life as i know it

Exciting News and Needing Help Please!!!

2007-11-18T21:42:00.000-08:00

First of all, I have exciting news to share...David and I are now engaged! It was a magical weekend overflowing with perfect moments.

Secondly, I need your help please. I have been tired of blogger for quite a while now and wanting to switch over to typepad. Tonight I made the decision and set up a typepad account...however, I desperately need help in figuring out how to add images, personal touches, etc. I really want to make my new blog a place where I enjoy coming, so I am asking please for your help. I am technologically retarded...seriously. Any advice would be greatly appreciated. And by the way, my new blog address is:

www.taradawn80.typepad.com

Please come visit and help me make this new blog a place that inspires creativity and soulfulness. Love to you all!

gift of childhood innocence

2007-11-05T05:55:00.000-08:00

At what age do we lose our blissful childhood innocence? When does the world cease to be one giant playground? When do simple pleasures such as kicking up piles of crinkled autumn leaves stop being seen as simple pleasures?

I think about the kids I know and I recognize how different life experiences can lead to a premature loss of innocence. But then I think back to my own childhood and I have no recollection of any particular experience that stopped the steps of my innocence mid-stride. I cannot remember why it happened, and yet I also cannot remember a time when the world was nothing more than a playground for me. I remember my childhood, but my memories are filled with feelings of sadness and regret for the little girl who spent her hours worrying about being away from her parents and living in a state of chronic fear. Fear was the encompassing feeling I remember from childhood and it has continued to haunt me all these years. I can tell you all the specific fears, those vast and myriad fears, and yet I still cannot tell you from where or what or who they originated.

A few simple pleasures this weekend brought about these thoughts. Our friends that live across the street have the two most adorable little girls ever. Their daddy brought them over Friday evening and while the guys hung out, I played with the girls. Inspecting the autumn leaves that adorned the ground, the oldest delighted in naming the colors in her baby 3-year-old voice…brown, yellow, red. It became a game of collection, gathering the leaves in their tiny fists and crumbling the dead ones, then pushing them down a drain in the sidewalk. A baby’s 2-year-old “bye bye’s” to the leaves as they vanished from sight. The tree branches, 4 or 5 feet above the ground were pronounced “too high”, so I took turns flying the girls up to the branches where they would shake the leaves in the hope of helping Nature adorn the ground with more yellow and red treasures. So simple and yet the girls were mesmerized with this activity for a near half-hour. It was the first time I remember feeling such a powerful sense of freedom and pure joy in quite a while. No thoughts or worries, only pure laughter and twinkling smiles and a heart filled to the brim as tiny arms clasped around my neck and baby-soft faces snuggled next to mine. Literally, moments of pure bliss.

In another month, I will get to spend an entire weekend with my darling niece for her first birthday. In the time since I last saw her, she has learned the art of crawling and grown her first baby teeth. She babbles on the phone to me now, that nonsense jibberish of baby talk that just lights up my heart. And when I tell her how much her Aunt Tara loves her, I can hear her laughs and imagine her own little world of childhood innocence. But my heart aches that I am so far away, that I cannot hold her and feel her tiny arms around my neck or her baby-soft face snuggled next to mine. I am counting the days until I see her in all her sweet innocence, and her mama, my soul mate and eternal best friend.

In the meantime, I am looking forward to many more afternoons and evenings with the two precious baby girls across the street. And I am learning more and more each day the true beauty and happiness that children bring to the world. The world may not always be a pretty and peaceful place, but all of these darling babies bring more happiness to my heart than they will ever know. That sense of internal fulfillment is a feeling I am only just coming to truly know, but the lessons I am learning are indeed a life-long gift.

early morning blessing

2007-10-23T05:16:00.000-07:00

It is early morning, still dark and strangely quiet in these suburban streets. The rain falls softly, slowly, steadily, a blessing for the worried and weary. The ground laps at each drop, begging for more. The corner streetlamp casts a yellow light, reflected in the shiny black pavement, a miniature pool proudly forming, its abstract, fluid form appearing as waves in the slight breeze. For one moment, standing in the rain, my mind was empty. As the rain to the earth, that emptiness was my blessing today.

Life has begun to move too fast, a race against time and growth, a marathon of responsibility. With each step, I fight for freedom and creativity, wisdom and self-nurturance. My body aches for sleep, my soul for soothing. My spirit roars in a protest of feminine wildness, but the sound is muted. I can barely hear myself anymore and it is a sound I long to hear.

I love my drive to the mountains. Once or twice each week, I awaken in the darkness and begin the journey northbound to a place where silence is broken only by Nature’s whispering. Life slows down and I am blessed by each turning shade of the leaves. The turning is slow this year, announcing its own protest against the unseasonable heat and insatiable thirst. Through amber-tinted glasses, Autumn feels closer than the naked eye allows. Through these lens, I am able to see the threads of gold woven ever so slightly, the splashes of red haphazardly painted on the canvas of the horizon. Through these lens, I am granted another moment of blessing.

I would love to say that I am reveling in many moments of such blessing, that the journey I am now walking is one in peace and balance. I would love to write those words because that is the experience I ache for in the deepest parts of my soul. But I remove the lenses, and I am faced with the suffocating pain of the world. When I reach my destination in the mountains, I spend my hours holding the pain of innocent children. Stories of violation, brutality, and the most basic forms of human betrayal hit me in tumultuous waves. I feel incompetent, helpless, lost in a maze that contains a hidden door to which no one has the key. On Thursday mornings, I am faced with more stories of pain, teachings on grief and trauma that brush too closely against the fragile fabric of my own memories. The afternoon discussions of oppression leave me in a state of defiance followed by exhaustion. I am learning more than I could have ever imagined and yet that learning requires tremendous self-sacrifice.

It is time to venture northbound again. Daylight is slowly creeping into the corners of another long day. The pain of the world awaits, as does the persistence to battle the feelings of anger and hopelessness lingering beneath the surface. Another day, another opportunity. I am thankful for Nature’s reprieve and my own moments of blessing.

what are your beliefs?

2007-09-30T22:38:00.000-07:00

One of the things I am really enjoying about my schooling this year is the plethora of thought-provoking questions. Questions designed to make us explore our own inner selves, beyond the surface facades, deeper than the boundaries of familiarity and comfort. Questions that challenge what it is we know, what it is that we have always known. Questions that push us toward a greater, more expansive knowing.

We are born and then raised in an environment in which our core beliefs, values, and expectations develop within a relatively condensed system of family and community. Some people are raised in areas of greater diversity, embracing open-mindedness from an early age. Others of us spend our formative years in a fairly homogeneous group, limited and sheltered in our understanding of those people and places and beliefs that are different from our own. Regardless, we are all confronted with the boundaries of our beliefs at some point during our lives. And many of us find ourselves in a state of confusion at that point. What have we been taught to believe, to value, to expect from others and from the world? From our earliest teachings, which ones have we continued to claim as our own and which ones have we abandoned in favor of alternative views? And of the beliefs that each of us hold today, which ones have been challenged, confronted, questioned, or debated?

We are all guilty of making judgments. It is a natural human trait, albeit one that many of us would rather believe we do not possess. We see a disheveled person walking down the street and we tend to make a judgment about that person. We are apt to assume that the person is homeless, or lost, or mentally ill. We see a beautiful young woman wearing designer clothes, a scowl on her face as she avoids making eye contact with those around her. We are apt to assume that she values material things, is wealthy, and perhaps snobbish. Everyday we see people and we make automatic judgments about them based on what we see. It is a natural reaction and yet our assumptions may be quite far from the truth. The disheveled man walking down the street might have a home and a family and a good job; perhaps his car broke down and his appearance is the result of his attempts to fix his car before venturing to a nearby store for assistance. The beautiful woman in designer clothes may be a very caring and generous person, completely ambivalent about material possessions; perhaps she bought her clothes at a thrift shop and perhaps her scowl and lack of eye contact reflects timidity or a state of personal distress. The fact is that despite what we see, despite what we believe to be true, our beliefs and our assumptions are often more a reflection of our earliest teachings than a truly accurate perception of reality.

Working in the field of clinical psychology, it is imperative that we examine our own beliefs, our values, and our assumptions. If we do not explore these facets of our inner selves, we risk making faulty assumptions and making negative judgments of our patients. The attractive man seeking therapy after a recent diagnosis of HIV may not be gay or abuse drugs. The thirty-five year old woman who continues to live with her parents may not have any social problems or dependency issues. The adolescent dressed all in black with multiple tattoos and body piercings may be incredibly intelligent and well-behaved and have the kindest and most gentle spirit. If we sat with any of these people holding preconceived ideas based on their physical health or living situation or appearance, we would do a grave injustice. And yet we must be aware of how deeply ingrained our beliefs truly are. We must be willing to look at them directly and ask ourselves not only what it is that we believe and also why it is they we hold these beliefs? And then we must challenge them, challenging the very essence of ourselves in the process.

So, as I engage in my own process of self-exploration, I challenge each of you to think as well…What are your beliefs?

defining daily life

2007-09-20T19:02:00.000-07:00

“What if we didn’t define our daily life by what we accomplish?”

As I sat in class this afternoon, fighting the grogginess of insomnia’s aftereffects, I was struck by these words. In the context of a discussion centered on the values of productivity and success that are so prevalent in western societies, this question was raised. But far beyond the specific class discussion, this question set me forth on a broader path of curiosity and introspection.

Indeed, what if our daily lives were not defined by how much we accomplished or the notches of success we proudly mark before retiring for the night? What if we stopped focusing so much on checking off each item on the to-do list? What if we re-created our own individual meanings for the word “accomplishment”? Is smiling at a stranger or hugging a friend or enjoying moments of stillness any less of an “accomplishment” than doing the grocery shopping or completing a work assignment? How do we, individually and collectively, define our daily lives? And does our definition reflect our authentic values?

As my professor pointed out this afternoon, parents often ask their children “what did you DO today” upon their return from school. But how many of us stop to actually think about why we ask such questions? Why is there such a focus on what has been DONE? Our society and our American culture have instilled in us the conditioned belief that we must DO something in order to be worthwhile. It is a belief that many of us have come to accept without question. But is it true, for us?

For me, life’s meaning is not about what I do or don’t do. It is about who I am, who others are, and our being in relationships with one another. For me, life is not about DOING, but rather about BEING.

I spend much of my time occupied with classes, studying, working, and doing the necessary errands that reality demands. The act of “doing” cannot be extinguished, nor should it be. It is not in the “doing” that we lose our meaning and purpose, but when the “doing” becomes more valuable than just “being”.

I admit that I am often guilty of defining my own daily life by what I have accomplished throughout the day. I experience a sense of pride in the completion of tasks, and there is nothing wrong with feeling good about finishing 5 loads of laundry or reading all of the assignments before a particular class. But for me, there is something personally wrong when I define my life by those necessary daily activities.

So what if I defined my daily life in some other way? How would I define it?

Taking away those actions of “accomplishment” or success, I would define my life in a way that much more closely resembles the person that I am and the inherent values that abide within my soul. I would define my life by the love I give and receive. I would define my life by gratitude for blessings and prayers for those in need. I would define my life by a balance of dedication to self and others, moments of excitement and peace, the treasures of beauty and hope. I would define my life in terms of smiles and laughter, hugs and kisses, words and affections. I would define my life through creativity and dreaming, inspiration and taking chances, holding and releasing, knowing and believing.

At the end of our lives, does it really matter if the carpet was vacuumed every Saturday? Does it really matter if we set aside work on a dissertation in favor of an afternoon spent in the company of loved ones and the beauty of Nature? Does it matter if we worked overtime or did the dishes immediately after dinner? For me, these are not the things that matter in the end. At the end of my life, what will matter is that I have known the power and fragility of love, that I have made a difference in my own life and in the life of others. For me, defining my daily life means that I must purposefully embrace it, for what is it worth at the end for a life that was never truly lived?

savoring each pause

2007-09-19T09:28:00.001-07:00

The days rush by, whirring, swirling, an occasional brief pause.

But I feel the air getting cooler, the breeze tickling my skin with an invigorating rush of excitement. The absence of humidity is not mourned, the changes of the season gradually inching toward my open embrace. I see the beauty as sun beams dance between towering pines, the early morning fog hovering over creeks, those beloved smoky blue mountains rising in the distance. I hear new birdsong, the sound of slightly crinkled leaves skipping across pavement. I taste the richness and warmth of morning coffee as if it were the first taste of bittersweet darkness. I breathe in and smell the scent of autumn. And I know that these moments are so full of life.

Each pause must be savored.

steps...

2007-09-10T20:03:00.001-07:00

One step forward, two steps back.

Although I began my weekend in the right frame of mind, intent on nurturing myself and relaxing as much as possible, Sunday ended in a state of extreme exhaustion (both physical and mental) and a sense that I had once again not placed my own well-being as a priority. The good news: I explored my feelings about this and devised a preventative plan to circumvent this particular type of problem in the future.

One step forward. I must brag for a moment and say that I attended my first (ever) yoga class on Friday morning. I am aware that many people practice yoga on a regular basis and that this notion of my self-pride in this arena might appear silly to some. But this was a big deal for me. As I am not a fan of going to the gym or being in a big room of sweaty strangers, it took a bit of courage for me to open those doors and enter that unfamiliar realm of tribal-sounding music and strange body positions. Despite my fear that I would look like an idiot (not knowing what I was doing and supposing that everyone else was well practiced in the art of yoga), I took a deep breath and opened that door anyway. What I found in that room was a sense of liberation and the feeling that this was one activity in the gym that seemed to truly fit with who I am as a person. As each minute passed, I could feel the music resonating deeper within me. My eyes naturally closed with an inner focus, my hands in prayer. Even my initial frustration that my breaths, inhale, exhale, were not matching those of the instructor, seemed to diminish as the minutes passed. Realizing that my breathing will become more aligned with my body as my comfort level increases, I let go of those concerns and set my focus to “the warrior”, feeling a swell of inner strength, the empowerment of a true “warrior”. It was a baby step, but it was a step forward nevertheless.

Two steps back. I will not recount the details of the remainder of the weekend but suffice it to say that Saturday and Sunday were spent in a state of increasing exhaustion. The positive side is that I managed to claim an afternoon nap on Saturday and got (more than) my share of therapeutic gardening on Sunday. The negative side is that I spent 90% of my weekend working and another 9% reading books for school. I think the remaining 1% was probably spent on the toilet…sad, but true.

Now it is the beginning of a new week. Busy days await and a long to-do list continues to grow. Amidst the chaos, my personal goals for this week include one art project, one yoga class, finishing May Sarton’s journal “Recovering”, and my own daily journaling.

My other goal: Two steps forward, one step back.

the priority of self-care

2007-09-08T22:10:00.000-07:00

The one statement I have heard over and over again this week is this: “In order to do this work and continue to love this work, you must remember to place self-care as your highest priority.”

When I began school for my first masters degree in 2001, I quickly became overwhelmed by the strenuous workload. My social life disappeared, sleep was a rare luxury, and as stress took over my body, my weight plummeted to a dangerous low. My professors termed me a “perfectionist”, making repeated attempts to convince me that putting 100% into everything one does is simply not possible. My counterattack was always the same: “if it is worth doing, then it must be done all the way.” I have never believed in doing something half-assed and misunderstood their advice as suggestions that I allow my dedication to dwindle in exchange for a few extra hours of sleep each week. What I did not understand at the time was that what they were really trying to say to me was much more about self-care and self-preservation than abandoning my dreams. When many of the people around me encouraged me to take a semester off from school and focus on rebuilding my physical health, I only became more adamant and more determined. I completed the program at the projected two-year mark, no doubt attributed to my intense focus on reaching the “destination” of my journey. What I missed was the journey itself.

Two years later and with two years of additional life experience, I embarked on a new journey in my current doctoral program. The first semester proved to be a similar reflection of my previous graduate years. With a full load of classes and four (yes, FOUR) jobs, I treated my body as if it were easily replaceable and completely ignored the protests of my spirit and emotional well-being. I finished the first semester with an excellent GPA but too much was sacrificed in those first few months. I was admitted to the hospital during the week of mid-terms for a suspected appendicitis. After grueling tests, it was discovered that my appendix was fine. Diagnosis: lesions in my digestive track (i.e. ulcers). My body perpetually screamed for sleep and I battled recurring episodes of depression. And yet still I did not learn the true need for self-care.

Throughout the past two years, I have become more aware of the needs of my body, mind, and spirit. I know what burnout feels like and I know how detrimental it can be, on both a professional as well as a personal level. I have started to gain a better understanding of my physical limitations as well as the boundaries I must maintain for my emotional well-being. This is not to say that I have become an expert at caring for myself in the past two years, but I have taken baby steps and gradually progressed toward a more balanced life.

So here I found myself, all these years later, and still I am hearing the same words from my professors and mentors and supervisors. I am learning that they are words that are said to everyone in this field, not specifically designed for my own unique benefit. I am learning that these are not words of attack at all, but quite the opposite. They are words of compassion. They are words of wisdom. And they are words of truth spoken from those who have lived this life, done this work, and know the importance of caring for oneself.

With all of this being said and all of these realizations brought forth, I am making myself a priority for a change. As difficult as this is for me to do at times, I KNOW that self-care is no longer an option. It is a necessity for my body, my mind, and my spirit. I must find ways to nurture myself physically, emotionally, intellectually, creatively, and spiritually. And knowing myself, I also know that I need a “plan”. Realization of the importance of self-care is not enough to keep me actively doing what I need to do. So as I ponder what it is that feels good and nurturing for me, and as I devise my “plan”, I welcome any suggestions…

opening a new door...

2007-09-05T09:57:00.000-07:00

An ending and a beginning. That point of transition when one door closes and another opens. It is that time now and despite my efforts at prepping myself for the changes, I can already sense the uncertainty and muted tensions settling into my body and mind.

Yesterday was my first day at my new practicum site up in the mountains. The day went well and I enjoyed the pleasant camaraderie of the six other women with whom I will be working. It was quite a different experience from other “first days”. Such a small group and only women; it was refreshing. Of course we had the official “meeting” in the morning, discussing new cases and concerns with ongoing ones. But it was not a typical meeting. A small table with chairs pulled haphazardly around the edges, inspirational art adorning the walls, and a mixture of unique personalities and appearances completed the scene. But above all the evident idiosyncrasies of these diverse women, what I noticed most was the common thread of passion in each of their voices. Sitting at that table, I realized that my work there will be about far more than fulfilling the requirements of “practicum hours”. My work there is about making a difference, fighting for the safety and healing of children and adolescents whose lives and spirits have been threatened and attacked amidst a world that should have been filled with innocence and playfulness and happiness. Despite their individual job titles and responsibilities, what was most prominent in that room was passion. And that passion reminded me of why I have chosen to live this chaotic day-to-day rat race. Compassion permeated the air, the scent of dedication wafting throughout the converted 1950’s style home, settling into an atmosphere of love and support. And as I shared a delicious meal with these women, I felt inspired and excited to be welcomed into this amazing “family” of healers.

Today is my first day of classes for the new year. Beginning my third year of doctorate school, it seems impossible that so much time has elapsed since that first day two years ago when I walked into a classroom of strangers and began this journey. In the past two years, my life has changed in so many ways. No doubt I have learned much during this time, but the knowledge has reached far beyond the walls of a classroom and even beyond the boundaries of my professional existence. These years have witnessed an internal growth, a “coming of age” into my own self, my own unique identity. New friendships have been formed, bonds that speak of connections that will last for a lifetime. Relentless hours of studying have occurred and crucial moments of haunting anxieties have been shared. Late night conversations about cases and reports and the frequent venting sessions about debt and sleep deprivation and fears about failed attempts at perfection. But the past two years have also seen many nights of laughter beyond the tears. Holiday parties, birthday gatherings, Tuesday night rituals of relaxation. Celebrations with wine and dancing and talks that last until the early morning hours. And it is these memories that bring me comfort today as I venture back down to the city, walk through those same glass doors, and step into yet another classroom and another new beginning. The anxieties and fears are not so different than those of the past two years, but when I walk through those doors today, it is not the faces of strangers I will see. This “family” has offered shoulders for the tears and encouragement through the valleys, and knowing this makes this beginning not quite so frightening.

It is time to get moving now. The old doors are gently closing behind me, the news ones painted in vibrant colors. Breathing deeply, one step at a time, I will enter…

update on plans, wishes, and contemplations

2007-08-30T08:32:00.000-07:00

It is officially my last week of summer. My free time is rapidly evaporating and by this time next week I will have already immersed myself back into school and my new patients in the mountains. In an attempt to become more aware of how well I follow through with my plans, wishes, and contemplations (and where my devotion tends to lie), I am returning to my previous post…

Plans ~

My plans began on a Saturday morning, the sun barely risen and a short drive to a small town northwest of the city. With the morning paper, a large dose of caffeine, and the sight of my boyfriend’s cute tush in his baseball pants, I settled happily into the stands. Though the heat was horrendous, it was quite an enjoyable day. The sun was high by mid-morning, our group of feisty blondes resorting to sunglasses, sunscreen, and hair pulled carelessly atop our heads. But the heat was no match for our enthusiasm and devotion to our men. We cheered them on through the morning game before seeking an air-conditioned haven for lunch. Between our cheering, we cherished our time of “girl talk”. From marriage and babies to work and sleep deprivation, we exchanged stories about our hopes for our futures. Despite having little in common with the two younger blondes on either side of me, it was a time of fun and laughter and it left me with a greater appreciation for my beloved boyfriend (who apparently is one of very few men that willingly cleans and cooks). It was nightfall before their last game and once again, our spirits soared with pride as we watched our boys win the final championship game. With a late-night dinner, we celebrated the day and then parted ways for much needed showers and sleep.

I had my date with Robin the following Tuesday night. We enjoyed a casual dinner of wine and light dishes of salad, fresh veggies, warm pita, and hummus. As always, our conversation ran the spectrum from excited anticipations to fears, blissful moments of happiness to disappointed sorrows. It was an evening of comfort, a reminder of the true blessing of our friendship. A blessing for which I thank God each day.

My birthday was a fabulous celebration to mark the beginning of a new year. In the spirit of embracing change (i.e. my old-er age), I had seven inches of my hair cut off. I then spent the afternoon lounging by the pool, enjoying my company with the sun and one of Sabrina Ward Harrison’s lovely books. It was a day to feel loved, and the love I felt was vast and filling, warming my heart as deeply as the sun warmed my skin. The evening commenced with a delicious dinner complete with dear friends, delectable food (yes, I had my favorite hummus and sun-dried tomato with broccoli pasta), and a refreshing glass of pinot grigio. By midnight, I was happily tucked into bed, content and thankful for the beauty of the day.

On Thursday we celebrated a monumental birthday with the boyfriend’s mama. Out on the farm, I could feel the internal tensions gradually release (as they always do there). Lots of pup kisses from their six dogs and the sweet affection of his parents. We enjoyed a simple supper while watching little league baseball on the TV, followed by birthday cake and the exchange of gifts. I was reminded of the dear connection I have with his mama and of how well she truly knows me. A new leather-bound journal, boyshort pj’s, and apothecary bottled incense…she is a kindred spirit indeed.

On Friday, the boyfriend and I departed for the mountains of North Georgia. The weekend was brief, not as much time as we would have liked, but the moments were priceless. Our tiny chalet was nestled into the woods, more akin to a rustic treehouse. Though it was a bit cramped with both the pups, the natural charm lulled us to a peaceful sleep. Awakening to the sight of surrounding mountains, we spent Saturday exploring local art, tasting exquisite wines, and playing in waterfalls across the North Carolina border. Reluctant to leave on Sunday, we packed the car, knowing that it will not be long before we return to this haven of Nature.

Tomorrow we will embark on our last adventure of the summer. After a long work shift, it will be a long late-night drive to the southern shores. But no doubt the drive and exhaustion will be well worth the weekend. With nearly all of the family together (a rare occurrence these days), our afternoons will be spent on the beach and our nights enjoying good food and the company of my dear family. The perfect celebration for the end of summer.

Wishes ~

According to my previous list, I have not made as much progress in pursuing my “wishes”. I’d like to believe that this is simply because my “plans” unexpectedly transformed into fulfilled wishes (which is indeed true). However, it is also a reminder that I must devote as much time to those things that fill my soul as I do with those on my “to-do” list. Or perhaps I should just start listing my “wishes” as part of my “to-do” list. Hmm…definitely a thought to consider.

I have indulged myself, to some degree, beyond the birthday celebrations and weekend adventures. I wrote more letters to my precious far-away friends and even managed to mail them in a timely fashion (this time). I read not just two of Sabrina Ward Harrison’s books, but three of them…and they are simply divine! I went to church again. I started a new journal, though it is only words for this one. And the boyfriend and I will most likely enjoy several games of ping-pong this weekend at my parent’s house.

