in public schools. And a church was spending money on a political campaign to prevent two loving people from committing to each other for life? I just couldn't get over it. I knew too much. It was money that could have fed children. I think a modern-day Jesus would have spray painted the billboards to make a point. The road to hell is paved with "good intentions". To this day I just think it was wrong to promote something that points to the differences of others as bad. I think that is discrimination.

All of that said, I feel passionately about equality for all. People should just love each other. We should love ourselves so that we don't project our own self hatred on the people around us in the form of racism or homophobia. If we truly love ourselves, we don't care what other people look like or what they are doing. I am not a psychologist so I can't explain the "whys" about it...but have you noticed that the most confident, peaceful people project love onto most everyone? It just seems whatever you use to fill up your cup--love or hate--that is the overflow that spills out onto others.

I believe it all begins with our kids. I have had very lengthy conversations with my daughter about what I think is right or wrong. And one time she said to me "Mom, why would anyone care who someone else loves. God is love. He wants us to love." And her feelings on love go beyond sexual orientation. She thinks racism is evil. And that evil is cruelty to women. And children. And animals. And the environment.

The first person to visit my daughter after she was born was my brother in law, Joshua. She was born at 4:39 am and he was holding her at 7:30 am. He loved his tow-headed niece so much and had her picture on his desk at Humana where he worked. Joshua died suddenly at age 30 of a heart condition. Meaghan was almost 3. A few months after he passed away, Meaghan was standing in her crib pulling on her hair.

Meaghan: "Mommy, I have curly hair right?"
Me: "Yes, you do"
Meaghan: "I have curly hair just like my Uncle Josh"
Me: "Yes, you have your uncle Josh's curly hair"

Children see the similarities. Not the differences. Just like Nelson Mandela said "love comes naturally"....but we have to nurture this and teach love.

This is my post to honor Nelson Mandela. It may be a bit scattered but ultimately I just hope to see more love in the world and I appreciate his example.  RIP Nelson Mandela. Thank you for what you gave us.

Loss

I love when my life gives me a story so hilarious that I have to put it on paper. But no matter how much I looked for humor in this past week....there was little. This was a sad week. Booooo

If I had to pick a theme for the past year and a half of my life....it would be Loss. Losing a friend, a lover, a dream, some of who I've always been. The universe is slightly cruel because it must realize by now I am really bad at loss. And I have managed to do really well in spite of grief because I have a career I love, and two precious children and so many friends and family around me all the time. But still....

As I think back through my life about my earliest feelings of loss...I struggle to find something solid. I don't remember feeling specifically like something was gone from my life. I remember being scared in my room at night sometimes. Imagining an angel sleeping beside me. If you ever read "The Littlest Angel"--the tiniest angel crawls into the lap of this beautiful older angel who comforts him. I would picture that beautiful comforting angel holding me to sleep.

I had an attachment to a silk pillow as a very young girl. In a moment of prodigy creative genius I named it "Little Pillow". I once left it outside in the rain and begged my mom to go find it. She did. So I got my pillow back.  Soggy and dirty...but no more sad.

We moved to a new house when I was 9. That was hard. Growing up in the Highlands as a child was incredible. The homes were close together and full of kids. We'd run through each others backyards all summer long....it was one giant playground. The new home was big and beautiful with a huge yard. But the houses were far apart and there weren't many children nearby. But I still don't remember too much grief over leaving the neighborhood I loved.

There was a moment when my brother and I were playing in the dirt as our new home was being built. There was a baby bird on the ground. The trees had been cut down so there wasn't a mommy bird. We tried to build a nest on the ground in hopes of the momma finding him. I was young enough to hope...but old enough to not hope too much. When we drove away I felt incredibly sad because there was nothing I could do. The unknown felt really scary because deep down I was aware that the bird was going to die.

So maybe that's it. Maybe it's not so much about the loss of someone or something but rather the loss of control. The gaining of uncertainty is hard.

And then there is the excess love with nowhere to go. I wish I had some magical gorgeous wood bureau where I could store my love for whatever is lost. Like a silk scarf or a comfortable quilt, tuck the loss into neat square folds. Put it in it's proper drawer where I know it is safe but stored comfortably most of the time. A place where I can drape it around me at moments to remember....and then kindly and purposefully place it away.