So that leaves me with a few things I’d like to do today during my free time between laundry and packing. I’ll order the pictures for the house. I’ll pull out my jewelry supply box and make at least one fun piece of jewelry to take home to my mama. If my bank account will allow it, I might even pay a visit to the art supply store. The photography date will have to wait for now, as will the visit with my best friend and her baby daughter. But I just might find the time to start a small piece of art for my beloved aunt Sky.

Contemplations ~

So much for the contemplations. Although I did get my hair cut and I am now in the possession of contacts (though I cannot get those damn things in my eyes for the life of me), the rest of my contemplations have seen no fruition. I did get a fabulous new pair of red glasses, which I think should count for something…yes? I have not given a second thought to my dissertation or started any form of yoga. Nor have I made any effort to sort through my closet for Goodwill donations.

BUT…I have enjoyed the past couple of weeks. I have read good books, written letters, celebrated a great birthday, visited the mountains, and above all, experienced an amazing sense of love all around me.

So, the rest will come (or not). The love I have felt is greater than all the plans or wishes or contemplations I could ever have. That love is definitely the greatest feeling in the world!

where the heart is...

2007-08-20T09:49:00.000-07:00

“If you want to know where someone’s heart is, look at where they spend their money.” – A.S.

I’ve never been a materialistic person and I cannot imagine myself ever becoming one. Of course I like nice things but I much prefer comfy to posh, down-to-earth to yuppy, and basic to extravagant. My dream car is an old Ford Bronco with a removable top. My dream house is a rustic cabin in the mountains or a quaint cottage near the shore. My dream life consists of me and the man I love making a home together with lots of animals and maybe a few kids, spending my days seeing a few patients, doing lots of writing and artwork, and spending ample time with family and close friends. In summary, love always trumps money in my dream life (and in my real life).

To me, the above stated quote is not about a successful businessman buying his wife a Mercedes for her birthday. It is not about money at all in my mind. Rather, it is about where our hearts truly are and how we choose to prioritize our lives based on what is prominent in our hearts. It is not about the size of our bank accounts, but rather the size of our hearts.

I was blessed to be raised in a family that measured worth by what lay inside of us. I was taught the importance of love and helping others and the difference a simple smile can make when the day is hard and the burden heavy. I was encouraged (and still am) to pursue my dreams, not because they will make me successful in a monetary sense but because they will leave me with a sense of meaning and purpose at the end of the day. My daddy always says “we don’t take money with us when we die”. He is right, of course, but in his statement is much more than just that simple fact. What we carry with us, today, tomorrow, every day of our lives…we carry the precious cargo in our hearts.

I have never known a life of financial abundance. I do not know the feel of shopping without first looking at the price tag. I cannot tell you what it feels like to not have debts. And I do not foresee a future where financial hardships do not periodically arise. But I can tell you what I do know, what I can feel, and what I see a few steps forward on my journey through life.

I have always known a life of spiritual abundance. I have always known the feeling of being loved and the security of unending support and encouragement. I know the strength of family ties and the unconditional stability of “home”. I know that no matter how much debt I owe or how small the number in my bank account, I will never be without a home and more importantly, I will never be without love.

Some days are harder than others. Bills must be paid and there are times when the money is simply not there. But those are the very times that I am reminded that the depths of the heart will always be deeper than even the most overflowing of wallets. Those are the times when I am reminded that the blessings in my life are worth so much more than any amount of money could ever be.

“If you want to know where someone’s heart is, look at where they spend their money”. (A.S.) There are moments in my life that stand out with clarity, moments that embody this statement for me, moments that continue to inspire me and bring tears to my eyes with the memories.

Moments in my childhood when my dear grandmother would sneak me a five-dollar bill from her wallet. She would carefully tuck it into my palm and whisper that she wished she had more to give. Our secret, because my grandfather controlled all the money and she knew if he found out, she would suffer the pains of his rage. And yet despite that knowledge, her heart was bigger than his rage.

Other moments…every Christmas morning when my sister and I would awaken to find a living room filled with gifts from Santa, even in the years when I know “Santa” had no money. Watching my mama buy gifts for children in need and write checks to charities, her small monthly paycheck no comparison for the kindness of her heart.

And moments in recent years…my daddy working three jobs, all for non-profit organizations, his heart always with those less fortunate than ourselves. My daddy doing extra tax returns just so he’d have a little more money to give to my mama and my sister and me…the greatest provider and most loving man I have ever known.

And my sister, only a few months back…I remember her opening our refrigerator to find only condiments and a jug of water. I remember our refrigerator filled with food two hours later, no second thought ever crossing her mind.

I remember a moment on the bathroom floor, sobbing on David’s shoulder about the lack of money. Doctor bills, increasing student loans, and the funds that were just not there. His offer to get a second job…he never knew how much that simple offer meant. And now, when each week seems to bring a new financial burden, a new stress, and still not enough money…he makes sure I eat healthy meals and go to all my doctor’s appointments. And just like my daddy, when he can’t offer money, he offers that which is so much more important…love.

Perhaps it sounds crazy to some, but I am thankful that I have never known a life of financial abundance. Maybe I would still have somehow learned the lessons I now carry with me, but then again, maybe not. And there is nothing that can replace the values and treasures that lie within my heart. I may never have much money, but I’ve got one of the biggest hearts that God ever created. And for that, and those special souls who continue to deepen my heart each day, I am forever blessed.

plans, wishes, & contemplations

2007-08-14T20:25:00.000-07:00

It is Wednesday morning and I am feeling a bit groggy. A slight sore throat and the faint beginnings of a headache. But also a sense of gratitude that my pager has not yet made its beep, beep, beep sound, alerting me that I am needed at one of many emergency rooms for a psych assessment.

I finished my diagnostic practicum. AT LAST! Yesterday was my final day and I cannot begin to describe the relief that washed over me as I exited the building for the last time. The contract stating August 15, 2006 through August 15, 2007 has officially been completed. Marking the end of one chapter in my life and the beginning of another. Only three more weeks and I will return to the daily chaos of classes and a new practicum far up in the mountains. Excitement lingers beneath the surface, but with it is the realization that I need to rest and relax as much as possible in these next two weeks. I know the exhaustion that accompanies each September. I know the stress that builds steadily through the autumn months. Because of that knowledge, I also know that I need to nurture myself in these next few weeks. Somewhere between doctor appointments (it’s that time of year for my check-ups) and work, I will find the time to celebrate my birthday, escape for a weekend in the mountains, and make one last trip home before school begins.

In the spirit of nurturing my soul, here is a tentative list of things I would like to do/plan to do (or am contemplating doing) in the next three weeks.

Plans:
1. a birthday dinner with friends and family at California Pizza Kitchen (I’m a sucker for their hummus and sun-dried tomato pasta dish)
2. a romantic weekend in the North Georgia mountains with the boyfriend…complete with the pups, a chalet, hiking, pottery shopping, and some of the most delectable Southern food you can imagine (a big thanks to my beloved aunt Sky for her contribution that has made this possible)
3. joining all the wives/fiancées/girlfriends to cheer on our men at the boyfriend’s softball championship tournament this Saturday…with 10-12 blondes in the stands, we’re hoping to distract the opposing teams…ha!
4. a date with my precious friend Robin…food, pool time, shopping, etc…any time spent with her guarantees good conversation and the best companionship
5. more birthday celebrations, including my best friend and the boyfriend’s mama
6. one more trip to the island before winter for ample family time, Bar-B-Qs, and playing on the beach

Wish List (what I would like to do):
1. go shopping at one of my favorite art supply stores
2. start a piece of art for my Sky (the one she has hanging is nearly 15 years old)
3. write more letters to my sweet far-away friends (sent via snail mail…my favorite)
4. read two more of Sabrina Ward Harrison’s books (sitting patiently on the bookshelf)
5. dig out my old jewelry supply box and make a few more fun necklaces
6. have a ping-pong or air hockey tournament with the boyfriend (dear God, we are addicted to both though neither is readily available)
7. start a new journal including more than just words
8. have a photography date with my dear friend Ginny
9. spend time with my best friend Dee and her adorable daughter (though this is merely wishing due to our conflicting schedules and the geographic distance)
10. go to church this Sunday (last week’s sermon was very inspiring and insightful)
11. ordering pictures of the boyfriend and I, as well as family and friends, and framing them to adorn the walls of our house

Things I am Contemplating:
1. getting my hair cut short (chin length or above)…long hair is easier in the summer but harder in the fall/winter months
2. cleaning out closets and gathering stuff to donate to Goodwill
3. starting a Yoga class
4. switching from glasses to contacts (though this will be determined following my eye exam, dependent on what is best for my worsening eyesight)
5. doing more research on my current dissertation topic (the contemplation being the timing of doing that now vs. later)

A busy few weeks ahead, it seems…but the definite possibility of pampering my soul and nurturing my spirit. Time to get started on my wish list…

lots of rambling but that's ok

2007-08-14T19:32:00.000-07:00

So much for my plan to write every day. My blog is proof that yet again, this goal got pushed to the wayside in favor of other obligations and activities. Although I certainly have not written every single day, I must admit that I have written far more than I have posted in recent weeks. I have found myself once again stuck in that rut where I feel that I absolutely must write something worthwhile or else I should just not post anything at all. What is it inside me that propels me toward this mindset? Why is it that I feel I must write something "worthy" and who actually judges what is "worthy" vs "unworthy" anyways? It is time I let go a bit more and allow myself to indulge in the sheer pleasure of writing. It is time that I accept that there does not always have to be a purpose for my writing, or even a particular topic, or even an audience at all. I first began writing many years ago and in the beginning, my writing had nothing to do with anyone but myself. I simply wrote to write, to release whatever was inside of me, to put it out in the universe in some way. I did not feel the need to be the "best" writer or even a "great" writer...I just wrote. It's time I got back to those roots.

I have realized that in all the chaos of my daily life, I have begun to neglect too much of my personal life...the stuff that is all about me. I have not touched a paintbrush all summer and have only done a few minimalist sketches. As noted above, my writing has taken a backseat to other activities. Even my reading materials have leapt from meaningful memoirs and poetry to silly romance novels. Now I am not saying there is anything wrong with reading Nicholas Sparks. I must admit I am a sucker for a good love story. But my new direction in activities this summer has left me feeling a bit empty, and I am certain of the reason.

The older I get, the more life experiences I endure, the more I come to know more about who I truly am on the inside...the real me. Here are but a few of the things I have learned about myself with the passage of time...

I read celeb gossip magazines and romance novels as a means of escape and distraction. Though I do need a healthy dose of them each summer to decompress from the stress of school and work, I also know that this is not the literature that inspires me. The authors/books that do inspire me... the journals of Anais Nin and Sylvia Plath, the poetry of Pablo Neruda, the travel memoirs of Frances Mayes, and the artsy inspirational books of SARK and Sabrina Ward Harrison.

I have a major case of perfectionism that carries over into everything I do. It is why I struggle to find the motivation to clean my house...once I start, it becomes a full-day (or more) process before I am satisfied that it is indeed clean. It is the reason I do not pursue art more...the images in my head never seem to match what appears on the paper or canvas and I end up berating myself for creating a "ridiculous" piece of work. It is why I doubt myself time and time again when writing a paper or a blog or the beginnings of my dissertation.

Connected to my perfectionism is a desire (desperate at times) to please others and gain the approval of others. As strongly as I want to NOT care what others think of me, I am bombarded with periodic moments of panic when I worry that I have not done everything I could have possibly done in a situation. At times, I am overcome with a generalized sense that I am "not enough" or that I am "too much". And it leaves me with the realization that until I can fully accept myself, I will never feel that I am fully accepted by others. ***this is an issue that comes and goes for me***

Beyond all this, there are certain things I know to be true for myself...likes and dislikes, preferences that I have come to realize are my own throughout the years. I love vintage things...clothes, postcards, books...and what I love most about vintage things are the stories I imagine that accompany them. I love leg warmers, especially in the winter but also when blasting the AC in the house during the summer months. I love olives and hummus and just about every vegetable that exists. With an endless supply of vegetables and occasional fish and sushi, I could be perfectly content with never eating another piece of meat (though that has nothing to do with ethics and is solely about my personal taste buds). I love to read out loud, the sound of my voice as each word is formed, experimenting with it and discovering new "favorite" words (usually based on the sound of the word alone). I am extremely sentimental and always prefer the free/cheap but very meaningful gift over anything designer brand. In fact, I cannot fathom spending an excessive amount of money on something simply because of the brand...though I must admit I tend to splurge on actual Pop-Tarts over the generic brands (there are just some things that don't taste the same in generic). I am one of the friendliest people you may ever meet and yet I am also very much of a home-body. I typically dread the occasional outings to loud clubs or parties and nearly always prefer a low-key evening at home with friends. One of my biggest pet peeves in the sound of someone making smacking noises while eating food...this literally grates my nerves to the point that I often have to bite my tongue in order to restrain myself from grabbing their food and slinging it across the room. I cannot stand sitting in traffic for over an hour to get to work and will never be a "city girl" in my heart. Give me the mountains or the beach or the desert...anything where I am immersed in nature and I am happy. When camping, I prefer that there not be public restrooms with showers...part of the joy of camping is bathing in the lake and peeing behind trees. My most prized possessions are my pictures and my books, not necessarily in that order. My two dogs are absolute terrors most days (though they are angels when separated) but that cocked-head, innocent look makes me fall in love with them all over again every single day. I love the feeling of nostalgia, music from many decades ago, sepia photographs, freshly cut grass, the feel of my fingers dancing across piano keys, thunderstorms, and little boy's white wife-beater undershirts from Walmart. I don't like feeling disorganized, insomnia, rude people, or science fiction. I am fascinated by forensics and anything to do with medicine and surgery (other than vomiting), but cannot seem to get even slightly interesting in "Law & Order". And the list could go on...

Excuse the rambling, but as I've promised myself I would just write whatever came to mind, I am going to actually post this and let go of the worries that it has no "purpose". The purpose is internal, even if I am still unsure of what it is.

Until next time...hopefully soon...

blessed simple moments

2007-08-04T22:13:00.000-07:00

I am safely back home and it is time to write. Although I am uncertain of what words may come, I know that it is the simple process of writing that I need. And so I write…

…of the sweltering heat of a Southern summer…appreciation of even the slightest breeze brushing whispers of coolness across bare skin…a low, amber moon reminiscent of autumn, rising ever so slowly to a golden globe painted against a canvas of black clouds…returning to work and the pleasure of glimpsing a weary smile on the face of a patient…my precious books…love stories unfolding in reality instead of a TV screen…the warm fur of my pups snuggled against me on the blessedly cool sheets…

These are the moments of my days, the simple moments that create a tapestry of beauty, natural and pure. It is in these dark hours of silence and solitude when the world around me sleeps…it is in these hours that my heart soars with gratitude and my spirit aches to dance in the moonlight.

My thoughts tumble about, but despite my susceptibility for worrying, I feel a strange sense of peace encircling me. Perhaps it is faith. Whatever the reason may be, I am grateful for this respite. The anxiety sits patiently in a darkened corner, not so eager to make its presence known right now. My spirit is light and I can actually feel myself inhaling, tasting the fresh ripeness of the summer air.

…revitalized by the sun…breathe…the delicious taste of summer such a rare delicacy…

I will continue to devour these blessed, simple moments.

tiny reminder of love

2007-08-01T22:08:00.000-07:00

I am too tired tonight to write what I consider to be an actual blog. Nevertheless, I feel the need to send some loving thoughts and rejuvenating wishes out into the blog-world. Once I return home, I am setting a goal for myself to once again dedicate some time each day to writing. I am heading home tomorrow night, so we shall see how I do with my new goal. In the meantime, my love to each of you that have touched my heart so dearly in these past few years. Even when my words do not appear for weeks, you are in my heart every day.

the open road awaits

2007-07-11T19:00:00.000-07:00

It has been nearly seven months since I have been on the open road, alone. And I wouldn’t exactly call that a road trip, more a means to an end, a necessity in order to get to my uncle’s funeral. And it was literally a three-hour drive, a funeral and brief mourning with family, then a three-hour drive back home. Before that, it was a couple months and a rushed trip home for my Papa C’s birthday and an early holiday celebration. And a few weeks before that, the same three-hour trip as my last, only that one was to visit my best friend and her newborn daughter in the hospital. So my point is that it has been ages since I have taken a road trip anywhere alone, for purely enjoyable and relaxing purposes. All of my ventures in the past year have had a set purpose, an agenda, and a lacking of that blissful freedom that accompanies a journey when only excitement and the open road lay ahead.

Tomorrow morning I will embark on such a trip. With my departure time set for 5 a.m., I am looking forward to seven hours on that open road. Seven hours of music and singing, windows open to breathe in the gusts of fresh air as I escape the city and head south toward the bayou. By noon, I will have entered a new time zone, a new state, and the welcome of a new adventure.

More than a decade has passed since I first met the women with whom I will be sharing this weekend of fun and relaxation. We were barely teenagers at that time, only beginning to find our identities in a world overflowing with chaos and adolescent angst. It was in the company of one another that we spent those formative years. We shared the experience of first loves, first heartaches, first drinks, and first road trips. The years have certainly changed us all since those days of drinking cheap wine in paper cups in the back of someone’s car and skipping classes to spend days of oblivion on muddy Georgia beaches. But despite the changes and the distance that have accompanied all these years, some things have not changed. I sit here today with the same eager anticipation and excitement that we felt at the age of fifteen when we left for a camping trip at the lake. And no doubt we will share many glasses of wine this weekend, though I imagine we’ll be sitting in a bar or our hotel room this time. The conversations will flow as they always have, talk of weddings and graduate degrees and the anticipation of babies replacing our old gossip of how to buy alcohol and which classes could be skipped without getting caught. The past decade has seen us through high school and college and graduate school graduations. The decade has witnessed marriage and divorce, births and deaths. But more than all of the millions of changes, the past decade has honored an unconditional and eternal love between girlfriends, a love that continues to last beyond all the ups and downs of the passing years.

Our paths have led us in various directions, professionally and geographically. Two of us are still in graduate school, a doctorate in psychology for me and law school for K. One has her masters degree in education and works as a teacher while another spends her days in surgery. Both of them remain on the island that brought us together all those years ago. One has been married for over six years now and my own divorce is now nearing its three-year anniversary. And one is preparing for her own marriage at the end of this month. She is the reason for this trip, the one who has brought us together again for a weekend that will no doubt, be a testament to these oldest and best of friendships.

And so it is time to stop writing now, stop reminiscing for the moment, and pack my bags. Tomorrow morning will arrive early and the open road awaits.

summer nights of freedom

2007-07-05T21:11:00.000-07:00

Tonight is the perfect summer night. The air is still, but not too heavy, warm but not suffocating. My love and I took the pups for a long walk around the neighborhood tonight and for a while, life just felt good. We stopped and talked with neighbors and laughed as Dakota pulled me in abstract patterns across the sidewalk, into the grass, and then back again. It was a quiet night, so different from last night, and yet both nights were filled with a sense of innocence and freedom.

This was one of the first years that I was not particularly looking forward to the 4th of July. It has always been a big holiday with my family, all of us spending the day lounging on the beach, then grilling out and enjoying a casual dinner poolside before heading to the village to see the fireworks over the ocean. As the years have passed and we all have aged, the tradition has become altered a bit. It has been many years now since all of us celebrated together on the island. But in every previous year, there was at least a majority. This year was different.

My family is now split between the island and the city. While my parents and grandparents and one aunt and uncle still enjoy the island life on a daily basis, the rest of us spend our days making lengthy commutes and dreaming of our next vacation back home. With hectic work schedules and limited time, there was no hope for an island celebration this 4th of July. In fact, life has been so busy that the holiday was not really even discussed at length until Tuesday. And yet somehow, we managed to make it one of the best ever. Of course there was the lingering nostalgia for age-old tradition, but we planned a spontaneous last-minute soiree and enjoyed the day in a new way.

The weather was beautiful, hot and sunny but not unbearable as it often is this time of year. After a bit of early morning yard work, my sister arrived, fully stocked for a day at the pool. With full coolers, colorful towels, water toys, and a load of books and magazines, the afternoon was spent lounging in the sun with family and friends. By late afternoon, we headed to my sister’s house for a barbeque and more friends joined us to celebrate. Good food (including my lopsided cake…which is impressive if you know me and my cooking skills), good company, and lots of laughter left us exhausted but blissful by the end of the night. As we danced through the backyard with sparklers, we watched the night sky light up with fireworks in every direction.

Though the day was not a replica of our yearly tradition, it was certainly a day that will long be remembered. And even though the fireworks weren’t quite as bright or quite as loud or quite as impressive, the company and the food and the sparklers more than made up for any potential disappointment. It was truly a day of freedom, not just in celebration of our country but in celebration of ourselves as well.

Now the time is getting late, the quiet and darkness comforting in the warmth of a perfect summer night. My eyes are heavy but there is a smile on my face. A wonderful holiday followed by another night of innocent freedom…I do not need any more reason to smile.

seeking to create

2007-06-23T05:29:00.000-07:00

I am aching to create. I can feel it deep inside me, buried beneath months upon months of daily obligations and responsibilities. I feel it each time I pass a craft store and every Friday night when we pick up sushi for dinner at the restaurant that sits beside the huge, new art supply store. I feel it when I look at pictures and get that urge to just hop in my car with my camera and capture timeless, unexpected moments of beauty. Each time I drive past the old cobblestone building where I sat at a potter’s wheel every Monday night last summer…the aching grows stronger each time. Create, create, create. It is a mantra I feel deep in my spirit and yet I am not creating. Why?

During the school year, my reasons for not creating are legitimate. I simply do not have the time. Of course, I am aware that I could make the time, make it a priority in my life, as I have done in previous years. The only conclusion I can reach is that with all the trials and tribulations of the past several months, I have been left in a state of pure exhaustion. Perhaps denial has played its part as well. When having to deal with all the stresses on a daily basis, I simply would rather not think about it at the end of the day. And naturally, the process of creating will certainly bring all those emotions and stresses to the surface. So, at least in some degree, I do understand why I have been trying to hush this mantra to create.

Now it is officially my summer. Classes have ended until September. Of course I still have practicum and work and quite a few wedding obligations. But I do not have any excuses, and I am beginning to not want any excuses. And yet I am still holding back, though not as forcefully as before. I can feel myself inching closer to the edge, that deep desire to create growing more towards the surface each day. The only barrier now is fear…the same fear as always, that the ideas in my head will not manifest themselves as they are in my imagination. I am struggling to let go of that fear, to realize that my imagination is only the starting point, that the final product is not meant to replicate an image in my head. I am reminding myself that, as in life, it is the journey and the process that matters most, not the final destination. Still, my insecurities swell.

I considered taking another art class this summer. However, with my busy schedule of work and travel, it did not seem feasible. I would have had to miss several classes. And yet I do feel as if I need some direction. I feel a bit lost at the moment, not sure where to begin or what avenue to pursue first. Photography, painting, charcoals, mixed media…so many ideas flying through my mind.

And then there’s the need for inspiration. I find it each day when I sit down to read all of your blogs. Your words and pictures do inspire me tremendously, and yet I long to have that inspiration closer to me. It is hard not to have these creative bonds with people nearby, to motivate me, to push me beyond the fear. I wish desperately for a creative retreat with you all, my dear tribe of soulful sisters. But so it is. Reality forces distance. Nevertheless, I am eternally grateful to each of you. And until the days when I see your beautiful faces in person, I will continue to seek inspiration and motivation. I will seek to create.

in the spirit of fathers

2007-06-18T22:32:00.000-07:00

I didn’t get to spend Father’s day with my daddy. With him being six hours away, it wasn’t possible to get away from work and the city for the weekend. Nevertheless, I spent the day with him in spirit (even if he didn’t know it). Talking on the phone to my dad and my precious Papa C, I wished I could morph myself those six hours southeast to the shores of southern Georgia. I longed to stand on the end of the pier, lowering crabbing baskets into the murky water, marveling at the sharks being caught by other fishermen. I longed to sit by my aunt’s pool, watching my granddaddy play in the water with his floating “noodle”, my daddy sitting beneath the weeping willow with his feet dangling over the edge. As I drove down the road, talking first to my granddaddy and then my daddy, I longed for home and the presence of these two dear men in my life.

Despite my longings, I enjoyed the holiday in the true spirit of its name. The boyfriend and I spent the day on the horse farm with his parents and once again, I was reminded of the comfort and joy I feel in their company. The small gestures of affection, the words of love, and the endless laughter brought a different, but no less, sense of pleasure from times spent with my own family. Watching the boyfriend and his dad reciting lines from “Caddyshack”, laughing in unison over jokes his mom and I could not share. In those brief moments, I saw the bond between a father and his grown son, and I realized the true blessings of having such a close relationship with one’s father.

I have always been a “daddy’s girl” (in case anyone needed clarification on that point). When I think back to the days of my childhood, I remember my daddy and I fishing amidst the overgrown weeds on the shores of various ponds and lakes. I still love digging through dark, damp, dirt to pull out the live, slithering worms. When my mind takes me back in time, I remember my daddy teaching me to drive when I was too short to even reach the pedals, sitting on his lap and steering the car down deserted roads. I remember the silly songs he would sing to awaken me in the mornings and snuggling next to him in church. I remember him smushing homemade hamburgers as flat as possible so they would resemble the ones I liked from McDonald’s. And as I got older, I remember the tears of pride he shed when I graduated from high school and then college and then with my masters degree. And still to this day, he is my most beloved confidante, my “daddy” and also one of my best friends.

With 26 years of these treasured memories, I know I am blessed to have such a close bond with my dad. His words and gestures of love and support and encouragement no longer amaze me, as I know this is just the man that he is. But in those brief moments yesterday of watching the boyfriend and his dad share the secret laughter of unknown jokes, I realized how truly incredible it is to witness the bond between a father and his child. In all its myriad forms, there is not much else in this world quite so beautiful.

Pulling out of the driveway yesterday, the boyfriend and I stopped to visit for a moment with our neighbors. A young couple with four small children, the whole family decorating their driveway in colored chalk drawings. The parents, both in their hippy spirits, and their beautiful children, all smiles and waves and big hellos. And as we departed, we saw the father with his children all around him, a huge smile on his face as he lifted the peace sign to us.

With so many of our own friends having babies, the boyfriend and I cannot help but imagine having little ones of our own someday. I can picture it all so clearly, this man I love transitioning into fatherhood. And I know that with the lessons and love of both of our fathers, he will grow to be an amazing “daddy” himself one day. Perhaps one day, many years from now, I will have a daughter writing words similar to my own. Words about a love that runs to the deepest recesses of her heart, about her admiration for her daddy and both of her granddaddies.

Whatever the future may hold, I know that there is one thing in my life that is constant and unconditional, and that is the love of my daddy. Every day I send up prayers for him, forever thankful that I have been blessed to have such an amazing bond with him. When the days are not so sunny and the clouds begin to darken the sky, his words bring light and his love brings hope for a new tomorrow. And as I turn and look at the man beside me, the one with whom I am sharing my life, I know that I have been blessed yet again. And I know that the love of my Papa C and the love of my daddy will be a legacy that lives on in future generations and into eternity.

return from hiatus

2007-06-16T20:41:00.001-07:00

I’ve been on hiatus, at least from the world of blogging. Many times I have found myself sitting before a blank screen, ready to write. And typically I do write during those times. But the words that emerge are not the words I imagined, the paragraphs disjointed and rambling in a state of messy frustration or mere dullness. I cannot seem to bring myself to post something that bores even me. If I am bored writing it, I refuse to subject others to the reading of it. And so, alas, I have been on what I decidedly call a “hiatus”.

The summer has arrived in full force, the sweltering heat and late afternoon storms greeting me on a near daily basis. After discovering that the pups are continuing to dig monstrous holes in the backyard out of a search for cool earth upon which to nap, the boyfriend and I have made the executive decision to buy a kiddy pool for them. We laughed today at the probability that he will often return home from work to find both the pups and myself lounging in the new pool. But believe me when I say that southern summers are unbelievably suffocating, even for those solar-powered individuals such as myself.

I have one more final next week and then I am officially done with classes until September. Two full months of no school…I cannot begin to describe the joy I feel at the prospect of a true summer break. Of course work will keep me busy and I am hoping to work a great deal more on my dissertation. But there will also be plenty of blissfully carefree moments to simply luxuriate in the pleasure of just living life.

For nearly an entire month, I have wedding activities scheduled into my planner. A bachelorette party in the city, a bridesmaid luncheon, a rehearsal and rehearsal dinner, and a wedding all in the first week of July. And then, two glorious trips away from the city, away from the stress. The excitement builds each day with more planning (for the irony of less planning and more relaxation). Only a few days after the first wedding, I will depart for New Orleans, an extra long weekend bachelorette party with friends from the early days of high school. Women that share my idea of fun, all of us far beyond the desire of spending drunken nights in bars and stripclubs. Instead, we have booked hotel rooms in a beautiful hotel in the French quarter. Our plans consist of lounging poolside, breakfasts of beignets and coffee, pampering spa services, browsing the local markets, and playing penny slots at the casino. We’ll arrive with thoughtful gifts for the bride-to-be and some sexy lingerie for her honeymoon in Antigua. Two weeks later, the boyfriend and I will depart once again, my hometown island our destination. A weekend of family meals, afternoons on the beach, and wedding activities with my oldest friends. The boyfriend will leave at the end of the weekend for work in Wisconsin while I spend three extra days with my family, enjoying my first trip home since before last Christmas.

In the midst of all the travels, I have set in mind a pleasurable personal agenda. Lots of reading, more frequent writing, and the beginning stages of learning Italian. Additionally, I am setting a few novel goals for myself, activities that will surely shock those who know me best. While the sis and I have plans to join a nearby gym, I am determined to begin exercising, at least in some form or fashion. And for this girl that relies on the microwave for nearly all matters of cooking, I intend to learn a few new recipes and attempt to enjoy the process of preparing a meal as much as I already enjoy the process of eating it. And then there’s art, my long neglected friend. While I can never claim to be an artist with my limited talent in this arena, I am eager to buy new canvases and dabble in some heavy acrylics.

Beyond all this, who knows what the summer will bring? Whatever it is, I am eager for two months of freedom and the simple pleasures of living life, day by day.

kissing dreams good-night

2007-05-16T20:39:00.001-07:00

It is in these dark hours of solitude that the words flow, not unlike the constant sound of water dancing downward from the fountains I read about adorning the piazzas of Italy and the courtyards of Spain. Despite aching muscles and the exhaustion of my body, my spirit soars in these late hours, inspiration the confidante begging me to share my secrets.

My dreams grow in the night, taking me on journeys through foreign lands, through gardens and ancient ruins, along a pilgrimage that I long to walk upon in my own life some day. I can see the olive groves, smell the blood oranges, taste the rich pastries and bitter, thick coffee. In the European countryside, I can feel the sweet tickling of grass beneath bare feet and hear the bells of a million cathedrals. In my dreams, I can live this life in all its beauty and magnificence.

But the dreams can only carry me so far these nights. These dreams are merely that, a dream and not my reality. And so inevitably, I am pulled back to the awareness of my body, my mind, and the encompassing need for sleep. I must close the pages, but gingerly, tenderly, as if the very pages are the dreams of my soul. The exquisite delicacy of words makes me hungry for adventure, travel, journeys to unknown places. This hunger cannot be sated, not yet. And so for now, for tonight, I will leave my dreams with a momentary farewell kiss and quiet the words of passion that ache to be written.

to feel a Southern summer

2007-05-12T08:26:00.000-07:00

It feels like summer here in the South. The sun shines nearly every day, the temperatures reaching to the 90’s this week. The air is heavy with humidity, sweat beading up on bare skin within moments of stepping outside. With the heat, the weather has brought those initial feelings of summer. Even with school back in session and working my three jobs, life feels easier, more carefree and natural.

This week has found me stealing hours in the late afternoons, lounging in the backyard with Mayes’ “Bella Tuscany”. While the pups nap in the freshly cut grass, I dream of Italy and devour the poetic prose of this delicious book.

A night out to dinner with a dear old friend whom I hadn’t seen in ages, a perfect evening of bruschetta, cold antipasta, and Italian wine, all in the spirit of dreams. Long conversations sparked the scent of nostalgia and we found ourselves reliving road trips through the desert and hot August nights when the heat left us sprawled atop the thinnest white sheets with fans blasting from every direction. Words took us back through endless delectable meals, the mellow tunes and soulful lyrics that played background to the Spanish poetry we read aloud into the early morning hours. As the years have passed and life has led us in separate directions, it was sheer pleasure to dwell in these memories, if only for an evening.

After two recent weekends of introductory gardening and then reading of all the orchards and groves so intricately described in “Bella Tuscany”, I was inspired to spend my morning studying up on fruit trees and flowers. Lemon trees with their vibrant sunshine yellow against the backdrop of emerald green leaves. Pear trees and peaches, ripened to a juicy sweetness in the heat of summer. Blackberry bushes and raspberries bursting into life with a vibrancy tinged fuchsia. White hydrangeas in their elegant innocence, bromeliads in hues of orange and crimson. And my favorite flower of all, blackened center bursting outward in thick petals of exploding gold. In the image of the sunflower, I can dream for hours, literally feeling the intensified rush of life swell within me.

Reality still greets me in the mornings. Tomorrow promises to be a long day beginning with work at 5 a.m. Books on the ethics and laws of psychology now compete with my stack of memoirs recounting meaningful experiences of life around the globe. But now instead of taking breaks to read a short passage of intoxicating prose or feel a few moments of the sun’s warmth on my skin…instead of taking a break from grading tests and studying and working to indulge in a glass of refreshing wine, I take a break from the books and the sun and the wine to grade a test or study for an hour or go to work. Instead of being stuck in the reality of day-to-day obligations, I am embracing each moment that I can of this dreamy life of simple pleasures.

meaning in the night

2007-04-30T19:50:00.000-07:00

I’ve been carrying the feeling of disorientation and a slight sense of derealization with me throughout the past week. After a three-month hiatus from working overnight shifts in emergency rooms, I returned to work last week full-force. Switching the sleep pattern is always a bit tricky for starters. But it is more than just that, more than just the disconnection from working while everyone else sleeps and sleeping while the world is awake and alive.

It is hard to describe but the overnight work shifts always feels slightly nostalgic of some dream-world, a place I have visited plenty of times and yet also a place so foreign and always mildly unfamiliar. Maybe it is the uncertainty of what happens in those emergency rooms, life and death hanging by fragile threads through which I find myself carefully treading. Maybe it is the intensity of the work, the patients I see either animated beyond hysteria or so lost that the dark tunnel of death is the only path they can see. Or maybe it is something more than any of this, something indescribable that happens during those blackened hours when the world sits in silent anticipation before the cacophony of screams and gagging and tears that flood my senses as I enter the emergency rooms.

It is intensely emotional work, and yet it is work that I find more fulfilling than I can explain. It is work that leaves me with tear-stained cheeks when I arrive home with the sunrise but it is also work that pushes me beyond my boundaries of comfort into a place where my mere presence has the potential to touch the troubled souls of these patients. And in those moments when I find myself pushed beyond my boundaries of comfort, the strangest thing occurs. In those moments, I do not realize my own discomfort. I do not allow myself the possibility of acknowledging my own anxiety. It is only later, on the long drives back home from these small mountain towns, that I realize my actions would have shocked those who know me best. In fact, I find that I am indeed shocked at my own actions. And yet I am also proud. With tears of compassion, prayers offered in hopes of healing, and these shocking realizations, I make my way home down quiet interstates, the silhouettes of smoky blue mountains rising behind me.

I knew to expect a return of these emotions when I returned to work last week. I knew that the sleep deprivation would leave me frazzled and detached in daylight hours, that the sunrise each morning would quite possibly be accompanied by tears for the patients I had seen. I knew that some of these patient’s stories would linger in my heart, staying with me in the coming days and nights. And I knew that I could not possibly know what any individual night of work would bring to my life.

Many nights were spent making these drives to small rural towns, places where upon arrival I realized that patients and hospital staff often knew everyone around, except for me. This is a new region that I began working last week, the region of “mountain” hospitals, emergency rooms hidden away from the lights and anonymity of the city. Maybe the “small town feeling” contributed to the heart-touching nights of this past week. Maybe it was the events that have unfolded in my own life over the past three months. Either way, the nights found me sitting beside the beds of patients, listening for longer than necessary, offering words of encouragement and comfort beyond the standard questions and assessments.

There is one specific event that has continued to stay with me throughout the days and nights. This case involved a teenage girl who had come to the hospital after feeling dizzy and nauseated during a period of hyperventilating and what her mother believed was a very severe panic attack. The doctors believed the teenager had taken drugs, her confusion and disorientation, hallucinations and babbling, presenting the picture of someone having a bad “trip”. As she tried to talk to me, she suddenly began vomiting and the strange symptoms worsened. Anyone who knows me knows that I have an extreme phobia of vomit. Yet I stood in her doorway, ignoring the retching sounds and acrid stench, making sure her mother was safely by her side while I found a nurse. After the vomiting episode, the nurse came to give her a shot to ease the nausea. This child was terrified of the needle, her body literally flailing off the bed each time the needle approached. Without thought, I put one hand on her head brushing back the strands of hair stuck to her sweat-drenched face while the other hand gently rubbed her back. With words of reassurance and comfort, her body calmed beneath my hand and the medicine entered her body. Even while writing this, I am aware that these seemingly small gestures probably do not seem very important to most people. It is not the gestures themselves, but more the fact that my body naturally engaged in these actions without thought or anxiety that astonishes me. But even this is not the part of the story that has remained with me. After all the tests came back showing a negative drug screen, the doctors were puzzled and believed that perhaps her mother had been right all along and it was simply the effects of a severe panic attack. No such luck. I checked with the doctors after seeing my next patient and was informed that the CAT scan on this young girl had revealed a brain tumor. Though my job is only to perform psychiatric evaluations on these patients and arrange for their treatment, I had spent a great deal of time with this teenage girl and her mother during that night. Before I left the hospital that morning, I found her mother, panicked and tearful. This time, I laid my hand gently on the shoulder of this woman, knowing that no amount of reassurance or comfort could calm her. But in the darkness of that night, she pleadingly looked in my eyes, hoping for something I could not offer. And so I offered what I could, a gentle hand and prayers that have continued every day since that night.

It is events such as these, completely unexpected and yet touching so deeply to the core of who I am as a human being. It is events such as these, and so many others, that leave my face tear-streaked in those early morning hours. Yet it is the same events that bring to me an incredible reminder…this is part of my purpose and my meaning in this life. And that feels better than any words can describe.

wish list for life

2007-04-26T23:45:00.000-07:00

**My Life To-Do List: (a list I love and only the beginning)

sew a quilt

learn Italian

climb a mountain (though I think I’ll skip Everest)

learn to crochet

write a novel

publish a book of poetry

travel to every state in the U.S.

travel abroad (top of my list are Italy, England, Greece, and Africa)

design and build my own home (or at least assist in the process)

plant a vegetable garden and eat my very own fresh veggies

meet many of my blogging friends in real life

enjoy exercising (this is quite a stretch for me…no pun intended)

take a cooking class

see the 7 Natural Wonders of the World

get married (and do it right this time)

read all the diaries/journals of Anais Nin

organize a charity event to help orphaned/fostered children

go apple picking in an orchard

cut down my own Christmas tree from an actual tree farm

learn to develop film (which leads to…)

decorate my house with personal photography of meaningful people, places, things (preferably in black and white)

have a part-time job writing a column for a newspaper or magazine

go ice skating at Christmas time in New York City

visit a concentration camp (I know it sounds morbid)

watch my niece grow into a beautiful woman

host an exchange student

go snorkeling (again, a scary prospect)

participate in a race for charity (which will require walking/running…I better work on the enjoying exercise first:)

** Only the beginning…so much more to add as life continues.**

emerging from the valleys

2007-04-12T19:25:00.000-07:00

Life is finally starting to settle down a bit here. No longer living out of a suitcase, calling a crowded motel room or my sister’s guest room "home". We moved into our new house and entered the world of suburbia almost two weeks ago. Life feels different here, but different in a good way. I can sit in the back yard at night and actually see the stars and fireflies. The slight breeze rustles the branches of the trees lining the far end of the backyard, the only audible companion to silence. In the mornings, neighbors wave friendly greetings as they pass. On Saturdays, the freshly blooming flowers are interspersed with young couples gardening, children playing in the warmth of Spring. And when we have a little extra time, a short walk to the back of the neighborhood leads down a nature path, across wooden bridges that span the creek, finally opening up to playgrounds and huge, open fields. Further back, the nature reserve continues, wildlife playing background to the whisper of the creek. At every corner, life abounds and hope lights the darkness in the quiet of night.

It is a new experience here, filled with images which previously only lived within my mind. The value of family is caught in moments of observation, loving gestures a pleasant respite from the chaos of city life. The sound of children squealing with excitement replaces the cacophony of beeping car horns and sirens speeding to a destination of uncertainty. Only a short drive from home and the mountains rise up into view, their peaks alighting with the signature blue of this southern mountain range. Dogwoods bloom on every street, white blossoms dancing, singing, calling out with rejuvenation and rebirth. I awaken in the mornings to the sleepy puppies snuggled next to me, sunlight streaming through the slatted blinds, and the promise of a new day.

I am still in desperate need of rest and relaxation. Pushing through exhaustion, I work into the early morning hours, determined to complete school projects and finish this semester on time. Doctor appointments scattered throughout busy days, the dread of more procedures still haunting beneath the surface of day-to-day life. My heart still aches each day for my best friend, her grief untouchable. I miss her, and my niece, every day and am counting the days until I see them again. The to-do list continues to lengthen, despite the productivity of any given day. But despite the exhaustion and worry and heartache, the world has left its shades of black and white behind, color once again greeting me with the vibrancy of life and hope and faith.
Meaning has returned. Belief in life’s beauty and the saving grace of love have reminded me that, from the valleys, we shall all emerge once again. I refuse to spend every moment consumed with the exhaustion and worry, choosing now to take time (however limited it may be) to embrace the moments and allow myself the experiences that touch to the depths of my spirit. Amidst the studying and work this weekend, I have made the decision to take a break for myself. We’ll drive down to the park in the city for the Dogwood Festival and spend the day enjoying art and food and the simplicity of a walk through the park. Next week I’ll finish my school requirements for the semester and then allow myself the pleasure of 6 days in the company of family and loved ones. We’ll spend a night and day with my best friend and her husband and daughter, the guys happy to relax in front of the TV with beer and baseball while we lay in bed and talk and laugh and cry. We’ll eat as a family at night, enjoying the luxuries of good food and good company. And after the blessing of this time with them, we’ll head to the beach and spend the next several days with my parents and grandparents. Days spent relaxing on quiet beaches, reading books for sheer pleasure, seafood dinners with the family in the evening, and drinks in the village at night in the company of old friends. Pure bliss fills me even as I think about it; rest and relaxation will arrive before long.

In the meantime, I’m enjoying our new home, the blessing of my beloved and the pups a constant reminder of life’s treasures. The world is new with the warmth of the Spring sun and dogwoods, the distant sight of mountains my reminder that we only reach the peaks once we have journeyed through the valleys.

a return to happiness

2007-03-25T22:08:00.000-07:00

Laughter and smiles returned this weekend. Hope, motivation, feelings of accomplishment and appreciation…they all shed the blankets of darkness and welcomed me back with open arms. After too many weeks filled with sadness, I barely recognized the sound of my own laughter and the smile I found in my reflection. With the arrival of Spring, I finally felt the rebirth, the rejuvenation, the beginnings of hope and happiness blooming once again.

I spent last night with my best friend. The circumstances that allowed us to share this time together were not optimal, but the moments we embraced were the greatest gift. Hugs and kisses and recounting stories filled with hilarity and nostalgia, an acceptance of our place in the world now and an appreciation for the roads that have led us here. A precious reminder that the bond we share can never be broken, that it bridges all pain and withstands the darkest days. A beautiful reminder of the true treasure of our friendship.

Her baby daughter is growing so fast and I find myself entranced just watching her. Her tiny legs kicking the air, the signature dimples that shine just like her mama’s when she smiles, the feel of her soft baby skin as I rub her belly and kiss her tiny toes. Watching her sleep against her mama’s chest, my heart fills with pride for my best friend, such an incredible woman and mother. I bathe them both with kisses and there are not enough “I love you’s” to express the fullness in my heart when I am with them.

An unexpected phone call this afternoon and the sun suddenly began to shine even brighter. After a week consumed by devastating surgery, excruciating pain, and a continuous battle of trudging through the most cumbersome valleys, my dear friend has set forth on his road of recovery. It was the first time I have heard his voice since before the surgery and just the familiar sound of words coming from his mouth brought a overwhelming surge of relief and comfort. The road will be long and certainly not easy, but he is already putting one foot in front of the other, taking one step at a time, and beginning to embrace the journey that lies before him. How proud I am of him and how incredibly grateful!

Tonight was spent in the company of David, my best friend, her husband and their daughter. Much more laughter, cuddling, joking, and bonding. The boys were talking like old buddies before long and the conversations flowed until well past the time we should have all said goodnight. After many months, this was the first chance for David to meet my best friend and sharing those few hours in the company of them both was a greater joy than I could have ever imagined. The simplicity of sitting around talking as the boys drank beer and Auntie Tara changed her first diaper…what pleasure found in those simple moments and the realization that we have definitely “grown up” but can still embrace the craziness and quirkiness that defines our individual characters.

I am smiling even as I sit here alone, writing these words. There really is no way to express how much the moments and experiences of this weekend have awakened my slumbering spirit. How full of life I have felt in the past two days…and how much more I have come to appreciate these times now!

Life is short and so incredibly difficult at times. The future of each of us is uncertain and unknown. The tragedies that confront us so forcefully with this awareness are sobering. But they are also the experiences that make us ever more grateful for the simple moments when life is filled with love and happiness and laughter.

the road is a gift

2007-03-21T17:24:00.000-07:00

The black sky blankets me as I sit behind this house, writing words that are emerging from an unknown place. The scattered stars visible at this distance from the city take me back to another house, another year, other words. Sitting in the darkness, the words pouring forth feelings that could not be spoken. The chill of the night air is greater here, now, tonight. The stars are fewer despite the greater distance; the map of constellations appears as a maze rather than the map of my future I once imagined when I looked up into the patterns of tiny, white sparkles.

Today was one of the longest days I can remember. Barely any sleep last night, the thoughts flying wildly about my head, my body restless, unable to find comfort in the solitude and silence. All day has been an excruciating process of waiting. Waiting for news, for knowledge, for reassurance, for anything. Images flashing through my head. The reality of today haunting me in brief, recurring, time intervals. Nostalgia returning me to a time when events like these were never imagined. Back to days in the mountains, laughter, the unspoken words carried between eyes, souls, that knew without sound. Back to nights when promises were whispered, warmth and the comfort of the deepest type of familiarity. Back even to a conversation only a few nights ago. Of lasting friendship, eternal love, gratefulness for an indestructible bond. Fears alluded to but never directly spoken. Tears falling on each end of a phone line, needing words now to bridge the gap where two souls once met in silence.

It is late now and the waiting has come to an end. The news is good, so far. The operating room his haven today, the surgeons his heros. His mom said he was in good spirits when they took him back at 6 a.m. this morning, his vibrant soul and witty banter a shield of protection from fear. By late afternoon, he was still in surgery, but beyond the critical stage, so they said. From the operating room to recovery and then to the ICU, where he now lays, resting peacefully I hope. My thoughts remain with him, wishing I was there to tell him how proud I am of him. But my thoughts, my words, will have to wait a little while longer.

An afternoon call from his mom, followed by another from his girlfriend. Then this last late-night call, again from his mom. My heart skipped too many beats when the phone rang and I saw her name appear on the screen. Hands shaking uncontrollably, praying as I answered, but even the relief and gratitude has brought a flood of tears. A greater realization of “what might have been”.

So much of my life I shared with this man. It is no longer my place to sit by his side day and night, but the bond we have will last a lifetime. I have seen the happiness he has found; he has seen my own happiness. Sharing our separate happiness with one another has only brought greater joy to the both of us. But it is hard to explain, hard to describe to others who do not understand.

And so I sit here tonight, alone with my thoughts, the feelings finally rising to the surface, my attempts to keep them buried no longer an option. In whatever context it may be, this man became a part of my “family” and his place in my heart will remain for the rest of time. He has a long road ahead of him. A road that may be treacherous and frustrating, disheartening and discouraging. But he has a road, wherever it may lead. For that, I am so thankful. And I find comfort in the reassurance that he knows he will never have to walk that road alone.

no time for words...sorry for the pity party

2007-03-13T18:09:00.000-07:00

There is little time to write these days. Little time to do anything other than pack up belongings, get to doctor appointments, and try my best to make it to school and work when possible.