Maybe that's it. Maybe it's the extra weight of something with nowhere to go. Something the wind keeps blowing in your face. A loose hair that won't stay tucked behind your ear. A cry outside your window with no source to be found.

Regardless I realize loss is simply a part of life. I'm not sure I will ever get used to it. Who does? I just hope to learn to coexist with it a little more peacefully.

Michelle's Book Foreword

I see a skinny smiling girl with long blonde hair swimming around in my neighbor's shiny grass. She is laughing and flirting and I think she is probably the same as me--three or four years old. I wonder if she has words because she won't say anything back to me no matter what I say--she just keeps rolling around in the dewy yard laughing and smiling like she has the best secret in the world.

That is my first memory of my best friend, Michelle, imprinted in my mind like a really peaceful dream--hazy and happy. I can't help but think of the irony of me writing a foreword for her book. At the young age at which I met her, we didn't have the language, the words, to communicate fully. And here we are as adults, conveying finally in this book, those precious secrets of a giggling girl rolling in the grass.

 ***

Snow days mean sledding! Michelle's father warns us to not go near the ice-covered creek at the side of the hill. Michelle holds the reins at the front of the sled. I man the rear with my arms around her waist. After her dad gives us a push down the hill, I hear Michelle giggling; I realize we are veering toward the creek. Shrieking as we get closer--half horrified, half excited--I brace myself for the flight over the creek bed where we land head-first in ice-covered water.

 At Michelle's home, we are stripped out of dripping wet snowsuits and wrapped in cozy blankets by the fire. Playing with our dolls, we drink cocoa with marshmallows until it is night, and time for me to go home.
 
A few years ago, Michelle and I visited her father who, at the end stage of Huntington's disease, resides in a nursing home. We laughed and recounted that memory to him and in spite of the catatonic state he appeared to be in...his eyes lit up...crinkling into what I know was a smile in his eyes. Broken rules can make magnificent memories.

***

Huntington's is a genetic disorder which carries a 50/50 risk for inheriting it if you have a parent with the disease. Michelle knew for a long time she was at risk for Huntington's because of her paternal grandmother's diagnosis. And then her father's.

She was always a bit of a wild child. I was slightly more shy. The perfect yin to my yang. Childhood was one adventure after another. On one family vacation as teenagers, we swore to her parents that we would stay together on the beach until curfew at dark. Of course we lost each other almost immediately, choosing to kiss boys on the boardwalks. Upon realizing we were late and lost from each other--we raced home separately. I walked in the front door first...swearing to her parents that Michelle was just behind me knocking off sand. She ruined the story mid-way through by running in the back door breathlessly. We lived large together.

Michelle graduated college in three years. At 21, she biked through Africa and almost crashed into a cobra. She met a man at 22 and, one month later, moved to Nashville with him. She jumped out of an airplane. Learned to scuba dive. Switched careers. Got married. Traveled.

And was told she had Huntington's.

Looking back, I believe that from the beginning the author was gifted with wisdom and fearlessness. Perhaps the universe blesses those who will carry heavy burdens down the road with illumination on living. On getting the most from life.

She wrote most of this book after she was diagnosed but before there were visible symptoms. The amazing thing about this book is that the story after her diagnosis continues to be so unfair.

Once she had written the book and became symptomatic, her husband left her. She also had to resign from her high-level advertising position because she could no longer do it. She gave up driving and dating.

But she also travelled to Nepal, climbed Mt. Everest, visited Vietnam and hiked the Mont Blanc trail in Switzerland. She volunteered in Haiti, after the earthquake, for 2 summers in a row at an orphanage and decided to sponsor her favorite, special needs child named Rachel, by sending money each month.

Despite the continued hardships after her diagnosis, she still never felt sorry for herself or changed how she lived which gives so much credibility to the tenets of this book.