The past few weeks have been some of the most challenging I have ever experienced. Forcing me to confront issues I would rather avoid. Dealing with unexpected catastrophes and trying to find solutions that seem impossible to find. Worried on a moment-to-moment basis about the future of those around me, and my own future as well.

At the moment, I am in the process of packing up my apartment. After it flooded at the beginning of last week, I spent the past week living in a motel, unable to assess the damages to my belongings, unable to do anything other than wait for the massive amounts of water to be excavated and to hear whether I would be able to return to living in this comfortable little apartment in the city. By the weekend, my patience had waned, thinned to a breaking point and so the weekend was spent house hunting, having decided I could not sit around waiting any longer, my entire life hanging in limbo.

Approximately 60 houses in 2 days...constant phone calls, emails, driving down random streets in search of "For Rent" signs, peeking in windows, appointments with realtors. Then yesterday, finally able to come back into my apartment only to find all my furniture crammed into my bedroom (the one room not damaged) and piled on the balcony. I signed the papers to terminate my lease last night, began packing with the much appreciated help of my "moving crew", and started filling my sister's garage with furniture and baskets of knick-knacks and suitcases of clothes. I will live there for the next two weeks and then move into the precious house I found in a neighborhood only two miles from my sissy and only 40 minutes from the mountains. It will be great once I get there, but stressful and exhausting at this moment.

I have been frustrated beyond words, sad beyond words, terrified on a daily basis, and battling some of the worst depression and anxiety I've experienced since the early days of adolescence.

My heart still breaks for my best friend each day, hearing her voice across too many miles and wanting nothing more than to just leave this city and go snuggle with her and her baby daughter. To bring her even a moment of comfort or laughter. Even through her tormenting grief, she continues to be my rock and my angel..."the flower in my otherwise dead garden".

I received a call yesterday informing me that my ex, still a very dear friend, is now in the hospital awaiting brain surgery. Organs not properly functioning and bleeding in his brain...another waiting game, more constant prayers. Speaking with his mom today and reminding them all that I am here and I love them.

And my own doctor's appointments...a mammagram on Friday, a pelvic ultrasound next week to determine whether they will take an ovary out. It has all proved to be too much...school and work have been put on hold as much as possible in order to get my life, and myself, stabilized again.

No time for more words at the moment. Just a sincere pleading with any of you who read this...please say prayers for my best friend and her heartwrenching grief, for my ex and his deteriortating body and dampened spirit, and for my sister, cousin, and our boyfriends who have been my organization and stability through the entire flooding/motel living/moving process.

And if there is extra room for prayers, please say an enormous prayer of gratitude for the wonderful, loving, supportive people that keep my spirits up and my hopes alive. My parents, David, my best friend, my other dear friends, and my sweet sister and cousin. I could never make it through these days, or this life, without them.

in honor of her inspiring spirit

2007-03-06T21:17:00.000-08:00

The past several days have been filled with so much sadness, tears that return again and again, a mass of grieving that has consumed the hearts of so many people across the city, the state, the nation. Life has continued for all of us still living here on this earth, and yet it has been tainted with an incomprehensible knowledge that this young woman...this daughter, sister, fiancee, friend, teacher, community leader...is no longer living this life with us. So many questions, unable to understand and yet knowing that it is not our place to understand. God has a plan for each of us and for a reason unknown to us, God needed this beautiful young woman to return to Him and join the realms of angels.

I cannot tell you the pain of losing a best friend or losing your child. I cannot tell you the pain and confusion and heartbreak of going to school as a small child and learning that your "favorite" teacher will never be coming back, that she has gone to be with God in Heaven. (And she was the "favorite" to them all.) I cannot tell you the unfathomable, heartwrenching emptiness felt upon losing the one true love of your life, the person with whom you had planned a future and intended to spend "forever". I cannot tell you these feelings because these feelings are not mine.
But I can tell you the intense sadness at watching all of these people feel these devastating emotions. These are the words I have read in all the memorials, the tears I have seen on the faces of hundreds upon hundreds of loved ones that gathered together to celebrate this special life and mourn the loss of this most special of spirits. These are the shaking voices I heard, telling stories of remembrance, reading Scriptures, singing melodies of love and faith. These are the hands I held and bodies I hugged as they held onto every ounce of strength they could summon, trying to make it through one moment at a time in a life now bearing such a large void of emptiness.

It was truly amazing to see the outpouring of love for this incredible young woman. I knew her, yes. I considered her a friend, yes. But there was so much more to her than the little that I knew. These are the things I learned over the past several days. These are the things that touched my heart more deeply than I could have ever imagined.

I watched my best friend, her best friend as well, stand in strength and dignity and beauty. I listened to her read words of Scripture standing in front of hundreds of people gathered in the church and the tears fell from my eyes, knowing that she will live always with an emptiness that can never be filled. I watched her in admiration, realizing that she cannot see the beautiful grace and respect that she exudes, these same qualities that she so admired in the best friend she lost.

I watched her mother, hugging us all, speaking words of comfort to those around her. I watched and listened, amazed at her strength and her selfless concern for others. And I watched her fiance, standing beside the beautiful white haven where her body will rest for all eternity. I watched him choke back tears, thanking each of us for our prayers. Saw the desperation in his eyes as he remained as close as possible to the woman he was meant to marry. And yet through his pain, he stood tall, strong, determined, all for the love of his life.

And I listened to words that touched my heart and to the depths of my soul. I listened as loved ones spoke of this young woman's dedication to family, her loyalty to friends, her childhood dreams and the paths she took to fulfill those dreams. I listened to the many ways that she touched the countless lives of all those she met. Of her bright smile and her caring hugs, her kindness, her devotion, her patience. I listened to how she lived a life of purpose, using her God-given gifts for the good of those around her, and how we should all embrace life with such devotion and sincerity as this incredible young woman. I listened to these words and realized that she exemplified the life we should all strive to live. I thought of her with her radiant smile and I made a commitment to her, to God, and to myself. A commitment to do my best to embrace life and live my dreams, to help others while still taking care of myself, to never stop appreciating the people and experiences of life that bring joy to our hearts and joy to the hearts of those around us. A renewed commitment to family, friends, and God. Commitment to live this life to the fullest and use the gifts with which God has so graciously blessed me.

Thank you J. Thank you for being the beautiful woman you were. Thank you for sharing your generous spirit, loving heart, and committed soul with all those who knew you. Thank you for using the gifts God gave you, for giving those gifts so freely to those around you, for giving them back to God through your life here on earth. And thank you most of all for being an inspiration, a beautiful reminder to never take life for granted, to cherish our love ones each and every day, to give our love to others with abundance and faith. Your love and spirit will continue to live on for all eternity.

our best friend...she will always hold your hand

2007-03-02T21:53:00.000-08:00

It was seven years ago when I first met my best friend, my soul mate. We met by circumstance but the bond we formed surpassed any friendship I have experienced before or since. With a contagious personality and infectious humor, she could have a crowd wrapped around her little finger with one joke or playful antic. But she was more than just fun. She was the type of friend who would come over if you called at 3 a.m. just because you were having a bad night. She was the one who would hold you through the tears, remind you of hope and faith and beauty when beauty could not be found alone. And her loyalty was stronger than anything I have ever known. It was no surprise that she had two other best friends, one since the days of childhood and one since her early years of carefree adolescence. But there was no jealousy, not then, and not in the seven years since. She was just one of those people who loved her friends so deeply and completely that we inevitably grew to love each other as well.

Almost exactly five years ago, we were planning for her wedding day. Bridal showers and excitement leading up to her big day. The night before her wedding was a night filled with champagne and laughter. Sillyness in the hot tub and girl time in the hotel rooms. The bride to be, her sisters, her soon-to-be sister-in-law, and her three best friends. It was a night of bonding, of tears, of comfort. That night, she slept peacefully in the hotel bed, her childhood best friend on one side and me on the other.

Flashes of memories from her wedding day come flooding back. Endless tears at seeing my best friend so completely full of happiness, literally glowing as she walked down the aisle. Snapshots of amusing moments...her childhood best friend and I attempting to hold up an incredibly heavy wedding gown so that she could pee one last time before exchanging her vows. The wine we drank on the way to the church, the tissues hidden in our bouquets of flowers. And then a reception of drinks and dancing. The whole lot of girls booty-shaking, caught on camera, the bride with her dress hiked up to her knees and barefoot. Classic moments...moments that will live on in my memory forever.

Last year, she got pregnant. More times of celebration and baby showers. I was grateful to her childhood best friend, the organized one. Her patience and excellent planning abilities ensured that the shower we threw would be a success. We talked a lot in those days, never thinking it odd that our only connection lay in this beautiful woman, the best friend to both of us.

And that is how it always was. I don't think any of us ever stopped to think it strange when we all piled on the couch together to pose for pictures. It seemed natural that if we all loved this woman so much, we would always be a part of one another's lives. We accepted it without question, and we were her "family of friends".

I got a phone call from my best friend yesterday. The words that came from her mouth were words I never wanted to hear, words I never imagined hearing, words I know she could not fathom were actually coming from her mouth. In shock, she told me that her childhood best friend had just passed away.

Immediately I wanted to jump in the car and drive the three hours to be with her, to help with her infant daughter, to hold her and let her fall apart in my arms. In that moment, I was grateful for her state of shock, grateful she could not yet feel the pain that would literally tear her apart.

Completely unexpected and incomprehensible. Why would God take someone so young, with so much life yet to live? This beautiful young woman that lit up the eyes of a classroom of 6-year-olds every day, this woman who remained calm in crises, a tower of strength and stability. A woman in love, who would be an amazing wife and the most loving of mothers. A woman who held the hand of her best friend, of my best friend, for so many years. Why would God take this woman? And why take her with no warning?

There was no time for good-byes. A sudden diagnosis, collapsing into a coma from which she would never awaken. My heart literally aches when I imagine her mother and brother, her boyfriend and our best friend. How will they continue on in this world without her? How will they ever heal from the loss of this beautiful young woman with so much love and commitment to life?

I pray with every ounce of faith I can summon, begging God to comfort these people, these precious people. I pray for him to bring me the strength to comfort my best friend.

As I drove down a darkened street tonight, I spoke to the best friend of my best friend. I believe she is in Heaven, looking down and watching over those that loved her. This is what I have to believe. And so I talked to her and asked her to please keep holding our best friend's hand. To hold on forever.

She was always the stable one, the secure one, the port I knew would never falter even in the worst of storms. I loved her for loving our best friend, for always being there, and for taking care of our girl. And I know that no matter what, she will continue to be there, watching over our best friend and holding her hand for all eternity.

May her beautiful soul rest in peace always! And when she looks down from Heaven, may she always see the place on the couch or the bed reserved just for her.

struggling but keeping the faith

2007-02-26T21:29:00.001-08:00

Week 2 of “Finding Water” is underway. Morning pages have been done with enthusiasm every day. I am still considering options for my Artist Date this week, determined to let go of the worries and make the most of whatever the date may offer. The weekly walk is still a struggle for me as I just cannot seem to find the motivation to walk. With so many other options of things to entertain my rare free moments of time, walking just does not find its way to the top of my priority list. If anyone has any suggestions for motivation in this arena, please share!

My moods are still flying around as if a gust of wind has taken hold and their destiny is determined only by the speed and intensity of the moment. I took a much needed mental health day today, skipping class (a major thing in grad school) and spending a couple hours of leisure reading in the warmth of the Southern sun. The pup and I took a short ride about town with windows down and the warmth of an early Spring breeze lightening our moods. Then a late afternoon nap, the pup happy to snuggle with his mommy in the unexpected hours. And finally, the first softball game tonight, my first chance to watch my star slugger in his prime. The field is his home, the diamond his childhood best friend. I’d been waiting on this night, to watch him shine, to watch his face alight with pure happiness and passion, as he stands with bat in hand ready to hit his signature opening home run. Sitting in the stands with the other player’s girlfriends, we enjoyed a couple hours of watching our boys play, their enthusiasm for this sport infectious. We then shared a casual dinner and drinks with a new couple from New Jersey, ending the night with new friends and lots of laughter.

I still have a long week that lies before me and I pray that my current mood of rejuvenation will continue through each day. I’ve planned a few activities for the week in hopes of keeping my head above the waves. The yearly tradition of Tuesday’s girl night at my apartment. Watching American Idol and House, with lots of laughter, talking, and a bottle or two of wine thrown in for added pleasure. A therapy session Thursday morning that is way past due. The possibility of a comedy club outing on Thursday night and then an open weekend with options of more softball games or family time with my sissy and cousin.

It is hard to stay optimistic when I know the depression and anxieties can hit at any moment with no prior warning. Even during the leisure hours of today, I fought the moments of apathy, the moments begging me to return to bed and remain there for the rest of the week. I struggled with moments of restlessness, my mind spinning in relentless circles of random thoughts. But tonight I can sit here, reflecting back on my day and be grateful that the good moments won the battle against the bad. It is enough to leave me with a spirit of hope, an internal peace that welcomes sleep, and the reminder that faith can carry us further than we ever imagined.

beginning of transformations

2007-02-22T08:38:00.001-08:00

Transformations are beginning to ever-so-slowly occur, though I am not sure where they intend to take me. The days, the moods, the moments…still back and forth, a bit all over the place. I’ve been doing my Morning Pages every day and I’m a bit surprised to find that I crave my time with these pages. Half the day, I am writing more than 3 pages in my head. So much to say, to write, to release. The only frustration is the limit of 3 pages. Today, this morning, there is much more than 3 pages worth of words going through my head. I need more space, more time. I’m craving it. My relationship with words reignited, pushing at the seams, begging to be freed. Let it all out, put it on the paper, embrace the flow of word after word, the inherent beauty in each word speaking to me, pleading for me to respond.

I did my Artist Date yesterday and am now left with very mixed feelings about the whole experience. It did not feel the way I imagined it would feel. In fact, it did not really feel like anything very special at all. Just another afternoon errand instead of a date with myself. I found myself frustrated and filled with too many thoughts and worries unrelated to my plans.

I had planned to go to my favorite discount art supply store in search of stationary. Not the typical ordinary kind of stationary for sale at Target, but more just good white paper for writing hand-written letters and fun envelopes to brighten the mailboxes. I was looking forward to wandering the aisles, admiring the paints (especially the super heavy acrylics I’ve been aching to try for the past year), allowing my hands to graze across large canvases, imagining what creations might come if I sat with a large white canvas and the super heavy acrylics before me. But that was the experience I was hoping to have, not the one I had.

Instead, I found that despite their vast selection of paints and canvas, pencils and sketchpads, they have a very small and disappointing half-aisle allotted to writing paper and envelopes. After much debate (as none of it was really what I was searching for), I ended up with some basic white paper and a few gray envelopes. Gray…seriously, the color I chose was gray! How boring could I possibly be? Gray! Nevertheless, I asked the cashier (a very artsy-appearing young woman) if she knew of anywhere with a better selection for writing materials. Perhaps I should have attempted to explain to her in greater detail what exactly I was hoping to find. But no, I did not explain and so upon her suggestion, I found myself at a store down the street filled with overpriced, cutesy packages of stationary, an array of colors so bright and repugnant (at the moment) that I felt as if I had entered a child’s candy store. It was not a pleasant experience (though not completely unpleasant) and I quickly left after a few good-hearted, yuppy, salesgirls showed me a wall of individual papers and envelopes appropriate only for sending out invitations to a formal wedding or parties thrown by the wealthy elitists of Buckhead.

All the while, unwanted thoughts clouded my date. Worry about my grandmother, once again enduring congestive heart failure. Worry about my mother, worried about her own mother and her dear neighbor/friend. Worry about the Stats mid-term that ended just prior to my lovely date, a test that no one in the class could have possibly passed (this determined after a group bitch-fest following the dreadful exam). Irritation that despite getting an offer to work with little children in the mountains for a year, I could not give a definitive acceptance until I can manage to track down a preoccupied member of the faculty at school and get the “ok”.

So, after a couple of disappointing and frustrating hours (that I had anticipated to be a welcome date of solitude and imagination), I ended my Artist Date at the drugstore, finally arriving home with basic white paper, boring gray envelopes, a case of Diet Coke, and two boxes of 75% off Valentine’s Day candy.

I’m laughing about it now, content with my chocolates and Diet Coke. The paper will suffice and the gray envelopes…well I’ll just have to use some brightly colored markers and do a bit of decorating.

The transformations are beginning, but that is what I need to remember. They are only just now beginning. One small step at a time. Attempting to find the good embedded in what appears not-so-good. Moments of optimism and a newfound determination. Even with boring gray envelopes, I guess my week isn’t half bad.

a morning in the mountains

2007-02-20T15:09:00.000-08:00

I drove up into the mountains today. An interview for a practicum position beginning next Fall semester. Tiny house nestled among the mountains, foggy ridges of smoky blue rising on either side. Each room of the house filled with toys, the walls adorned in posters of bright colors, tiny children with tired mothers in the waiting room. A house of healers, all women, the friendliness of rural town-folk a welcome change from the chaos of the city. Life appeared to move slower there and my mind slowed with the movements of my body as I embraced the time of my morning, comfort and peace rolling over me with the damp fog dancing off the mountain’s edges.

I had intended to use the early afternoon for my Artist Date. My camera accompanied me but the fog did not lift, the rain as steady as the streams running alongside the base of the mountains. It is a place I hope to explore more in the future, with its famous apple orchards and hiking trails only miles from the house where I interviewed. Even the highways are small up there, fellow drivers happy to accompany the lost wanderings of a blonde “city girl”. And yet I know that my comfort and the peace I found this morning was simply because I am not, nor ever will be, a “city girl”.

The first question I was asked at my interview was “How was the drive up? We know it’s long and most people don’t realize how far we are from the city.” My response: “peaceful”, “beautiful”, “a welcome break of solitude”.

I will not know for several more days if this tiny house in the mountains, this house of women healers, will offer me a place to work among them. I do not know yet if those mountains will become my weekly solace, my haven, or simply remain as a dream of serenity for weekend escapes. As with so many things in life, I do not know what the future will bring for me. But I trust the future. I trust that God will lead me on the right path for my life. And I trust the beauty and mesmerism of those smoky blue mountains.

beginning the journey of "Finding Water"

2007-02-18T17:12:00.001-08:00

This journey of “Finding Water” has begun at the perfect time for me. After weeks of rising above the sea’s swells momentarily only to be pulled back under by the currents of darkness, I am eager to search for a gentler and more fulfilling body of water.

I woke up yesterday and wrote my morning pages, this being a challenge in itself for me as I struggle in writing longhand. I am not fond of my penmanship and am now determined to find a flow and rhythm in the strokes of the pen, simultaneously relinquishing concerns about the visible appearance of the words as they reach the page. After all, this whole process is about growing more internally, finding the beauty in the external world, and using the integration of internal and external to nurture a creative spirit in hibernation. At least that is what this process is all about for me.

I had intended to do my morning pages today in the very early morning hours. With my alarm set for 5:30 a.m. and intentions to lend a helping hand down at the stables, I was looking forward to a brief time of writing in the dark solitude before dawn. I imagined myself awakening with the alarm, bundling in warm layers against the wintry air, and finding a sense of internal peace in the manual labor of cleaning stalls or moving hay or whatever task needed to be done. I visualized the beauty of the horses’ shining coats, the feel of strength beneath my hand as I rubbed cold noses and spoke softly to these giant, magnificent creatures. I had planned it all out with the best of intentions. But a night of insomnia and stomach pains left me exhausted and still awake at 4:30 this morning, my intentions buried beneath the warm comforter with me until noontime.

So today, I wrote my morning pages in the afternoon. Through the wide windows, I could see the horses out in the field, sun beams bouncing over their silken bodies. The dogs and puppies (all eight of them) were scattered about the front yard, some stretched out and sleeping in patches of sunlight, others tumbling in red earth. I watched as my own puppy walked alongside the wooden fence, a black stallion on the other side. I watched as they walked side by side on opposite sides of the wooden planks, and then as they stopped. I watched the stallion’s head bend down over the barrier, my puppy looking up at him, their faces nuzzled close together. An ineffable moment, impossible to describe its beauty and sweetness in words. As I wrote my morning (afternoon) pages, I watched the bonding rituals of these animals and I found the peace I had previously surrendered in favor of sleep.

This book, this program, and this weekend have stirred a whirlwind of thoughts within me. Determined to maintain this week’s focus on optimism, I allowed myself to embrace the possibilities today, dreaming dreams that I have quelled for too many years now. Allowing myself to imagine the potentials, pushing myself above the tumultuous waves and forcing myself to breathe. A deep, rich, breath of fresh air. Beyond the buoys into open waters, finding beauty in the moments and rejuvenated fragments of hope.

I will challenge myself this week. Beyond the familiarity and beyond the darkness. I am already planning my Artist Date, trying to decide between two options and thinking that perhaps I will allow myself to indulge in both. Motivating for my weekly walk will be more difficult, but I am committed and the walk will happen.

Unfortunately, the responsibilities of daily life still call and I will do what needs to be done. Tonight I will do a bit of work, transcribing, reading, studying. But I will also take a warm bubble bath and snuggle with my love and awaken tomorrow to a new day filled with possibilities and the optimism to continue this journey of “finding water”.

disappointment and a refusal to surrender

2007-02-14T21:12:00.001-08:00

11:30 p.m. and the tears continue to sporadically fall. An unappreciated reminder that beginning a day with such an optimistic outlook does not guarantee that the smiles will last. Between spasms of physical pain, my body repeatedly coiling into the fetal position, I am overwhelmed with the stabbing aches of emotional pain as well. Disappointment looms the largest, threatening the glimpses of hope that I’ve struggled to find and hold tight to in these past few weeks.

For weeks now, my life has increasingly felt like a tumultuous ocean while I struggle to stay above water. Despite the successful progressions taking place in my academic and professional life, despite daily reminders of love from my puppy and boyfriend and family, despite the girl’s nights of laughter and bitch-fests…despite all the moments of intermittent joy, I still find myself battling the black hole of depression far too frequently these days. The tears fall too often, the anxiety welling like a brewing storm as I wait for the few minutes or hours when the storm passes and I can once again find the calm.

I’ve learned throughout the years that allowing myself to conceive of expectations is simply an invitation for disappointment. And yet I cannot stop the hopes from rising, the beliefs that perhaps this time my expectations will not only be met, but surpassed. But the results do not appear to change. Feelings of disappointment wash over me, leaving me flailing ever more desperately in this sea of self-torment. Patience wears thin in the presence of desperation, the fight to keep walking the journey an unbearable thought at times. Daily pep talks with my inner demons encourage me to take one more step, and then another, and then another. And so the pilgrimage continues. But my steps are heavy, feeling as if my body is literally dragging one foot and then the other, my feet never actually leaving the ground.

I find myself wandering back into isolation, seeking the comfort of elusive sleep and immersion into the literary world of other’s words and stories and images. I sit in the bath for hours, anticipating relaxation as I submerge my body with a pile of books nearby. And yet the water is never quite warm enough to bring comfort, my skin feeling raw and abrasive rather than soft and soothed when I finally emerge. I build fires in my beloved fireplace, imagining that the scent of burning wood and the crackling of flames sprouting from the logs will lull me into a place of inspiration. And yet instead, I find myself staring blankly into the fiery orange and yellow arrows tipped in an icy shade of blue heat. Lost in a burning pit, engulfed by the smoke, unable to find my usual moments of beauty sitting fireside.

No matter what I do, it seems that my expectations refuse to manifest in reality. And so I am left with the realization that I must abandon the expectations, and do my best to just live, just be, in the moment. But it is a battle of hope against disappointment, unable to find a balance of letting go of the expectations while still embracing the fragile threads of hope.

I hesitate to write these words, to send them out into the universe. I know that these moments will come and go, that “this too shall pass.” I have lived this cycle of moving in and out of the same black hole for many years now and it is a familiar place for me. Yet familiarity no longer brings comfort, and the ironic peace I was once able to find in the confines of darkness has long since left me. It is a path I used to know like the back of my hand, one on which I was happy to allow those around me to guide me, lifting the shadows and revealing the light for me. No longer is this the path I am willing to walk, now knowing that I cannot be rescued by another and the shadows can only be lifted in a state of independence. Yet it is hard to let go; it is difficult to feel alone on this path.

Fear stands before me and I am faced with a choice: fight this battle or surrender. I am not ready to surrender.

Valentine's Day...a reminder of love

2007-02-14T07:03:00.001-08:00

I have never been the biggest fan of Valentine’s Day. Not that I have ever been that "anti-Valentine" girl, bitter and irritated by the outpouring of others’ romantic displays. But it just has never been much of an event for me. To me, it is just another day. One that gives us all a justified excuse to be sweet and mushy and smother our loved ones with hugs and kisses. But to me, it is not that different from any other day. I believe in being sweet and mushy whenever the mood strikes. I believe in smothering loved ones with hugs and kisses as often as I can. I believe in the romance of small, simple gestures of love and whispered words of adoration in the most unexpected moments. I believe that loving each other, and showing this love, and speaking this love is vital in daily life, not just on Valentine’s Day.

So for me, today is just another day, another opportunity to remind those around me of the love in my heart. A day that encourages us all to focus on the small, sweet gestures. The warmth of fingers brushing against a cheek, a gentle kiss on the forehead or nose or lips, a hug from behind. A simple poem taped to a bathroom mirror. A phone call in the middle of a busy morning. It is truly those small gestures that show the greatest love.

Not because it is Valentine's Day, but because it is a reminder...I want you all to know that I wish you love and happiness every day throughout the year. To my precious tribe of blogging sisters, I love you dearly. You are my constant inspiration, images of beauty and strength scattered about this world. To my loving parents (who continue to read my words and continue to encourage the expression of creativity and love in my daily life), you are my heros, a shining example of all that is good and true in this world. And to anyone who happens upon these words, my hope is that you all may know the incredible experience of love in this lifetime.

the passing of "Andy"

2007-02-07T07:26:00.001-08:00

The time had come, though it was sooner than expected. He had lived several years, lost in the confines of his own mind, isolated from the world, from familiarity, from everything he had always known. It was harder for her, I believe. To watch his deterioration, to slowly see him fading, away from the world and away from her. But he still knew her; he could still feel her love, still recognize the connection of so many decades in her eyes. He still knew her until a day this past autumn when he failed to know anyone any longer.

Once he stopped knowing even her, his lost journey in this world expanded, deepened, became unmanageable for her in order to preserve his safety. With hesitation and a heart burdened by sadness, she found him care, a home where his lost wanderings could be redirected from a complete disappearance. A place where his body would be cared for as his mind continued to leave him stranded, alone in a place of confusion and helplessness. Even then, his gentle manner remained.

His condition continued to worsen, but it was a process doomed to be slow and lengthy and gradual. This slow and lengthy and gradual process was what she anticipated, what we all anticipated. Until this morning. When a phone call came. A call to say it was over, his wanderings had ceased, he was no longer lost in this world, but had crossed into another world where peace at last had been found.

Sunday Scribblings..."good-bye"

2007-02-04T10:18:00.000-08:00

It was August, 2004. In a small town in rural Georgia, the air weighing heavily upon me with its signature heat and humidity, I found myself in the company of strangers. Strangers with the same last name as myself, a name I had mindlessly taken almost exactly one year before. A moving truck was parked in front of the brown, weathered building where we had once again tried to create a home. Piece by piece, the furniture was removed. The contents of a year’s collection carried out, I watched in silence with no energy left to argue or protest. By afternoon, the condo was nearly empty. There was nothing left to do, nothing left to say. It was a good-bye of fear, of hatred, of disappointment, and of relief. As I stood in an empty room upstairs, the blinds slightly parted, my eyes followed the moving truck as it ambled down the paved road. With caution and determination, it turned left, out of sight. And out of my life.

That was not the only good-bye I said that day. After a year of lies and manipulations, a year of fights and half-hearted reconciliations, the year had ended with threats and violence. Somewhere along the passing of that year, I lost my innocence, my faith, my trust. I lost hope that year and found myself on that heavy August afternoon struggling to determine if my life could be rebuilt in solitude. In an empty bedroom, I made a make-shift bed upon the floor, a pillow and a few blankets graciously left behind. With the blinds shut tight, I lay on that empty floor and the tears flowed as each good-bye washed over me again and again.

The first good-bye, on the first day of February. A good-bye filled with anger and exasperation, a good-bye that sent me fleeing over 300 miles away, necessitating other good-byes that I did not want to say. Then so many days of April and May, in a city far from home, sitting on the rooftop of the old Victorian house in which we lived, the good-byes I said to the world each day as I contemplated jumping to the busy street below. Countless good-byes in the early days of summer when the tears fell with abandon and my heart began to close itself with the realization that there was no piece left to give to this man. And then that fateful day in August, the final good-bye.

As the months and years have passed, I have let go of the anger and hatred embedded in that good-bye. The disappointment lies dormant, the fears still swelling periodically. The innocence can never be rebuilt; the trust still wavers in undulating shadows of a battle that lives on in the depths of my memory. But the faith has been restored, the hope rekindled. As time has passed, I have found peace in that final good-bye. And the realization that it is the moments of solitude that allowed me to rebuild my life and my dreams.

no reason for tears

2007-02-01T20:46:00.000-08:00

The tears flowed freely tonight, long overdue emotions finally surfacing and releasing themselves into the bitter, wet, coldness of this night. I cannot really tell you what caused the tears or why they continued to relentlessly flow. What I can tell you is that I am now sitting here in a peaceful state of serenity, knowing that whatever the reason may have been, it was a night the tears needed to fall.

I used to believe that I had to have a reason for crying. That there had to be something wrong, something that I could identify, something I could offer as an explanation if anyone should happen to see the cascade on my stained cheeks. I used to believe that not knowing, not having a definable reason, meant that the tears should not be falling. And if they did decide to fall on their own accord, I felt guilt. A lack of validation, an embarrassment, a fear that I would be misunderstood or that something was indeed desperately wrong and I just could not bring it into awareness.

After several years of continuously pursuing my journey of self-growth and discovery and a few years of working with patients in the field of clinical psychology, I have come to realize that the tears often flow in the times that I can allow them to surface. They may flow from mere exhaustion, physical or emotional. They may flow from an overload of stress, too many obligations weighing down my fragile shoulders. They may flow from witnessing an incredible act of love or kindness or seeing the grief and loss on the faces of a family in mourning or hearing the words of inexplicable pain that have been endured by those who never deserved to feel such turmoil. The tears may fall from reading words that touch my heart, from seeing the beauty of a sunset when the rest of the world swirls in chaos. They may fall from my own physical pain or a wave of anxiety or a day when the depression threatens its spiraling return. Or they may fall from holding the pain of so many patients, from the knowledge that I cannot save each troubled soul or bring hope to every lost being.

Whatever the reason may be, my tears have an insight that I may never fully know. When they well within my eyes and my throat gets tight, as the first one begins its gentle descent, followed by another and another and sometimes the eventual downpour that leaves my eyes swollen, my head pounding, and my heart aching...when my tears fall, they do have reason, a reason of their own. As the years have passed and the experiences lived, I have come to accept these nights, knowing that after the last tear has fallen, I will once again be blanketed in a peaceful state of serenity.

a heavy heart

2007-01-27T12:37:00.001-08:00

My heart feels heavy today. My stomach is in knots, holding too much anxiety and fears that are continuously cycling through my head. Though I have been trying to let go of the stress, to rest this body that carries too many obligations and expectations and burdens...though each day I vow to myself to let go a little more, I still find myself physically and emotionally exhausted today.

I have a long night ahead of me, a night for which I do not feel prepared. Some weekends, I feel refreshed and ready for a 12 hour shift, eager for the lengthy drives to emergency rooms, for the solitude of the journey and the possibility of helping lost and discouraged souls upon arrival. Today is not one of those days. Today I want to shed the pager and work clothes, toss on comfy oversized sweats, rent Oscar-nominated movies, and get lost in the warmth of puppy snuggles and naps.

I want to stop the worries that are running full strength through my head. I want to slow down and feel the tense muscles ease into a state of relaxation. I am tired of being haunted by my past, tired of too much time spent analyzing every small action, every thought, allowing every fear to multiply rather than disintegrate. I am worn down from the worries, the stress, that inner voice of criticism that has recently decided to speak up with words of "not enough". I am tired and aching and frustrated.

And there is an ever-present feeling of guilt that accompanies such emotions. Knowing that so many have worries and stresses far beyond the blessings of my own life. Knowing that I should be grateful, and I am grateful, and yet awareness of these blessings is not always enough.

Even this day, these emotions, these fears and anxieties...I am thankful for even these moments. It is all a part of the journey, the infinite path of "becoming". I know that these feelings are necessary for more personal growth to occur. I know that it is only through my own awareness and struggles...through my own pilgrimage...that I may be able to sit with my patients and truly help them to find their own paths of "becoming" and "being".

And yet this knowledge does not negate the feelings themselves. Awareness does not lessen the heavy heart. It only makes it easier to bear in the moment.

in the wake of suicide

2007-01-23T11:03:00.000-08:00

It is impossible to work in the field of clinical psychology and not encounter suicide. Particularly in crisis work, treating suicidal patients is inevitable. And yet it leaves with you a feeling that never becomes familiar. A feeling of emptiness, a blank hole staring back at you from some unknown place.

In approximately 95% of attempted suicide cases, it is theoretically possible to successfully treat the patient and hopefully keep him/her alive. But there is that small minority, those patients that have become so utterly desperate and hopeless about life that they cannot be saved. They cannot be helped. Death is the only solution they can find, and the loved ones are left to mourn the loss of someone whose only peace could be found through taking his/her own life.

Death is terrifying and tragic in all its forms. But suicide is perhaps one of the most difficult forms of death with which to cope. The questions that can never be answered, the helplessness and guilt experienced by those still living on this earth. It is a brutal confrontation that is forced upon us, reminding us all of our human mortality and the devastation that death leaves in its wake.

I attended a memorial service this afternoon, a service to honor a woman who tragically ended her own life last week. I watched her children speak, listened to their voices raw with grief, holding back tears for the loss of the mama that brought them so many moments of love and happiness throughout her years. As the music played, I watched pictures of a vibrant young woman flash across the screen. Pictures that captured her own moments of happiness, a life filled with love and faith, and eventually a battle lost in the war of living. I searched her eyes, wondering about the fear and desperation and hopelessness that washed over her in the last days of her life. I hugged her son, in awe and admiration of the strength with which he continued to stand. Of the conviction with which he spoke of God's love and His plan for all of us. Of the dedication in his words, the courage in his determination, the purpose that he has been able to find in the midst of tragedy. And as I listened to the words and prayers and music, as I searched the eyes of this woman who continues to live only in hearts and pictures and Heaven, as I hugged this strong and courageous young man...I was reminded of mortality, of the brevity of our time here on earth, and of the purpose of my own life in working with patients that battle suicidal urges on a daily basis.

I cannot save every patient. Indeed, I cannot even help every patient. But this is my mission in life...that in working with these patients, that I may do my best to bring guidance and comfort and hope for a brighter tomorrow. And most importantly...to be with them, to sit with them, to hold their pain if only for a moment, and to accept that whether life or death eventually wins the battle, that they may know that they have not fought the battle alone.

As I continue to dedicate my life's work to those who battle suicide, may the grace of God and the hope to continue living find its way into their hearts. And in those times when the battle is lost, may comfort and peace be found for those who grieve and mourn.

Life is short and it offers no guarantees for ourselves or loved ones. May we live each day with an abundance of love and happiness and hope.

words for others

2007-01-19T05:07:00.001-08:00

I started out writing about myself this morning. How I feel in these early morning hours with the sky a muted dark gray and daylight not yet visible. The experience of walking outside and feeling brisk, icy cold air dance over the goosebumps on my skin. When I sat down to write, I began searching inside myself for something to say or stories to tell or a way to form the words to express my gratitude for the ending of a long week.

I quickly realized that today is not a day for writing about myself. There is really nothing pertinent I need to say this morning...nothing about myself anyways. But there are quite a few important things I do need to say about others...for others.

It has been a difficult week for several people I know. So I am choosing to use this time, this space, this avenue, to ask for prayers for these dear souls. To ask for healing thoughts and prayers of comfort to grace their lives today, and in the coming days.

In these early morning hours, I want to introduce you to a few people in my life that need some uplifting thoughts and moments of peace.

** An elderly couple in their 70's, recently separated through both emotional and physical distance by the devastation of Alzheimer's. Though the man has been in a nursing home for the past several months, he took a turn for the worse this week and is now unable to feed himself or walk around in addition to no longer recognizing his wife or anyone else he encounters. Though he does not appear to be belligerent or angry or in a great deal of physical pain, his recent deterioration is incredibly difficult for his wife as she visits him and watches her life-long love become ever more lost in a world of isolation and detachment.

** A very dear friend, the end of her vacation being met by physical sickness and an overload of emotional stress. Though she has kept her positive and refreshing attitude towards life and those around her, it has been a difficult week for her. Desperately seeking guidance in making decisions and relief from the physical pain and discomfort, she continues to meet each day with hope and her optimism continues to touch those around her.

** A young man, the carrier of too much responsibility and the bearer of too much heartache. After finding his mother comatose the day after a tragic suicide attempt, he has spent many long hours by her bedside on the ICU floor of a hospital. Waiting on test results, to know if she could ever recover from the devastation experienced by her body, praying that God would make his will known and guide this young man in the decisions he must make for his mother's life. She was taken off life-support last night and has now passed from this world. Though she is no longer fighting the horrors of mental illness and the desperation for escape, her son and his sisters are only beginning a long journey of grief and mourning.

I ask of you today to please lift these people up in your prayers and your healing thoughts. Each of them is struggling today; they have been struggling throughout a long week of sadness, desperation, confusion, and pain. I am saying prayers that they find comfort, moments of peace, physical and emotional healing from the painful burdens they have each encountered.

And on mornings like these, when we struggle to find the words to express our own feelings or write about ourselves and our lives...may we be reminded that some days it is others that need our words rather than ourselves. Today is one of those days.

choosing...and here I am

2007-01-18T05:09:00.000-08:00

For quite a while, I stopped making the time to come here and write. I choose to say that I "stopped making the time" because truly that is the way life goes. I could say that I've been too busy, but the reality is that life is always too busy. We have to CHOOSE to make time in our lives for those things that are important to us. I have frequently been asked the question of how I manage to do so many social/creative/free time things when my daily life is so full of school and work, reading textbooks and writing reports, attending meetings and seeing patients. I often get asked how I possibly find the time or energy to spend time with Dakota (the pup) or David (the man) or "the girls" (my dear friends). I get asked how I find the creative energy to write blogs after hours of report writing or how I found the time for dance classes and pottery classes and TV nights of American Idol and Grey's Anatomy.

The answer to all of these questions...how do I find the time? How do I find the energy? I MAKE it! That is the only way; the only way to live my life the way I want, to protect myself from professional burn-out, to keep myself relatively sane amidst too much chaos. I make the time.

And so I decided not so long ago that it's about time I start making the time again to come here on a regular basis. To write about my day or my thoughts or my feelings. To share stories or memories or dreams. To read your words of inspiration and beauty, learning more of the stories of your lives, the daily happenings, the struggles, the hopes. To be reminded of this tribal sisterhood that has carried me through the blackest nights and danced with me under the brightest sunbeams. To realize, to know, that we are all walking similar journeys in this life.

And so here I am...I am back, and I am determined to stay for a while.

"feels like home to me..."

2007-01-16T05:32:00.000-08:00

I like the flow of my life these days. The little things, those moments that take my breath away, leaving me awed and grateful for so many blessings.

After a productive but relaxed day yesterday, the boyfriend and I shared a nice healthy dinner sent by his mama. As I sat on the couch, uploading pictures, enjoying the background noise of "24" and the Golden Globe awards, I looked around and realized this finally feels like home.

The boyfriend laid out on the floor, the puppy snuggled against him. The periodic looks "just because", those ones where happiness seeps from every pore of his body and I am reminded how good we are together. My heart skips another beat when our eyes connect, his smile speaking louder than the whispered "I love you's". He brushes my hair, his rough manly hands becoming gentle and nurturing as he smooths the stray strands away from my face, his fingers lingering against the warmth of my cheek.

Later, I lay back, cushioned into a haven where the pillows caress my back. The soft wool of fuschia and indigo weaves through my fingers, across bamboo needles, each loop forming a new connection, another fragment of love embedded in this gift I am creating. The boyfriend lies next to me, quiet, content with his book in hand and the dim lamplight. Even the pups is quiet, stretched out between us, his baby snores the soothing background of an unknown lullaby. It is these moments, filled with peace, the quiet a comfort, a blessing.

As I looked around, I realized I finally feel at home.

"idea"...Sunday Scribblings

2007-01-14T07:15:00.000-08:00

In doctoral school, dissertations are a dreaded entity. You spend your first year completely consumed with classes, struggling just to adjust and maintain your daily life and your sanity. The second year requires more adjustment, approximately 15-20 hours each week of work at a practicum in addition to classes. The third year is much the same, but practicum placement changes and expectations rise, the year culminating in comprehensive exams that either make or break your future plans. Fourth year is simply classes and dissertation work, and the entire process of applying for internships. And hopefully, if all goes as originally planned (which rarely happens), you have proposed and defended your dissertation prior to the beginning of the fifth year. The fifth year involves a move to a new area of the country, adjustment to living in a new place, working in a new environment, and still struggling to afford food and rent while you work ridiculously long hours and continue the five-year span of sleep deprivation. This is the way the process was originally explained to me; the steps from start to finish of becoming a doctor.

No one actually ever told me when was the best time to start a dissertation or clinical research project (as they are called in PsyD programs). In fact, no one spoke much at all about the process of writing this dreaded thing or doing all the research necessary or even the laborious process of choosing a topic that is amenable to study. No one spoke of this dreaded entity until this week, that is.

On Wednesday afternoon, the entity was placed squarely before us, no chance of continuing to pretend it did not exist. As we sat there, drinking in every word, scribbling notes on the process of getting started, the expectations, the stresses that would come to feel unbearable at times...as we sat there, the ideas started spinning in my head. Ideas that had been launched in my mind several years ago, the wheels spinning, circulating, spiraling deeper as I allowed myself to start really thinking about what this process would entail.

It all starts with an idea. An idea about a specific topic, not too broad, not too narrow. An idea that has not been thoroughly researched in previous years by other people. An idea that is strong enough to withstand a very detailed proposal and then exciting enough to keep you interested for the next couple of years as you relentlessly work on creating your final masterpiece for defense. In some strictly clinical programs (such as mine) you have a choice; you can do a theoretical or non-empirical study or you can choose the longer, more difficult route of doing an original empirical dissertation. As the ideas swam through my head on Wednesday, I finally found myself wondering if I had completely lost my mind. My ideas are all for original empirical research...that long, difficult, extremely stressful journey that can easily delay the process of becoming a doctor for an additional year. So as the ideas spun, I had to question myself, question my dedication, my motivation, my passion for these ideas. But that is the point...my idea...it is my true passion. It is an idea that I believe is vitally important to the field of clinical psychology. It is an idea that I believe has the potential to influence the diagnosis and treatment of patients, and consequently, the potential to influence the effectiveness and success of such treatment. It is an idea that will require lots of time, thought, travel, and persistence. But it is an idea in which I believe. An idea for which I am willing to do what is necessary to manifest it to reality. It is an idea that can possibly bring about change, that can potentially help people, that can literally make a difference in the lives of my patients.

So instead of waiting until the third or fourth year, I am starting now. In reality, I started on Wednesday...the day the idea was reborn, unearthed from the recesses of years of too many thoughts. I have a long journey ahead of me, one that no doubt will bring tears and stress, but also excitement and eager anticipation of what may come.

I have an idea...

solitude of a morning

2007-01-13T08:09:00.000-08:00

Sometimes solitude is the only comfort. I never used to believe that in the past. In fact, I spent many years doing everything in my power to avoid solitude. Fearful of what might happen should I find myself alone. Doubting my own strength, unable to trust my own instincts, my decisions, the experiences of my life. Now I sit here, in solitude, and I revel in the comfort it brings.

The phone rings a tune that usually makes my heart leap in eager anticipation. It is the one tune that can rouse me from blissful sleep, my lethargic arm reaching clumsily across the bed to hear the voice on the other end. And yet, this morning, I have ignored that tune several times. The TV remains off, no noise to disturb the solitude of this morning, no intruding voices to interrupt this brief period of time in which I find myself alone and comforted in my aloneness.

I have learned that solitude can be a beautiful gift, allowing me to reflect, to write, to immerse myself in a personal haven of security. But solitude can also serve the same misguided purposes as the companionship of my past. While I used to crave the company of others in order to avoid the fears of facing myself alone, perhaps the solitude now serves as a crutch to avoid facing the fears that inherently come with having to interact with others. In solitude, I can halt reality, if even for just a moment. I can move beyond words of reassurance or words that provoke anxiety. I can let go of the worries, the anticipations, the fear of not meeting expectations. I can wear my red leg warmers, toenails with chipped fushcia polish making me smile as I look down and ground myself in the moment. My rumpled hair and day-old mascara rings do not frighten me as I catch my reflection in the mirror. I sit with my Diet Dr. Pepper, a pack of Turkish Silver, and a beautiful pile of books by my side. In solitude, I can lose myself or find myself, find strength or wallow in weakness.

Several years ago, I realized that it is impossible to truly find oneself in the company of others. Surely growth can occur in the moments we are not alone, but the truest, deepest, most personal growth...that growth occurs in solitude. In solitude, we cannot escape from ourselves. We can escape from others, and indeed sometimes solitude serves that sole purpose. But we can find ourselves in the process. At times by accident, we come to know more of who we are in those moments when the outside world is pushed aside.

In all honesty, the solitude of this morning has many purposes for me. Partly, I do want to escape from the necessity of talking, or interacting, of being encouraged to make decisions about the events of the day. But a large part of me embraces this solitude for the pure essence of what it is. Time, silence, moments of reflection. Perhaps I will reach an epiphany in these moments. Perhaps I will succumb to the bodily exhaustion and bury myself beneath the warm comforter once again. Or maybe, just maybe, I'll sit with this solitude for a while.

loving the night

2007-01-11T21:35:00.000-08:00

It's late and I should be sleeping. The morning will come early, a workshop/conference in the morning hours followed by an afternoon aimed at marking off multiple items on my to-do list. Then dinner and drinks with a group of girlfriends, a time to catch up on life, share stories of new loves and the grief of loss, complain about our ridiculous lack of free time and the beginnings of another few months of sleep deprivation.

It's late and I should be sleeping. But despite the busy chaos of tomorrow, despite my body's overdue exhaustion, despite it all, I cannot seem to abandon the silence and darkness of the night just yet. I love this time of night, when the world is quiet, when the wind beating upon the window sings its own form of a lullaby. I love the darkness, only the hint of moonlight creeping in through the slightly parted blinds. I love the night. Night is when the thoughts come, the creativity begins to flow, the inspiration emerges from its hiding place.

I love the comfort of my body snuggled beneath a thick comforter, the feel of my sleeping puppy's body against mine. I love the sound of his deep breaths, seeing his pudgy belly rise and fall with a rhythm that lulls me into a world of fantasies and sleepy bliss. I love the comfort and warmth, but I love the darkness most of all. Ironically, the darkness brings a feeling of safety for me. Perhaps it is that the vulnerability vanishes when night descends. I am no longer so visible to the world around me. I no longer feel the pressures to be productive, the expectations to be emotionally stable. It feels safer at night. Safe to laugh out loud alone or cry until the tears will no longer fall. The judgments and perceptions of the world fade and I find an internal freedom that allows the moments to bring what they may. This does not mean that the nights are always peaceful. In fact, it is often in the darkest hours of the night when the tears come, when the panic rises, when the overload of daily emotions washes over me and I succumb to their power. But I find relief even in those moment. Relief at the release, the letting go. In these hours, I can be myself with whatever joys or sorrows accompany me on my journey.

So...it's late and I should be sleeping. But I'm not, not just yet anyways. For right now, for just a few more moments, I'm enjoying the night...the silence and the comfort, the warmth and the darkness. I'm enjoying the release and the freedom to just be in the moment.

just a bad day...

2007-01-10T07:43:00.000-08:00

Everyone has bad days. For some, it’s a series of unfortunate events that plagues the day, casting darkness deep within as external factors appear to collapse. For others, it’s merely an attitude, a matter of awaking “on the wrong side”, possibly the result of restless sleep or just not enough hours of peace. And for others, bad days really have no underlying purpose, no instigating cause, no explainable reason. They just happen. They come when least expected and refuse to leave despite the occasional moments of laughter or attempts at lifting the heavy gray fog that has decided, without asking, to descend upon the immediate world of that person.

I had a bad day yesterday. There are multiple reasons I could offer to you, multiple reasons I told myself and those around me in an attempt to justify the sporadic crying spells and overwhelming feelings of emergent stress. A lingering respiratory infection, not enough sleep, too many consecutive hours of paperwork, difficult patients, financial strain….the list could go on. But really the list is just one big excuse, one big attempt at justifying the negative feelings that surfaced within me throughout the day. Most of us have been raised in a society that tells us we must have a reason for everything. No action exists without a cause, no feeling without reason. We’ve been made to believe that we have to justify our feelings in order for them to be valid. In order to feel supported and loved by those around us, we must find a reason and share that reason. Otherwise, we’re just a bunch of crazy people crying and cursing and wandering about with no justifiable reason…God forbid.