Today I drink coffee with a beautiful woman with shiny blonde and silver hair. She has entered the middle stage of Huntington's which means difficulty walking, talking, uncontrolled movements and cognitive impairment. She is throwing her head back laughing although she has lost the words to fully express her joy or her sorrow. She has asked me write the foreword for the book she wrote years ago when she had language to capture her wisdom; her learning from living with the presage of a terminal illness that slowly strips away your life until only your essence remains.

This book teaches how to embrace your essence and thus, happiness. Michelle's is beautiful and fearless. And fearlessness is a magnificent teacher. It doesn't always mean breaking rules. It can be breaking out of our molds or habits. Building the courage to show exactly who we are to the world. Or tougher yet, showing who we are....to ourselves.

So many people get to the end of their lives with regrets on how they should have lived. The blessing of being diagnosed with a long-term terminal illness is that it provides a motivation to live more abundantly. And it teaches the people watching close up, like me, to change how we live.

Meet Michelle. Be happier.

Moving Forward into the Foreword

This is part 2 of the foreword--DRAFT. Why people should read this book. Why Michelle is equipped to share the message. Here goes....

Fear prevents us from living. Fearlessness is a magnificent teacher.

For two eight-year-olds, sledding was the highlight of a surprise snow day. Michelle's father emphatically warned us to not go near the ice-covered creek to the side of the hill. Michelle held the reins at the front of the sled. I manned the rear with my arms around her waist. As her dad gave us a push to start, I realized we were veering toward the creek as Michelle giggled. Shrieking the whole way, half horrified, half excited, I braced myself for the flight over the creek bed where we landed head-first in ice-covered water. No more sledding that day.

Stripped out of dripping wet snowsuits and wrapped in cozy blankets, we played dolls and drank cocoa with marshmallows by the fire. A good end to a day made thrilling by an icy creek.

A few years ago, Michelle and I visited her father who, at the end stage of Huntington's disease, resides in a nursing home. We laughed and recounted that memory to him and in spite of the catatonic state he appears to be in...his eyes lit up and crinkled into what I know was a smile in his eyes. Broken rules can make amazing memories.

But living fearlessly doesn't always mean breaking rules. It can be breaking out of molds or habits. Showing who we are to others. Oftentimes revealing who we really are....to ourselves.

So many people get to the end of their lives with regrets on how they should have lived. The blessing of being diagnosed with a long-term terminal illness is that it provides a motivation for living more abundantly. And the blessing for those who embrace their sick loved one is that we begin to live differently and without fear.

Fearlessness is a magnificent teacher. This book invites you to hop on the sled.

 

Capturing the Essence

My last blog post was named "Before the Forward" but in googling how to write a "foreword" I discovered I had misspelled the word. But how perfect the word "forward" was for that particular post because I needed to spit out the venom inside me regarding Huntington's Disease in order to move ahead, to focus on the learning and inspiration that hardship brings.

And so I am propelled forward to writing my chapter for Michelle's book.

Paragraph 1--DRAFT

I see a skinny smiling girl with long blonde hair rolling around in the shiny grass. She is laughing and flirting with me and I think she is probably the same as me--three or four years old. I wonder if she has words because she won't say anything back to me no matter what I say--she just keeps rolling around in my neighbor's dewy yard laughing and smiling like she has the best secret in the world.

That is my first memory of my best friend. It is imprinted in my mind like a really peaceful dream-hazy and happy. I can't help but think of the irony of me writing a Foreword for her book. At the young age at which I met her, we didn't have the language, the words, to communicate fully. And here we are as adults, conveying finally in this book, those precious secrets of a giggling girl rolling in the grass.

Looking back, I believe the author was gifted with wisdom from the beginning. Perhaps the universe blesses those who will carry heavy burdens down the road with illumination on living. On getting the most from our lives.

39 years later, I am drinking coffee with a beautiful woman with shiny blonde and silver hair. She is in the moderate stage of Huntington's disease which means difficulty walking, talking, and uncontrolled movements. She is throwing her head back laughing although she has lost the words to fully express her joy or her sorrow. She has asked me write the foreword for the book she wrote years ago when she had the language to capture her wisdom; her learning from living with a terminal illness that slowly strips away your life until only your essence remains. Hers is beautiful.

This book teaches how to dig into the essence of who we are and live authentically--taught by someone who knew no other way to live.