The truth is that there are days, bad days, when we don’t know what is really wrong. Yesterday was one of those days for me. I found myself on the phone with my father, his reassurance causing the tears to well. Driving down the interstate, wondering how to bridge the wall of misunderstanding that had been erected between a patient and myself. Lunch, pharmacy, dinner…a slight feeling of panic arising each time I handed over my credit card, knowing that the money is not there right now. Which inevitably led to thoughts of the two years that lay before me, with increasing amounts of debt building, less time for my paid jobs as the internships take more and more time, more and more energy. Then my mind drifting to the three-hour classes that feel unbearable some days, the hours dragging by relentlessly, sleep calling in every open moment despite the insomnia that plagues me at night. It was a vicious cycle of thoughts, unwanted thoughts, the bare bones of reality wreaking havoc upon what otherwise might have been a very pleasant day. There were plenty of good moments. Talking and laughing with a dear friend over lunch in one of our favorite delis. Those treasured words of reassurance from my father who continuously manages to find the positive in every negative event, who refuses to allow the stresses of daily life to disrupt the happiness and beauty he see in the world (and then imparts to me). A brief conversation with a patient that broke down the aforementioned wall, opening a path of understanding, a bridge of compassion and hope. Two hours of side-splitting laughter, trivia, the company of friends, and a glass of my favorite red wine. All of these moments happened yesterday; all of these moments were more than enough reason that I should not have had a “bad day”. Nevertheless, I did. I found myself in the early morning hours, sobbing uncontrollably on the bedroom floor, popping pills, praying for sleep, and wondering why the outpour of emotions felt the need to make themselves apparent yesterday.

The fact of it all is that the bad days will come. But they will also go, replaced by many good days. Some days the stress may feel overwhelming, despite the specific circumstances. Some days we are able to brush aside the stress of the moment and see the beauty that surrounds us. It’s a balancing act, the yin and yang, a coexistence of two opposite forces. And yet, there is beauty even within that polarity. Without the bad, we could never know the good. Without the dark, light would have no meaning. So I had a bad day. Inevitably those days will come again. In the meantime, I think I’ll decide that today is a good day.

"Destination"...embrace the journey

2006-12-30T20:46:00.000-08:00

Destination…this journey that knows no end, no definitive stopping point, no moment of epiphany when all our steps lead us to one final place. It is the journey, not the destination…quotes reminding me of this philosophy have graced my heart and guided my spirit for the past several years. So long I spent looking forward, ahead, to the future, to where I wanted to eventually land. Then, a few years ago, I took a step back. I often found my days filled with misery, the struggle to get through daily tasks, the doubts that haunted my entire conception of what I had deemed to be “following my dreams”. When I stepped back, I realized that my focus was solely on the destination. There was always a goal, always an end point, always a place to which I strived to reach. And though strivings and goals are not inherently a bad thing, they had encompassed my life to a point where I found myself looking back along my path and wondering where had the actual journey gone? What happened to all those steps along the way? Did I jump from one stepping stone to the next, bypassing the warmth of prickly green grass that lay between the stones? Did I jump so high and run so fast that the beauty of the world around me had literally become blinded by my own determination? I realized one day that if I continued to live in that manner, I would surely reach my destination, but then what? What would happen once the end point was found? What would happen when I decided that my dreams had been fulfilled, that my obligations had been endured? What would happen when I awoke one day to find myself having completed all those goals and strivings? The world would suddenly become empty unless I set about finding new goals and new strivings. It was destined to a be a life of destinations, and not a life I wanted to live.

And so I made a very conscious decision, and one that I must remind myself of these days as well. I decided to stop looking ahead so much, to stop focusing on the end point, on where I eventually wanted to be. Realizing that life is short, that sometimes that eventual ending place may never be given the chance to be reached. Realizing that if I continued living a life of destinations, I was sure to miss the beauty and excitement of the journey. My life is still chaotic, still overflowing with goals and strivings. But the destinations are no longer the essence of my life. I no longer wake with anticipation of reaching a final stopping point or achieving a particular goal. I awaken to new days, days as white and untouched as a blank canvas. I awaken and realize that the canvas of my day can be painted with whatever colors I choose, the design yet to be determined. I am still walking a path to “fulfill my dreams”. I still think of the future and find myself dreaming of the days when certain obligations have been endured and certain dreams fulfilled. But I also know that life is simply and truthfully one long journey to be filled with multiple dreams, the strivings of our lives a daily adventure rather than a step-by-step guide to reach a destination.

When we stay focused on the “destination”, we miss the “journey”. We miss all those tiny moments that make life worth living. We miss feeling the sun’s rays warming our bare skin or the feel of grass tickling the tender soles of our bare feet. We miss the beauty of seeing the autumn leaves change from green to gold to red. We miss the quiet and solitude that accompanies winter, the hibernation and warming of our souls in the midst of icy nights. And we most certainly miss catching sight of the first firefly of the season and the first budding flower dancing in the breeze. In losing the journey, we lose beauty. We lose experience. We lose the essence of life.

As yet another year comes to its end, we all find ourselves looking ahead to the future. Anticipating what a new year will bring, setting goals for ourselves, personal strivings which we hope to reach in the coming days and months. In a very literal sense, we are all focused on the destinations. In the journeys that we are laying out before our very own feet, may we each be reminded that it is the steps of our journeys, the process of walking our paths…this is the true essence of a life well lived.

Happy New Year to all and may each of you find yourselves enjoying the journey!!

a new path...

2006-12-28T08:47:00.000-08:00

Once again, I have found my creativity pushed to the wayside. Between finishing yet another semester of doctoral school, working three jobs, and the chaos of the holidays, I have left myself no time to write or paint or create. Or perhaps that is merely the excuse I have been using to justify my lack of creative manifestations. Somewhere deep inside, I know that the time can be made. The time can be found; I have found it before.

And so I am left to wonder why I have chosen to not allow myself the time for my creativity to emerge. So much has been happening in my life; so much that I could have found the words to illuminate. Maybe the words are ready now; maybe now I have found the time to tell you about my life these days.

A 12 week old puppy has found his way into my home, and my heart. For the past few weeks, I’ve been learning to be a mommy to my precious pup. Even now, as I sit here writing, I look to my right and find myself mesmerized by the beauty of his chocolate coat, the white sprinkles that grace the tips of his paws, the sleepy eyes that struggle to stay open as he bathes his new orange dinosaur in kisses and love bites. I see his little (actually not so little) body stretched out across the floor and fall in love with him a little more each time I watch his ears dance upward at the sound of my voice. Falling asleep at night, he insists on laying his soft face against mine and his warm, pudgy body brings a smile to my face even as I throw on furry boots and a thick sweatshirt to take him outside in the early morning hours. He is the newest man in my life, but not the only one.

After a strange coincidental introduction several weeks ago, I met the other new man in my life. A Sunday night spent at a hole-in-the-wall bar, conversation flowing and smiles that left brilliant sparkles lighting up my eyes. Such a simple night, but the beginning of an amazing journey. It is only the beginning and I do not know where the path may lead. What I do know is the skipping of my heart each time I hear his voice, the butterflies that flutter relentlessly when he lifts me off my feet and encircles my body in strong arms of comfort. I know the sheer pleasure of my hand wrapped in his as we wander down grocery store isles or lamp-lit streets under ebony skies. I know the peace that settles in my heart when he holds my face in his hands and kisses me gently on the forehead. Though I may not know what the future will bring, I do know the comfort of lounging in pajamas with his mama, talking about life and love and sharing stories that leave me wanting to keep lounging all weekend. I know the joy that lifts my spirit as I watch him playing ball with my pup and the sweetness of walking in a room to find him napping with my puppy’s head nestled in the arch of his neck. I know the laughter that leaves us breathless and the sincerity that leaves us awestruck.

There is so much that I do not know yet, but so much that I learn each day. In the past many months, I found happiness in solitude. I found joy in moments of silence, laughter in the company of friends, comfort in my spirituality. I was walking my own path before either of these men entered my life. But in life’s unexpected ways, I have found an even greater happiness. The mornings are brighter, even when the sun does not shine. I am overcome at times with feelings that leave me scared of the vulnerability that I feel unable to control. And yet the fears vanish when I find myself in his arms by the fire, the puppy snuggled between us. In those moments, there is no fear. Time stops and the outside world ceases to exist. Warm red wine, the glow of candles and burning embers of dancing fire, my heart leaps and I am lost in pure happiness.

"just one of those friendships"

2006-12-10T08:20:00.000-08:00

So strange to think that we only truly met in person for the first time on Thursday night. So weird when I remember that this friendship started with blogs and emails and text messages and phone calls. So unbelievable when I turn my head and see this beautiful woman sitting next to me, knowing that this friendship existed within our hearts long before we ever met.

It was like a scene from a movie at the airport. The reuniting of long-lost sisters, best friends, separated at too early of an age to remember. Connecting the voice, the face, the favorite soft blue jacket lighting up amidst the darkness of a bitterly cold southern night. Squealing and laughing and literally jumping in circles. Impossible to get enough hugs and then stepping back for brief moments to look, to remind ourselves that the surrealism was indeed reality. Driving off toward our first night of bonding in person, her hand naturally on my arm, my giddiness resulting in missed turns on freeways and our ramblings overflowing into one synchronized fiesta of sounds.

Time stopped that first night. The world and all our worries ceased to exist. Snuggled on the couch, we caught up on twenty-something years of experiences, memories, fears, revelations. Like kids on Christmas Eve, sleep was not an option. Giddiness, giggling, an abundance of excitement. Only when our eyes fell too heavy and our bodies were burrowed warmly in thick red corduroy did we finally fall asleep.

Friday morning brought more amazement. Lots of lists and endless chatterings. Reminders of “I love you” and “this is real”. Stuck in traffic with songs to make us laugh and cry. Skeins of yarn, soft textures, and the exchange of crocheting and knitting. Daylight faded, deep secrets found a voice of courage, and we found comfort in the mere presence of one another. Then more laughter as we sang along with Martina’s Christmas songs and decorated the tree with childhood ornaments and endless strings of beads. Posing in front of the tree for our first holiday photo, crazy hair in both directions, but the purity of our smiles captured it all…the happiness, the comfort, the relief, the faith. The eternal capturing of a moment when life was not too much or not enough…it was all it was and just enough.

Saturday morning brought sunlight too bright for our tired eyes and pleadings for more sleep. Then a long day of car rides and music and the company of good friends. Cuddling snuggly puppies that needed homes and love. Bathing the precious bundles of joy with hugs, one shelter to another to another. Giving so much love to those abandoned babies until our hearts felts as if they would literally burst. Then a night of too many tears and sadness and the brave verbalizations of pain. After the tears had dried, the laughter returned. The stresses made easier with more lists and dedications, the reminders of another visit soon, soon, soon. As our last night together came to a close in the early morning hours, I could feel the anxiety rush in as I searched for sleep. My heart literally ached, pounding with dread. Then I turned my head to the right, closed my eyes, listened to the soft, peaceful breaths of my dear friend, and I knew that this was only the beginning.

Three days and three nights, but it has been filled with forever life-altering moments. If I close my eyes now, I can still see her smile lighting up the room, her bright blue eyes twinkling as our laughter erases the pains of life, if only for a moment. If I close my eyes, I can still feel her hand on my arm. I can still hear her angelic voice finding newfound courage. I still hear “I love you”. And I know this is just “one of those friendships”.

the most beautiful miracle

2006-12-02T10:21:00.000-08:00

Tuesday, November 28, 2006. 11:10 a.m. It was a moment that forever changed my life, and most definitely changed the lives of many others. At this exact moment, a precious baby girl was born, 29 days early, tiny but perfectly formed. On an unexpected morning at an unexpected time, God brought this beautiful miracle into our world, to grace our lives, to fill us with faith and hope and more gratitude than ever imagined.

I cannot form the words to explain what it feels to be in the presence of a miracle. To witness God’s grace and divine work in such a personal way. To hold this perfect baby girl in my arms and know that there is no explanation other than God.

I cannot form the words to describe how deeply a heart can be touched by the birth of a child. I cannot describe the feeling of falling in love with a beautiful little girl in the first hours of her life. I cannot tell you the pride that swells as you watch your best friend, her newborn daughter feeding from the breast of sustenance. Or how it feels to catch a glimpse of a beautiful mama admiring the sleeping child resting against her skin. I cannot begin to explain the mesmerism of not being able to take your eyes away from the exquisite perfection of this beautiful baby girl.

I wish I could find the words to describe these moments, these experiences, these feelings…but no words can do justice to the past few days. All I can say is that my heart is overflowing with love. I am so blessed and so very thankful for my best friend, for her husband, and now for their daughter.

It was six years ago that I met my best friend. From the first night and our first conversation, we became friends. As the months passed, friends became best friends and then best friends became soul mates and then soul mates became family. When she married her husband nearly five years ago, I opened my heart to him and he also became family to me. Four days ago, God gave them this beautiful miracle, and in that moment, I opened my heart even wider and this precious baby girl became my family as well.

Though I cannot find the words to tell you how incredible this whole experience has been or the excitement I feel at watching this baby girl grow more and more each day, I can tell you the promises I have made to my best friend, to her husband, and to their daughter. Promises to love this sweet girl every day of her life, to make sure that she knows how deeply and unconditionally she is loved. And promises that this little family, a part of my family, will live in my heart with every step taken on this journey of life.

Welcome to the world, baby girl! Your Auntie Tara loves you more than words can say!!

prisoner of insomnia

2006-11-27T21:57:00.000-08:00

All day my feet trudge heavy across cement walkways, exhaustion bearing down upon my shoulders. I long for sleep, for the comfort of my bed, for a few precious hours to escape the chaos of daily life and get lost in dreams of snow-covered mountains and nights sitting fireside with a good book and red wine. I catch sight of myself in a mirror and the dark circles beneath my eyes glare back at me, begging for sleep, for rest, for peace. But as the day continues, as the sun sets and the darkness settles in, sleep becomes a long-lost friend whom I cannot seem to find. Perhaps it is the quiet of the night, the silence that surrounds me, bringing momentary glimpses of tomorrow. Perhaps it is the only time that I can justifiably allow myself to put away the textbooks, to forget the reports, to let go of the worries that daylight brings. Or perhaps it is a rising fear or loneliness or the endless spinning cycles of my thoughts. Whatever it is, when night falls and the sky becomes an ebony blanket, my body refuses to rest. My mind refuses to surrender to the serenity of sleep. And I am left here alone with too many thoughts, too many worries, and the knowledge that yet another day will greet me before I am ready to awaken.

the moment that makes it all worthwhile...

2006-11-22T23:41:00.000-08:00

The celebration of the holidays has officially begun. I awoke this morning with ambivalent feelings about this journey. Part of me felt scared, terrified that the afternoon would greet me with icy tension, the witnessing of cruelty, and the prospect of figuring out how to survive the next two days. The other part of me felt excited, hopeful, and grateful for this time with family. After receiving a wonderfully unexpected phone call, I could not stop myself from smiling, the hope overwhelming the fears. And so my day began with a determination to remain positive, to let go of the pent-up anger and disappointments, withhold the tears and just enjoy the moments for what they may bring.

The drive was pleasant, Christmas carols and old country favorites accompanying me down back country roads. Pulling up to the weathered farmhouse, I was greeted by the sight of my daddy swinging on the porch, the same swing I sat in on so many other Thanksgivings eagerly awaiting the arrival of my aunt. It was a familiar sight, a comforting sight. My mama and aunt were talking on the porch, my sister pacing a bit and looking bored. Nevertheless, it was a nice welcome for my arrival.

As the afternoon continued, the tensions did rise. A few arguments ensued, though they were relatively mild compared to the screaming matches these walls have heard before. But still, the feeling of gratitude was absent, the excitement of the holidays bypassing the family around me, my family. Perhaps it was the vacant look in my grandmama’s eyes as she sat, lost in the television and her own internal world of pain. Perhaps it was the obnoxious bellowing that rang from my grandfather’s recliner, where he insisted on placing blame on anyone other than himself. Or perhaps it was just my own awareness that the people in my midst have been fighting this battle far too long…the will to push through the anger is no longer there. All I could feel was a lingering sense of apathy and an underlying sadness.

But the day was not all bad. Even in the resignation, we found a few moments tonight to laugh and joke and smile. As we tucked my grandmama into bed and snuggled her tight into the covers, a lifetime of misery faded from her face and her eyes lit up with the love encircling her. With my own mama and sister standing by her bedside and my aunt and I snuggled in next to her, my grandmama laughed for the first time I remember in many, many years. She smiled as I held her hands in mine, gently stroking her delicate skin. The tears glistened in her eyes when I asked her what she wanted for Christmas and she responded by saying “just my girls”. Four grown women, but we are all still her “precious girls”. It was hard in that moment to hold back my own tears, to keep the smile on my face. But in that moment, it no longer mattered how difficult the holidays may be. The anxieties and fears faded, and in that moment, my grandmother’s happiness made every second of this holiday season more than worth any pain that may come.

Tomorrow morning, I will wake up and return to that old house in the countryside. I will enjoy a special holiday with my family and I will thank God for my grandmama’s laugh, for her smile, and for her tears of love.

hesitation...and finding moments of gratitude

2006-11-21T21:47:00.000-08:00

I’ve hesitated to write this week. Holidays always bring up so many emotions, some good, some not so good. The emotions are heightened this year even more than usual. A farmhouse in rural Georgia, three generations of women, all wounded by the same man. Trying to find forgiveness in my heart, praying that he will find even a fragment of love within his own. Knowing that this will likely be the last Thanksgiving that my grandmama is alive, already the images of her frail and bruised body bringing a rush of tears.

I’ve hesitated to write, not knowing what words might come, if any words would come. Preferring to live in denial, to stay too busy to feel the weight of a damaged family, too scared to imagine once again walking across creaky floors and witnessing too many broken hearts.

I’ve hesitated to write, just as I’ve hesitated to allow myself to feel the emotions churning beneath the surface. I’ve hesitated out of fear that these words are merely a repetition of previous words, previous fears. And yet those fears never fade, never vanish. They will live in this family as long as he lives and breathes.

I’ve hesitated to write, and yet I need to write. I’ve been needing to write, and thankfully I’ve had a very precious friend who’s been listening for the past week. Such a light in the darkness for me; her prayers bring me comfort and the knowledge that the inner strength of each of us will carry us through these days. And so the journey begins tomorrow. A journey not so long, but so incredibly trying. Reminders to take deep breaths, and the knowledge that there are people in this world that understand…these reminders, this knowledge, will stay in my heart on this journey.

And so I’m letting go of the hesitation and the denial. Just as this journey is already producing a welling up of frightening emotions, so also will it bring moments of beauty and love. Moments of gratitude for the strength of my mama, the love of my daddy, the tolerance of my sister, the affection of my aunt. Gratitude for new friends and old ones, for memories made and those yet to be made. Gratitude for the moments when I am able to hold my grandmama’s hands in mine, gently touch her face, and remind her that my love for her goes beyond this world. Gratitude that God has truly blessed me indeed.

This week will bring moments of fear and anxiety, but it will also bring moments of gratitude. And those moments of gratitude are the essence of Thanksgiving.

May each of you have a blessed week and feel your own moments of gratitude.

Sunday Scribblings..."I don't want to be a passenger in my own life."

2006-11-12T10:19:00.000-08:00

“I don’t want to be a passenger in my own life.” – Diane Ackerman

For many years, I was perfectly content, even relieved, to sit back and release the control and direction of my life to others. I found comfort in relinquishing personal responsibility and allowing someone else to take charge. The decisions, and consequences, no longer rested heavy upon my shoulders. I had no need to take care of myself as my trust and faith lay completely in those around me. When life reared its ugly head, I was comforted with the knowledge and acceptance that the driver would maneuver me to a place of safety. The more time that passed, the more control I relinquished to others, the less I trusted myself and the less I knew the boundary between my own life and those that were carrying me along for the ride.

In many ways, it was a comfortable way to live. It was the easy way. It was the only way I knew. Eventually, and gradually, I came to realize that life is not always easy and finding the most comfortable way is only guaranteed to impede any personal growth. I was told I was weak and I accepted my weakness without much thought. It seemed predetermined that I was too fragile a human being to traverse the path of life alone; I needed a driver and I was destined to be the passenger.

Years later, I look back on those times with mixed emotions. At times, I think back and long for the comfort of reassurances that “everything will be okay”. But I also look back and realize that where I stand today, and who I am today, is far better than being just “a passenger in my own life”. The journey is much harder now, the terrain much more treacherous at times. I no longer take the easy route, depending on others to guide me toward that illusory pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. In fact, it is often difficult to even see the rainbow these days. But when the rain stops and the clouds move away, when I look up and see the rainbow at the end of the storm, I know that the beauty I see is because I have chosen to look up and see it. I am no longer dictated by the direction of others, no longer dependant upon the reassurance that “everything will be okay”. The truth of life is that everything will not always be okay, but through the struggles, I will become stronger and in the end, I will be okay.

I like to be the driver these days. It’s frustrating and confusing and overwhelming at times, especially when the traffic is bad. But in each of the difficult moments, I remind myself that I am not a weak person and I grow a little bit more. Through frustration, I learn patience. Through confusion, I learn to seek clarity, to take chances, and to have faith in myself. And in those overwhelming moments, I learn that my own strength is far greater than I ever knew. Strength and hope and determination are the passengers that now accompany me. I am happy to no longer be “a passenger in my own life”.

taking chances or living with regret

2006-11-11T10:10:00.000-08:00

Life is all about taking chances. That leap of faith into the unknown. It terrifies us all, but where will we ever go in life if we don’t take a chance. The hardest part is finding a balance, knowing when to take the chance and when to take a step back. Knowing when to keep pushing forward in persistence versus when to just let go. It’s a balance of head and heart, of thoughts and feelings, of doing what’s “right” or doing what you “want/need” to do. It’s about not taking a chance and living with the regret that you’ll never know what might have been. Or taking the chance, risking it all, truly living life, and then accepting the often difficult path where that chance may lead.

When I look back on my own life, I see many choices that some may say were poor decisions. I do not regret a single one of those decisions. They have all taught me lessons, guided me along this journey to where I now stand. And without making those choices, without taking those chances, my life would be consumed by too many “what if’s”. The only regrets I have are the times I didn’t take a chance, the times I felt something and turned my back on those feelings, the times I fought all instinct and never took that leap of faith. It is those times, and those times only, that I regret.

Can you live with the knowledge that you have taken a chance, regardless of its consequences? Or can you live the rest of your life wondering “what if”? Can you live without taking that chance?

words of truth...a reminder of discovery

2006-11-07T19:11:00.000-08:00

“I truly believe that love is the discovery of ourselves in someone else and the delight that follows in the recognition.” – JBK

There are some friends in this world that we see on a daily basis, enduring together the daily grind of life. Then there are those friends that we see on occasion, greeting one another with open arms and lifted spirits, ready to embark on a new journey, memories in tow. And then there are those friends, much rarer but much more precious, whom we may not see for months or even years. But when we meet again, face to face, it is impossible to understand how we have existed for such a time without the other. Those friends who carry a piece of our hearts with them at all times; those friends we carry in our hearts with each step.

It was one of these friends that I saw for the first time in nine months only a few days ago. It was that same friend that wrote the beautiful quote above, words that ring with truth and wisdom. Standing under ancient oak trees, the wind chilling on a southern afternoon, no words were needed. It did not matter what we said to one another, nor did it matter what our lives have entailed in the time we were apart. In that moment, under those old oak trees, nothing mattered other than a look of knowing, of understanding, of acceptance. Nothing mattered other than the reminder of the true value inherent in a friendship of this kind.

Nothing mattered other than the discovery of a piece of ourselves in the other and the delight that followed in that recognition.

about my weekend...inspired by "morning"

2006-11-06T08:27:00.000-08:00

I was out of town this past weekend, visiting my best friend for another baby shower. I spent the weekend immersed among her family, finding an unexpected comfort and feeling of belonging.

Before I left the city on Friday, I read the topic for Sunday Scribblings and the prompt stayed with me throughout the weekend. Though I had no time to just sit down and write, I kept being reminded of the prompt and writing blogs in my head about “morning”. Especially the last night, in the wee early hours of morning, when the rest of the family had long since gone to sleep and it was just my best friend and I snuggled on the couch. So many words came to me in those moments, words about the transition from night to morning and the beauty of a world gone silent. Later that night/morning, I walked outside and again the words began to flow within my head. Words about the serenity of standing under an endless sky in the country. Words about twinkling stars that shine so bright it is actually possible to see the constellations. Words about so many memories I have from my own time in that rural town. And really, so few of those words had anything to do with “morning” but that prompt was what kept the words spilling over in my mind.

And so now here it is on Monday morning, a full week of school and work that lies before me. It is morning and yet I have no inspiration to write on the prompt of “morning”. And so I am just writing today, attempting to write the words that came so easily over the weekend. Releasing the words that have been longing for escape into the world, onto the paper, out of the confines of just me.

I was overcome with awe nearly the whole weekend. Driving down a country road, the sun beaming down, bleaching the tiny white puffs of cotton in the fields on either side of the road. Standing by a small pond just outside my best friend’s house, the reflections on the water reminding me of the passing of years and the beauty of our aging. The silence under a black night sky, a refreshing, soothing change from the constant noise of the city.

All weekend, I found myself being taken back in time only to be quickly returned to the present. A timeline of memories captured in photographs…the transition from reckless youth to marriage and real jobs and now babies. Pictures from the early days of our friendship, road trips every weekend, late nights at bars. Pictures from engagements and bridal showers. Pictures of her in a stunning white gown, me in a long black satin dress, our arms tight around one another. Five years later…and now pictures of our hands intertwined across her belly, a precious baby girl almost ready to enter the world.

The feelings seem impossible to describe. Overcome with emotions, the tears of joy and love welling in my eyes so frequently these days. It has always been difficult to describe our friendship to others. A connection so deep that it crosses all boundaries, traverses all bridges, seeps down past the heart and into the very core of the soul. Since the early days, we always knew we were soul mates. And now I feel the deepest connection to her unborn daughter, an extension of the connection that she and I will always share. And so as I sit next to her, my hands feeling the movement of this tiny baby girl, it is an unreal experience for me. Love brimming over as I remind them both that I am always here and will always love them.

It was so hard to leave yesterday, knowing that when I return, that baby girl will be coming into the world. As I pulled away from her house and drove towards the interstate, I could not stop the tears from falling. Tears of nostalgia, tears of anticipation, tears of joy. More than anything, tears of love. And even now, as I sit here on this Monday morning, with a full week of daily life awaiting me, the tears are here. Basking in years of memories and the love of a beautiful friendship, I will go out into the world today and do what needs to be done. But in every step I take, I will allow myself to be reminded of beauty, friendship, and love.

bringing God back

2006-10-31T15:54:00.000-08:00

I grew up in a religious family, attending church every Sunday morning and saying a prayer before every meal and at bedtime every night. I learned the most popular bible verses and could recite the Lord’s prayer by the time I was seven. And I even went through a time period in my preadolescence when religious activities were the essence of my existence. Friendships were based on a common belief in God. Weekend excursions were opportunities to serve God and share in fellowship with those around me. But by the time I was in high school, my beliefs had begun to fade to the background and I found myself lost in a maze of confusion and doubts and rebellion. My parents still insisted I go to church every Sunday, but my appropriate church attire was quickly replaced with bohemian skirts and combat boots. I took the liberty of engaging in fantasies throughout the sermons and wrote dark poetry on the backs of bulletins. When I moved away from home to attend college at the age of 17, I was relieved to be able to make my own decisions about church and God. The problem resided in the fact that I didn’t know how to make my own decisions and consequently lived an internal battle of guilt and pleasure. With the exception of holidays at home with my family, I stopped going to church. In fact, I didn’t go to church for the next four to five years. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe in God during those years. My belief has always been there; it was just hidden deep inside, an inconspicuous fragment of a life from which I was running away. Even when I would get a momentary burst of inspiration and periodically arrive at a random church on Sunday morning, I still did not feel the depth of what I was searching for in the realm of spirituality. I never stopped praying; prayer was the one aspect of my faith to which I clung through all the years. But prayer was not enough, and somewhere deep inside, I knew that. I’ve never been the type of person to believe that people must attend church in order to be a good Christian. I still do not ascribe to those “rules”. However, spirituality is essentially the essence of life and love and goodness. And so, as I continued my lost wanderings down paths of destruction and ambivalence, I realized somewhere along the way that the void inside, the intrusive negativity, the utter misery, were all simply manifestations of a life without God as my center.

It’s hard to explain the change I have begun to witness within myself over the past week. It’s strange to think that in such a short time period, my beliefs and values and whole perspective on life have been reevaluated and clarified so intensely. I could tell you the story of a conversation that set the process in motion. I could tell you how I’ve witnessed the pure goodness of humanity and how I’ve been reminded of the importance of love and faith. I could tell you how I felt as I sat in a church for the first time in years this past Sunday. I could tell you how the tears of awe welled and then fell with an overwhelming sense of internal peace. But telling you these stories, telling you about these moments, could never truly explain the transitions occurring within my spirit. What I can tell you is this…the sun is shining brighter than ever, the beauty of the world is greeting me in each moment, and for the first time in a very long time, I have faith that I am exactly who and where I am meant to be.

Sunday Scribblings...bedtime stories

2006-10-28T22:16:00.000-07:00

Flickering candlelight in the darkness, the musky scent of patchouli and oriental spices wafting gently through the air, the comfort of worn cotton sheets and the warmth of plush corduroy wrapped loosely around my bare shoulders A voice, deep and rich, whispers to me a love story like those of days long past. A love story imbued with the essence of passion and happiness, comfort and security. A love story like all love stories were meant to be.

His voice, the way the words naturally flow, the way the story threads together piece by piece, effortlessly, like it is the story he has always known. I am blanketed in a cocoon of safety and solace, peace filling within me, faith reaffirmed. Eyelids heavy, sleep tiptoeing forward, and I am taken back to a time when innocence encircled fantasies of happily-ever-after. For a moment, I believe in fairy tales. I believe in magic and flowing white dresses and the sound of tiny footsteps echoing down a hallway, each step bringing angels closer to snuggle in the warmth with me.

It is not the beginning of the story or the end that matters to me. It is the middle, the journey, and the strength of the voice that knows this story. Just before his voice fades and dreams arrive, I open my eyes and I know that this story is the story I am meant to live. A sleepy smile, a gentle kiss, goodnight my love…I will see you in my dreams.

carried by mountain memories...and missing you all bunches

2006-10-25T13:44:00.000-07:00

It’s cold outside, barely above freezing temperatures, and I am loving the unseasonable chill in the air. Memories of cold mountain air and dancing autumn leaves are carrying me through the days. After a delicious weekend in the Blue Ridge mountains, I returned to the “real world” with a newfound sense of aliveness. Even ten hour work days followed by long nights of studying cannot ruin the vitality I experienced hiking through hills covered in falling leaves. Standing on the path, the leaves pirouetting about my head, the rush of colors overtaking my senses, I was filled with life. Moments when the black and white and gray of daily life was overwhelmed by blood red and punchy melon and yellow, gold, ember leaves swirling and leaping and tumbling in ecstasy. Moments when the icy air was awakening rather than biting, the view of blue mountain tops gracing my horizon bringing solace to a withered spirit.
And this afternoon, sitting fireside, feeling the warmth of the flames heat my skin, I cannot help but think of the goodness in this life. The simple things that bring such pleasure. Once again, I am reminded that I must allow myself these tiny pleasures. I must stop getting lost in the maze of obligations and revel in these days when I find myself surrounded by beauty and in awe of the moments. So while I should be studying now, I am taking a break to rest, to rejuvenate, to remind myself that life’s little beauties are all around me.

(Another reminder…I wish I had more time these days to come here and let the words flow, to release the feelings, to bring my presence to this wonderful circle of beautiful women whom I cherish so deeply…please know that despite my absence, you are all in my heart every day and I am sending lots of love to you all:)

Sunday Scribblings...when time stands still

2006-10-13T14:52:00.000-07:00

My best friend and I have a habit of referring to the best moments in life as those “when time stands still”. Of course time does not technically stop; it never does. But in our lives, in those moments, the rest of the world fades away and the moment, the experience is all that matters. That is our definition of time standing still, and the moments are few and far between these days. I can look back a few years and tell you stories of moments when time stood still. A Caribbean beach, white sand, blue sky, our hands clasped together as we reveled in the last days of reckless and carefree youth…time definitely stood still that day. Nights when we laid in bed, snuggled together under plush covers, reading the beauty of poetry or talking until daylight…those were moments when time stood still. And even amidst the chaos of this week…there was a moment when time stood still. If I had the ability to stop time, I would go back in that moment and just stay there for a while.

It was Tuesday night, nothing special about the particular day or time. But it was not just a regular night for me, consumed by studying and reports and desperate attempts to fall asleep before the alarms rang their buzzing salutations. It was a special night, one of the very rare ones when my best friend was in town visiting her mom. My only opportunity to see her since July and an opportunity to once again feel the unbreakable bond of her love, the strength of her hugs, the understanding that needs no words. The last time I had seen her, she was not even five months pregnant, her belly only slightly swollen with the miracle inside. When I saw her Tuesday night, her beauty once again left me in awe. She has always been beautiful; she will always be beautiful. But her beauty left me breathless that night, the gentle curve of her belly expanding ever more with life. As we laid in her bed that night, I felt baby girl kick for the first time. With both our hands resting on her tummy, that precious baby girl reminded us that she was now a part of our time together. As I whispered words of love to her, as her tiny foot propelled against her mommy’s belly…time stood still. In that moment, sickness and stress faded away. In that moment, no one else existed…just my best friend, her miracle daughter, and me. In that moment…love was the only thing that existed in this world.

So if I had the power to stop time, I would go back to Tuesday night and stop time in that moment. To feel that love, to give that love, to know that intensity of love…that is the true essence of life. And to be reminded of that, to physically feel that reminder…that is what I would choose to hold on to forever.

reminding myself

2006-10-09T22:31:00.000-07:00

Sometimes life moves too fast. We get caught up in the whirlwind of productivity and the necessary “to-do’s” and we end up lost somewhere in the process. We forget to stop and revel in the beauty of a painted sky. We catch only the momentary glimpse of emerald leaves turning crimson and gold. We stop feeling the rush of air against our skin and hurry through the day, our shoulders heavy with obligations and responsibilities.

And then somewhere down the path, we are reminded. We are reminded of all that lies before us, the world as our canvas. We are reminded that the essence of our lives is not about meeting deadlines or reaching goals; it is about living our lives, fully breathing in the beauty of the moments. And yet how often do these reminders bypass our streamlined vision and leave us standing on the edge, wondering what happened to the truly memorable moments of life.

I’ve been needing a reminder these past few weeks. Needing a reminder that my life is not all about memorizing the anatomy of the brain or writing reports and treatment recommendations for my patients. I’ve been needing a reminder to step back and breathe, to feel the rush of air against my skin, to succumb to the laughter that leaves me doubled over on the floor. I’ve been needing a reminder to just live.

So today, I’m reminding myself of the obligations and responsibilities…the ones that lie within me rather than the ones I owe to the world. The ones to nurture my soul, to embrace my spirit, to let the passion in my heart burst forth into each moment. I am reminding myself today what it feels like to stop worrying for a moment, to let the stress fade to the background, and to just BE.

Sunday Scribblings...Skin

2006-10-01T09:01:00.000-07:00

Skin…taut, pulled firm against bone and failing muscles. Skin…padded, cushioned, protection against the world and the self. Skin…scarred and bruised, covered in shame, bared in pride.

For the past month, the skin of these women stares back at me, forcing me to evaluate my own skin, forcing me to cast my eyes downward on the skin that is the doorway to my world. And as I catch sight of my reflection, my world begins spinning as I reminisce and acknowledge the hunger of my own skin. As I doubt the thickness of this layer that stands between my heart and reality. As I am questioned by others about the competency, the strength, of my skin.

It is uncomfortable these days. My skin does not feel like my own, too much questioning resulting in attempts to expand the layers that lie beneath my skin. I walk through the door and eyes are cast doubtfully in my direction. Are my bones visible? Does my profile reveal enough depth to warrant relief? And consequently, I come home to feast upon protein and more protein, healthy fats, and an array of junk food…anything to put the weight on. But it is uncomfortable to live this way. My body is protesting that health does not come with more weight beneath my skin. And the end result is punishment for the body that God gave me. No clinical work unless I can alter the natural form of my body, unless my clothes reveal a tag stating size “5” instead of “0”.

Sometimes skin is just skin. But most often, our skin is simply the message we carry to the world of what lies underneath. Where I work, our skin carries the message of health versus sickness, strength versus weakness, trust versus mistrust. Each day that I walk into the office, my body, my skin, is scrutinized. Am I too thin? Is the weight gain enough? Can I carry the pain and anger that will be thrown at me from my patients? Each day, I walk in with my sole focus to help my patients, and each day the focus is turned back upon me, my body, my skin.

It is a dangerous way to live, an environment that threatens the durability and acceptance of my own skin on a daily basis. Food, weight, the bodies covered by skin…these are the essence, the center of the world beyond those doors. Not enough? Too much? Are there compensatory behaviors? Does guilt follow the last bite of supper? Dieticians and scales and a kitchen stocked with an endless supply of nutrients. Doctors and tests, diagnosis and prognosis…will this one survive? Will she be able to tolerate one, two, three more pounds on her skeletal frame? Will that one stop running to the bathroom after each morsel of food that enters her mouth? Will the repulsive scent of vomit linger until death knocks on her door? Yes, it is dangerous and frightening and exhausting. But these are my patients, not me.

And so somehow in the midst of these women, in the midst of a world that focuses far too much on body size and dimensions, I must find a way to live comfortably within my skin. And in this skin, I must find a bridge to reach these women, these patients. I must find a way to help them reach a place where they can find the courage to love themselves. Anything, everything…not just skin.

matters of the heart

2006-09-21T07:44:00.000-07:00

It’s another beautiful day in the city, at least in the world outside myself. The sky is a startling pearly blue, not a single cloud dancing across the expanse of heaven. The air is crisp and cool, cold to skin that is accustomed to 90 degree weather on a daily basis. I shiver and snuggle deeper within my sweatshirt, thankful that my feet are actually covered this morning in a rare pair of tattered white socks. I sit quietly for a minute, trying to drown the worries running through my mind. Trying to find a moment of balance, of peace. It is not there, not here, not today.

Another dreaded phone call last night, my heart racing, pounding, feeling as if it might explode at any moment with the fear that her heart may not be strong enough. No longer able to postpone the 2 hour drive, the smell of hospital antiseptic, the tears that flow so endlessly when I see her frail body attached to too many machines. My mind replays my last conversation with her, both of our words smothered in tears, desperate reminders of our love for one another, despite anything in this world. My heart literally hurts when I think of my mama and my aunt, their fears and worries, the pain they have lived with for so many years. I think of their pleas to care for their mother, their tolerance of the brutal cruelty of a father that never gave them the love they deserve. I am haunted by his hatred and mesmerized by the strength of these three women. One en route to spend more sleepless nights in a hospital chair, tending to her mother’s every need. Another across the country, worried sick, sending love and hope across the many miles, terrified that her last visit may indeed have been the last. And then the one in the bed, her heart fighting against life, against death, against the pain she has known for too many years. And through all the years, none of them ever let go of their inner strength, that life-propelling force that kept their own hearts filled with love even as the bitter words of hatred have been flung against them.

I think of the distance that has been forced between my grandmamma and me for the past several years. I wonder if I could have forged the bridge that kept us separated, if I could have pushed through the negativity towards him and allowed myself to be closer to her. If I could have ignored the cruel words, the meanness, the hatred; if I could have pushed it all aside in order to spend more time by her side, helping my mama care for her mama. But it is not a time for wondering now. I cannot change the past few years. I can only choose to remember the times when I have sat with her, rubbing lotion gently across her bruised skin, cradling her face in my hands, telling her repeatedly how dearly I love her. And I can only trust that she knows. That she can feel my love for her, can see it, can know it deep inside her own heart.

It is time now to pack and get on the road. A trip both dreaded and anticipated. But I need to see her, to hold her face in my hands again, to remind her once again that she is indeed loved very deeply.

a day of solitude

2006-09-16T14:08:00.000-07:00

It’s been a beloved day of solitude, the quiet of nature soothing my senses. Waking up cocooned in a mass of thick red corduroy, the feel of thin smooth black sheets gingerly touching my skin, I let the day begin unfolding at its own pace. No rush to get to school or work, no hurried shower or ringing of the phone. No TV blaring football, no radio hits of the 80’s urging me to get up and dance, just the silence of sleepiness and an inner peace I am just coming to know.

The sun has been shining since long before I awoke, its rays beaming down a gentle warmth uncommon to a September afternoon in Georgia. The breeze is faint, but visible as the emerald leaves wave ever so slightly from their perch upon the winding braches that snake across the skyline. I’ve spent the afternoon in the company of a good book and my thoughts, a quiet blissfulness growing steadily with the fading daylight.

It seems impossible to describe in words, these newfound feelings of contentment. There’s an element of excitement huddled in the background, but it’s a feeling of excitement different from what I’ve come to know over the years. There is no eager anticipation of some specified event, no hopes of thrills to come in the form of some particular adventure or experience. It’s just a calm, somewhat subdued, feeling of excitement in general. An excitement for each day, each moment, the newness and vibrancy I am unexpectedly finding in the world around me.

But it is not just the feel of lurking eagerness; it is a feeling of solace enveloping me in the quiet moments. It is an awareness of my existence as I breathe in the refreshing air encircling me. A comfort that leaves me feeling fulfilled and dare I say it….happy.

living dreams

2006-09-12T05:06:00.000-07:00

It’s early here, the sky a dull, pale gray, barely lightened from the darkness of the night. The moon still hangs in a luminous sliver as the hidden sun rises behind the clouds opposite its counterpart. Even the birds are quiet this morning, burrowing into their nests, singing ever so gently and sparingly. The air is crisp and cool at 66 degrees, a chilly morning in September. With heavy eyes, I sit here in my sweatshirt, the damp breeze refreshing on my sleepy skin.

It is the moments like this one that remind me of all the beauty in the world. It is these moments that have begun to come more frequently in these past couple of weeks, reawakening my senses, offering more hope with each passing day.

I have not written much lately (or at least I have not posted very often) and for a while, I wondered what reason lay beneath the paucity of my words. I questioned whether is was the changes in my schedule, the adjustments to new ways of spending my days and nights, or was it simply that I had nothing to say? I know now why the words have not been coming as often…rather than writing, I have been living.

Of course writing and living can coexist and often do, even in my world. But lately, my world has begun to evolve…the words manifesting in actions or conversations, the solitude captured in moments of peace when no action is even necessary.

The seasons are beginning to change and I am still dreaming of falling amber leaves and weekend trips to the mountains. Of sitting fireside in the company of new friends and old, warming my body, coffee by morning, red wine by night. I am still dreaming of wrapping myself in chenille blankets as I get lost in books, reading stories of other lives and other places. But it is not all dreams these days.

As I sit here in the early morning, as the birds’ songs become more audible and the breeze quickens for just a moment, I am aware that even right now, I am living my dreams.

hanging changes

2006-09-05T19:48:00.000-07:00

There's a pleasant chill in the air tonight, only the slightest hint of a cool breeze and yet it is enough. Sipping a mug of steamy herbal tea, I can feel the changes hanging heavy in the air around me. I am finding moments of peace in the solitude, pleasure in the silence and darkness of the night. Even as the chaos of a new semester lurks just beyond the darkness, I can still sense goodness on the path before me. I am eager for the change of seasons, excited to watch the abundant green foliage gradually turn to shades of crimson and gold. Eager to watch the leaves float downward in their dance of freedom, eager to drive to the mountains and hike across trails with leaves crunching underfoot. So much change I can feel in the air, so much goodness, and yet it is not quite here yet. So for now, for tonight, I will sip my herbal tea, let the cool breeze tickle my bare skin, and dream of the coming changes.

Sunday Scribblings....Monsters

2006-08-27T07:07:00.000-07:00

Lately, the monsters have been everywhere. Monsters of the past returning to haunt me, monsters in the moment threatening to tear me apart, the fear of monsters lurking just beyond the corner. I’ve even found myself turning into somewhat of a monster, angry and bitter, sick and anxious. The past week has been filled with monsters.

And yet now, I sit here on my new balcony, my first morning in my new home. And the monsters are slowly fading into the background. I have bid farewell to the monsters of my past, a few tears and a motionless wave. The monsters of the present have subsided for this moment, allowing me to luxuriate in the solace of singing birds and chirping crickets, the green foliage before my eyes a welcoming haven to my soul. The monsters of the future are still lurking, but they don’t seem quite as scary today. I do not feel the gut-wrenching pains, the trembling vibrations of a body encompassed in fear. And even I am not such a hideous monster today. Alone for the first time in a week, I find my breathing has slowed, my heartbeat is no longer pounding in my chest, my stomach is no longer leaving me stranded on a bathroom floor.

I am still scared, mostly of the monsters that lie within me. There will always be a trace of fear, but perhaps it is that fear that drives me forward, that keeps me reaching for balance, that urges me to open my eyes and take in the beauty of the world. Yes, the fear is still there, precariously close to the edge. But for now, in this moment, the monsters have disappeared and the fear is washing out to sea.

it is almost time...

2006-08-16T10:33:00.000-07:00

The excitement is building, a bit more each day now. The countdown has begun…only 6 more days till my birthday and 10 more till “moving day”. Despite my hectic work schedule, I have been relishing in my free moments. Packing boxes while the rain pounds the skylight above my head, I have found pleasure in wrapping only the most precious of my belongings…the rest have been sent to Goodwill.

And somewhere in the midst of all the chaos, my creative juices have once again begun to flow. I am finding myself encircled by canvas, brushes, acrylics…brush strokes appearing before there is time to contemplate the result. Lost in the meditation of swirling colors together, patterns of novelty appearing on the canvas.

The afternoon showers find me nestled just inside the edge of the garage, where I can keep dry and yet immerse my senses in the brewing storms. With skies darkening and gusts of wind blowing rejuvenation across my bare skin, I find the words flowing freely into my beautiful new journal (a lovely gift from Ruby).

My fears are quieted by the crash of thunder, each raindrop washing clean the slate of anxiety and doubt. The air is still steaming with heat and humidity, but I can feel the refreshing coolness of autumn just around the corner. A new season, a new chapter…it is almost time and I am ready to turn the page.

Sunday Scribbling...who else can i still be?

2006-08-12T00:14:00.000-07:00

I remember being a child and being told I could be anything I wanted to be when I “grew up”. Well, now I am all grown up (okay, so only partially grown up) and every day I am faced with choices about who exactly it is that I want to be.

There are so many people I could have been. So many crossroads in my life where had I chosen a different route, my destiny might have been forever changed. I could have been a wife or mother, driving a minivan filled with rambunctious children. I could have been my own demented version of Martha Stewart, spending my mornings baking cakes and my afternoons cleaning the house. But in all reality, that possibility was never very likely. More realistically, I could have been a rebel outcast, adorning myself in leather combat boots and black nail polish. I could have been a rockstar’s girlfriend or a groupie or a wanna-be hippie, smoking cloves as I stood barefoot in a field of daisies. And to be completely honest, I could have been a perpetual patient in a psychiatric hospital. Or I could have been dead.

The truth is that I came pretty damn close to being some of these people. With the exception of Martha Stewart, I dipped my toes in most of these identities, trying them on for size, getting a feel for how it felt to be a wife or a rebel or a psych patient. But the clothes never quite fit. Some were far too big, no way to keep them on. Others were too tight, too suffocating for me to even breathe. And so I abandoned these identities. But in trying on the outfits, I learned more about who it is that I do want to be.

So to answer the question…who else can I still be? I can still be anyone I want to be. The question truly lies more in who that ideal person, that ideal “me”, really is.

I can still be a wife and possibly even a mother, one day, some day, but not today. I can still be barefoot in a field of daisies, only this time I want to feel the sun beat down on my skin and dance in the freedom and beauty of nature. I can be an artist, painting the canvas of my life. I can be a writer, words flowing on a page like honey or wine or rain. I can be a doctor (and God allowing, I will be). I can be a dancer, a singer, a friend, a daughter, a lover. I can be a woman, strong and independent, nurturing and sensitive. I can be a warrior, fighting for what I know in my heart, chasing my dreams past the end of the rainbow. But most of all, the person I can still be is me…the me that it has taken a long, long time to find. I can be the therapist in some moments, the patient in others. I can be the rock or the one who needs the shoulder to cry upon. I can be determined and driven, ambitious and persistent, creative and artistic, open-minded and free-spirited.

Who else can I still be? The world lays before me and the paths are endless…

today was a good day

2006-08-09T23:07:00.000-07:00

Today was a good day, a productive day, and a day filled with beams of hope shining through the overcast skies. It felt good to mark things off my to-do list, a feeling that I am finally accomplishing something even in the midst of pain. It felt good to talk to friends on the phone and visit with my sister, to make birthday plans and embrace new friendships. It even felt good to drag my tired butt out at 10 p.m. to go to the movies. And it felt really good at the end of the movie (World Trade Center) to be reminded of the goodness that resides in the human heart.

Life may throw us all some curve balls. The days will inevitably come when no light can be found. The tears will certainly flow freely, but you know…so will the wine. And the laughter and the moments when you open your eyes and find yourself in a world filled with beauty.

Right now, I am grateful for the beauty I was able to see today, and the beauty that I am still feeling in my heart.

the only words i've got...

2006-08-08T14:07:00.000-07:00

Each time I sit down to write, the words refuse to appear. The feelings are there, tumbling around in chaotic turmoil, but the words continue to evade me. And so, as I am desperate to write something, I am stealing this meme from Baylor. Until the words can break through the barrier of pain, this is all I’ve got…

GRUB -OLOGY
What is your salad dressing of choice?
Honey Mustard

What is your favorite fast food restaurant?
Arby’s…the chicken salad sandwich is one of my favs

What is your favorite sit down restaurant?
Dante’s Down the Hatch…fondu place in Atlanta, great atmosphere and best food ever!!

On average, what size tip do you leave at a restaurant?
20% - 25%, unless the waiter/waitress really sucks…then I go with 15%...I’m a waitress so I know what it’s like to get shitty tips:)

What food could you eat every day for two weeks and not get sick of?
rice

Name three foods you detest above all others.
there really aren’t many foods that I detest…I’m not a big fan of red meat and I can’t eat any dairy, but other than that, there’s not much I won’t eat…oh yeah, and I HATE anything mint, cinnamon, or cherry flavored

What is your favorite dish to order in a Chinese restaurant?
vegetable lo mein

What are your pizza toppings of choice?
soy cheese (or no cheese), pepperoni, and green olives

What do you like to put on your toast?
I rarely eat toast

What is your favorite type of gum?
if gum is considered food, then this would be one I really dislike…it gives me a headache

BI-OLOGY
What do you consider to be your best physical attribute?
my eyelashes…old ladies are constantly asking me if they’re fake:)

Are you right handed or left handed?
right

Do you like your smile?
yes, mostly because when you see it, you know I am happy

Have you ever had anything removed from your body?
tonsils and adnoids at age 1, wisdom teeth at age 20

Would you like to?
there are many days when I wish I could get a stomach transplant to get rid of the pain…but in reality, I guess I’d like to keep all my body parts for now

Which of your five senses do you think is keenest?
definitely touch

When was the last time you had a cavity?
I probably have one (or more) now…we’ll see at my dentist appointment on Thursday.

Do you have 20/20 vision?
definitely not…but I love my glasses (even though I don’t wear them as much as I should) so it’s all good

What is the heaviest item you lift regularly?
probably my purse…I am known for carrying giant bags filled to the brim with everything anyone could conceivably need while away from the house

Have you ever been knocked unconscious?
no, but came close a couple of times….damn those really clean glass doors

MISC-OLOGY
If it were possible, would you want to know the day you were going to die?
No…I’d spend way too much time worrying about it and not enough time living

If you could change your first name, what would you change it to?
I like my name, but if I had to change it, I’d change to my Daddy and Granddaddy’s initials and be called CJ

How do you express your artistic side?
I’m currently taking a pottery class, which I absolutely love! Additionally, I write (though not much these past few weeks) and occasionally paint. And is knitting considered artistic? Oh yeah, and making jewelry on occasion…and photography….so I guess a little bit of it all!

What color do you think you look best in?
My Mama has always said I look best in bright colors…but I personally love white.

How long do you think you could last in a medium security prison?
I think God gets us through the best and worst of times…so depends on what He thinks:)

Have you ever swallowed a non-food item by mistake?
Not that I recall, though I’m sure I’ve probably swallowed a couple of bugs over the years…I do live in Georgia.

If we weren't bound by society's conventions, do you have a relative you would make a pass at?absolutely not…I love the family, but that is just a completely different kind of love.

How often do you go to church?
maybe once or twice a year

Have you ever saved someone's life?
I haven’t technically saved someone’s life in the sense of resuscitating someone physically, but I keep suicidal people alive each time I work.

Has someone ever saved yours?
There are certainly a few people in this world that have saved mine…during the worst of moments, I would not have survived without them.

DARE-OLOGY
For this last section, if you would do it for less or more money, indicate how much.

Would you walk naked for a half mile down a public street for $100,000?
Absolutely, I am not modest and I am really poor!

Would you kiss a member of the same sex for $100?
sure…see above, I am

Would you allow one of your little fingers to be cut off for $200,000?
These questions are coming at a really poor time in my life…but I’d have to think about this one some more.

Would you never blog again for $50,000?
Yes, but then all of you would be getting endless letters in the mail on a daily basis…that could get time-consuming.

Would you pose naked in a magazine for $250,000?
I’m not modest and don’t really care who sees me naked, but I think my parents and grandparents would have a heart attack…and I love them too much, so no.

Would you drink an entire bottle of hot sauce for $1000?
No…I draw the line at accepting money for puking. If I can prevent myself from vomiting, you can bet your hiney I will go to any measure.

Would you, without fear of punishment, take a human life for $1,000,000?
100% NO…there is no amount of money that could convince me to kill someone

Would you shave your head and get your entire body waxed for $5,000?
probably not…well I would definitely get my whole body waxed…I would do that for much less…I hate body hair…but shaving my head is another story…give me more money and then I’d consider shaving the head and buying lots of fun scarves

Would you give up watching television for a year for $25,000?
That would be really difficult…can I still watch DVDs? If so, then yes.

moving on...

2006-08-03T10:22:00.000-07:00

My life has hit a transition point. A new chapter is about to begin, the pages still stiff beneath my fingertips, the smell of newness still lingering. I look around me and try to imagine saying goodbye, closing this door, and walking away with my head up and eyes open. Some moments it is easier to imagine than others. Some moments I can picture myself turning this corner with ease and confidence. Other moments…sadness and fear win the battle, and my eyes are too clouded by the tears to see the path lying before me.

The papers were signed yesterday, the date marked on the calendar. The purging of my belongings shall continue. Setting free many of my beloved books out into this world, I only hope that they will find homes with people that will cherish them as much as I have. Downsizing the closet is less emotional, lavender pants and peach gauzy shirts easily given to those in need. A few pieces of furniture I had hoped to sell, one potential buyer to contact. The boxes are already being assembled and packed, cautiously this time. But there is also a determination deep within me.

Fueled by the stabs of childish games, my determination strengthens, my confidence in my decisions rises, and my eyes are no longer quite as clouded. No doubt the clouds will return, but for now the sky is clear. Even with the heaviness of my heart, I am finding the energy to keep my head up and my eyes open. Even though I still feel the pangs of wretched sadness biting into my core, I am alive and I am hopeful. And now, I am off to do some more packing…

in loving remembrance...

2006-07-29T15:54:00.000-07:00

July 29, 2005…exactly one year ago from today and the memories are still as clear as the glass that shattered early that Friday morning. I can remember exactly where I was sitting when the phone rang. I can still hear my best friend sobbing on the other end of the line, choking on every word. I can still feel the shock, the disbelief. No tears were shed on the ride down to our old hometown, the numbness washing over me as I drove in silence and separation. I remember that night, sitting with my two best friends, the only missing link among us being the one that was lost in the darkness of that tragic morning.

Ordinarily, we would have all spent the night eating good food, drinking, and laughing until we collapsed. But that night was not ordinary by any means. It was a night that will live in each of our minds forever, regardless of time’s passing.

It was several years before when I was first introduced to Patrick. My best friend Dee, had discovered this amazing guy in her classes. He wore girl’s flipflops and knew everything there was to know about computers. His outstanding sense of humor and open heart had won her friendship; naturally, he became my friend “by proxy”. From that time on, he was always known to me as “Patty Disasta”.

Fast forward a couple of years… I met another friend “by proxy” though Dee. Shoo was Pat’s best friend since childhood, his college roommate, and he quickly became one of my best friends. In the following months, with Shoo living in Idaho, I began to spend more time with Pat. He was like a big brother, calling to check on me during the months of loneliness, inviting me to his famous “dinner parties”. When my computer was broken, he came to fix it. When his car broke down on the interstate, I went with him to retrieve it. And every month when Shoo flew in to visit, we would eat and drink and laugh until we collapsed.
I never knew Pat the way that Dee and Shoo did. He was their best friend, mine “by proxy”. There were so many things I never got to say to him, never got to experience with him, never got to share. There is too much that I did not know; too much I wish I had known. And yet this is what I do know. I know that Patrick affected the lives of so many people, mine included. His heart was huge and open, welcoming and inviting. His laughter was contagious, his cooking delicious, his passions untouchable. He was loyal and trustworthy, supportive and determined. Just the sound of his voice could make the day seem brighter. And even though I did not know Patrick the way my dear best friends did, even though the pain of his loss touches them so much deeper, this is what I do know: this world will never be quite as bright since that fateful day in July, a day when hearts were broken and the laughter died.

**May you rest in peace, our dear friend. You will never be forgotten and you will live on in our hearts forever. In loving remembrance of Patrick Watson…**

until night falls

2006-07-26T18:17:00.000-07:00

It was easier to feel the anger. The anger fueled me, kept the tears at bay, kept the sadness from taking over every ounce of my body. But the anger is no longer here…no longer my confidante, my companion, my ironic solace. I am left with nothing but sadness and doubts, fears and anxiety, question upon question, and an endless stream of tears. Nights are the hardest. When the sun sets and the sky turns shades of midnight blue and then black, when the fireflies can be seen…these are the moments when I feel the pain crushing me over and over again. Waves of pain engulfing me, threatening to swallow me whole. The tears wrack my body until I am left gasping for breath, and yet terrified of breathing, terrified of living without him. This house, once my haven, now haunts me. Each corner breathes of memories. I stumble into a room and find a cup filled with the remnants of sunflower seeds and another piece of my heart breaks. I lay in bed at night, no puppies to warm my feet, no goodnight kiss, no “I love you”, nothing except the emptiness. I pray for sleep, for forgiveness, for guidance, for comfort. I pray until I believe that I am not alone within these walls. I pray until I can catch my breath. I pray until my swollen eyes fall heavy. And then thankfully, at some point, sleep will arrive, bringing the warmth of oblivion until the next morning. And then I awaken, still struggling to breathe, still trying to find my way out of the darkness. All day I stumble and fall, pick myself back up and continue on. Until night falls…

searching for peace...

2006-07-24T11:55:00.000-07:00

I wish I could write something insightful or inspiring today. The words are not there. Even the thoughts behind the words are not there....not here. Emptiness looms large, darkness blanketing me but still the shivers come. Even sleep will not grace me with her presence. I know...time will heal all wounds. The clock is ticking far too slowly...heartbreak, sickness...I'm searching for peace...

thoughts

2006-07-20T10:37:00.000-07:00

After a very honest, yet hurtful, conversation, I've been left to wonder...
what is the difference between "selfish" and "self-absorbed"? Is there a difference? If so, what exactly is it? How can one be "selfish" but not "self-absorbed" or vice versa?
Though it hurts deeply to consider that these are perhaps personal traits I possess, I have been forced to look inward...

Sunday Scribblings..."with baggage"

2006-07-16T09:49:00.000-07:00

I’ve long believed that I carry too much “baggage”. With my heart on my sleeve and the weight of the world upon my back, I stumble along the pathways of life. Some people look my way, intrigued, wondering what it is that continues to drive me, how it is that I am able to carry such weight upon my fragile shoulders. Others look at me and turn their back, unable to see beyond the overwhelming piles of “baggage”, terrified that in facing me, they, in turn, will be forced to face their own “baggage”. And then there are those few precious souls that look me directly in the eye, see my heavy load, and wordlessly transfer some of my bags to their own backs, willing to share the journeys of the world with me.

Even though there are moments when I resent carrying so much “baggage”, days when my shoulders feel as if they might break from the sheer weight of it all, I do not regret the origin of these bags or the life that has led up to this moment. I do not apologize for the bouts of depression, the years of anxiety, the unspeakable past. I stand tall, my shoulders squared, ready to face the world, “baggage” and all. I do not feel angry when people take one look and turn their backs to me; I feel sorrow that they may never know the beauty of life’s most difficult lessons. I do not feel resentment when I see others whose loads are lighter than my own; I thank God for the experiences of my own life. And though I used to believe that my “baggage” was too much, I now look in the mirror and see that this is who I am. It is not “baggage” that is illuminated in my reflection; it is merely the pieces of me and my life.

wondering and lost

2006-07-13T21:19:00.000-07:00

Some days it seems that we spend our whole lives wondering. Wondering which path to take, which decisions to make, which direction to pursue on our journey through this life. We get so caught up in “right” versus “wrong”, “good” versus “bad” that we end up catapulting ourselves into cyclical tunnels of worried indecision. We let fear hold us back, keep us walking the solid path of familiarity and safety. But all along our walk, we wonder. We wonder what would happen if we chose the thin, tight rope to walk upon instead. We wonder what destinations we might reach should we choose to leap rather than to walk in safety. Walking in safety is a guarantee, or so we believe. We believe it will guarantee us the future we have planned for ourselves, that it will keep us secure and solidly grounded in a world where chaos and the unknown threaten us from each corner of darkness. But walking in safety only truly guarantees one thing…it guarantees that we may never know what could have been. It guarantees that we will one day look back in regret, not at the things we have done, but at all the many things we did not have the courage to choose to do.

Some days it seems like we spend our whole lives lost. Lost among the obstacles that rise up between the steady steps we take. Lost amidst the jigsaw puzzle pieces, constantly searching for the place, the other pieces, into which we fit. We put one foot in front of the other, pretending we know which way to go, trying to hide the tremble in our steps from the world before us. We relentlessly search the map for directions, only to find that there is no legend to help guide our search, no signs to steer us, no highways that lead directly to our sought-after destinations. And then we realize that maybe we are not so sure of even those destinations. We know that we must keep walking, step after step. But we have no idea where it is our path will lead us, or what the journey might offer upon the way.

Some days it feels like we have been wondering forever, that we will continue to wonder for each day that we have left upon this earth. Some days it feels like we are lost beyond the map, beyond translation, beyond hope of ever finding our way home. And many days we find ourselves, lost and wondering…which way is home?

night's unfamiliar path

2006-07-12T21:52:00.001-07:00

The days are long, the heat suffocating. The nights are even longer. Even though I adore the sight of a huge yellow moon filling the blackness of a night sky, even though the chirping of crickets at night and the distant shimmer of a lone star make me want to dance in the darkness…even though nighttime has always been one of my best friends, I find myself filled with reluctance as the sun begins its descent. I wonder if sleep will once again hide itself among the worries of my mind, evasive to the point of madness. I wonder if when my eyes do finally close if the world of dreams will haunt me or soothe me in those unconscious hours of oblivion.

I love the night, but my body and mind ache for sleep, for respite from the burning of busyness that fills my days. Even the leisure hours seem to exhaust me, leaving me restless and fatigued simultaneously, wandering aimlessly.

I feel a bit lost without the comfort of my work at 3 a.m. With no pager attached to my hip, no empty roads to traverse in the midnight silence, no cries of hopelessness to ease…I feel a bit lost. And so the nights arrive now, leaving me with no path of familiarity.

I sit here now, the vast expanse of ebony sky my only blanket, and I wonder…where do I go from here?

a beautiful hotel, Montezuma's Revenge, and "rata grande"

2006-07-07T21:53:00.000-07:00

Stepping off the tiny plane onto the tarmac, I entered a world previously unbeknownst to me. A world of foreign language, foreign land, foreign people. A world in which I could no longer communicate in words, and so in silence I opened my eyes to a landscape of unfamiliarity. Weathered buildings painted in hues of bright blue and orange and yellow lined the narrow streets. Palm trees rose up to towering heights as the highway turned into cobblestone roads, curving through the remnants of ancient jungle, climbing to our destination. At last, there it was…a muted rust-colored structure, an arched entrance through open air, steps and steps and steps leading to a room that looked out upon the Mexican Riviera. The bed was lined in fresh white linens, the couch cushioned in orange and yellow. The Mexican tiles underfoot were delicately embellished in native designs. After two long flights, our bags were set aside and we stepped onto the terrace rising above the shoreline of this small fishing village.

Though we had planned the vacation as a relaxing, romantic getaway, Mexico offered us a different view of foreign travel. We had purposely avoided going to the more well-known tourist locations, instead seeking the lush jungle landscape of this fishing village as our destination. Wanting to immerse ourselves in a different culture, exploring the shores and markets and “reality” of life in another place, we had chosen this place with careful consideration. Despite our considerations, we were not prepared for the adventures we encountered.

Being the hypochondriac that I am, I had read every known piece of information regarding the dangers of drinking the water in a foreign country. I knew to use only bottled water, no ice, for drinking and even brushing my teeth. What I didn’t know was that there were a million other things that could cause “tourista” or Montezuma’s Revenge. After a lovely meal of fresh salsa and shrimp tacos on our second afternoon, the war of sickness infested my body, refusing to leave until many days after we had returned to the U.S. By the third day, M had come down with the “Revenge” as well, and so most of our days were spent battling over whose turn it was for the toilet. And the bathroom escapades did not end with our upset intestines.

Late one night, with a storm raging outside the room, and me planted on my usual seat (the potty), I happened to glance up from my Sudoku puzzle to find myself staring into the beady eyes of a very large rat. For a few seconds, we both sat motionless, staring each other down. When my brain kicked back into gear, I was off the pot in a flash and standing on top of it instead, screaming for M to come get the rat. Now, I know that men are supposed to be manly and take care of these types of things. But in the U.S., such manly duties typically consist of killing a roach bug or spider…I’m quite sure my “manly” boyfriend had never been asked to chase away a rat the size of a small dog. So there I was, standing on top of the toilet screaming, he was then standing on the bed screaming back, and the rat was standing between us with no intentions of moving. When at last the rat did decide to move, he ran behind the refrigerator where he could not be seen by either M or myself. It was at this point that M tells me to make a run for it. With thoughts of being eaten by a giant rat, I whisked my scared ass across those beautiful Mexican tiles and leapt onto the bed next to him. Now we had solved one problem…I’m out of the bathroom, I’m with M, I am no longer alone having a staring contest with a foreign rodent. However, the battle has not been won. The rat was still in hiding and there was no way either of us could sleep until the rat had left the premises. So proceeded our attempts to chase the rat away by throwing every movable object in the direction of the refrigerator. After what felt like an eternity, the rat ran out from hiding and escaped into the corridor. Of course the door frame was much larger than the actual door and so there was a nice open space below the door through which the rat could easily return. Thus we set about blocking the opening with towels and other objects, hoping that should our Mexican guest return, we would awaken upon the noise of his entrance. And so I’m sure you think the story ends here…oh no, it does not, I can assure you.

We did experience three more days of rat-free environment, even managing to bask in the scorching sun poolside between our bouts of bathroom time. But the show was not over; our foreign adventures knew no end.

Since our stomachs appeared unwilling to accept any “normal” food, our diet consisted of bland crackers and cookies purchased at a small market shop across the street from our hotel. On our next to last night of vacation, we had finally managed to fall asleep when M awoke me with the dreaded words “He’s back.” Not only had our rodent friend returned, but he was one damn determined sucker. Though I’ve never seen a rat climb, this one had somehow managed the feat and was sitting on the eating table nibbling away at a cookie when we turned the lights on. Of course, the light scared Mr. Mexican Rodent, causing him to literally leap from the table and run behind a corner cupboard. Now, I assure you that M and I were all about experiencing life in a foreign place, complete with foreign animals. But by this point, we were exhausted, dehydrated, and ready to rid ourselves of both the rat and Mexico itself. After fruitless attempts to chase the rat away again, we finally called the front desk. Of course the night staff spoke no English and we spoke no Spanish. Thank God for the translation dictionary I had borrowed from my sister. Though I couldn’t form a correct sentence if my life had depended upon it, I did manage to get my point across. “Rata grande”…the one phrase I learned in Mexico. Within minutes, a small Mexican man with a large wooden stick was running about our room, hitting the walls. All the while, M and I are still standing on the bed, wondering how our “romantic” vacation had become a nightmare of toilet sharing and oversized rodents. When the Mexican man and the rat at last departed our room at 5 a.m., we could hold it in no longer. What other choice did we have? Doubled over in laughter, we held each other until sleep arrived.

Though it was certainly not the vacation of our dreams, it was definitely an unforgettable trip. I would have liked to have ventured beyond the toilet. I would have liked to have never had a staring contest with a gigantic Mexican rodent. But I can’t complain about it all. After all, the hotel had beautiful open air arched doorways and embellished Mexican tiles. Our room had a terrace overlooking the Mexican Riviera and helpful little men with big sticks to chase away rodents at 5 a.m. Maybe it wasn’t the best week of my life, but the stories are certainly memorable.

the essence of carefree

2006-07-05T21:21:00.000-07:00

As I sit here now, on my own back porch, the crickets serenading me with their cacophony of random noises, I can still feel the remnants of vacation lingering inside me.

I started out on my journey relatively early on Saturday morning, a nice three-hour drive filled with music and phone calls from my sister, our attempts at highway games dismantled by the 60 miles between our vehicles. As she traveled down to the coast, I began my own journey with a long-overdue stop in my old stomping ground. Though it’s hard to see drastic changes as you pass cotton field upon cotton field, I could feel the changes in the air. Even my route had changed as I pulled into my best friend’s new driveway to her new house. I cannot even begin to describe the joy of first seeing her. Clad in striped pajama pants and a white tank, the glow of love surrounded her in the doorway. In all the woes of her pregnancy, she still shined, emanating beauty from every inch of her smile and her growing belly. Big hugs, belly kisses, and a couple hours lounging on the couches. Then a trip to our favorite video store and an incredible little farmer’s market. We loaded up on fresh peaches, strawberries, blueberries, watermelon, and of course a bag filled to the brim with salty boiled peanuts. A quick stop to pick up lunch then back to our respective couches. A leisurely sweet afternoon filled with the best company and the beauty of our friendship.

After a late-night drive to my parents’ house, a few stories and laughs shared over midnight snacks, and a long night’s sleep in my old bedroom, I awoke on Sunday in my hometown. As I had made no phone calls to old friends nor set any definite plans for my trip, I relished the feeling of freedom upon waking. No errands to run, no deadlines to meet, no work waiting to be done…just me and my hometown.

I could detail the remainder of my trip, but the essence is not captured in the details. As I stepped outside, my lungs filling with the salty air of the ocean wafting all the way to the mainland, something in me let go. I let go of my worries about CAT scans and kidney problems, blood tests and ultrasounds. I let go of the rushed feeling of needing to drive 75 miles per hour down interstates and comfortably settled into a speed of 50 as I drove across the causeway leading to the island. The rest of my trip was a delicious reminder of the beauty and simplicity of island life. Hot sand between my toes, babies in wagons, kids building sandcastles, beach umbrellas in every shade of the rainbow, elderly couples strolling the shoreline, their skin browned to perfection from endless afternoons just like this one. The gentle crashing of the Atlantic waves, the background music as my mind drifted past the chaos of previous months and years and centered in that one moment. Sea gulls overhead, kites flying, and icy cool lemonade to replenish the body and spirit. Floating lazily in my aunt’s pool each afternoon, listening to my uncle’s stories of life in Vietnam and life in the FBI. Outdoor showers, the cool water raining down on freshly bronzed skin, the grains of sand washing away with the worries of the world. Every moment reminded me how carefree life can feel.

There is little need for wearing shoes. Flip-flops are the only necessity if shoes are needed at all. A night out on the town is enjoyed in shorts and a tank, no need for lipstick or eyeliner or trendy clothes. Beach bags and backpacks replace purses, watches are left on the nightstand (or the bottom of a beach bag), and the scent of suntan oil is the perfume de jour. It’s been a long time since I allowed myself to experience the true “island life”…but what an incredible feeling it is.

I’d love to say that the 4th of July was not touched by reality, that the carefree nature of the island infused each of us until all worries melted away in the burning sun. Unfortunately, a couple of minor catastrophes did interrupt the day. But even with a minor car accident (I backed into my daddy’s truck…oops!) and my granddaddy’s excruciating bout of vertigo, most of the family managed to enjoy a near-perfect evening of celebration. With my sweet boyfriend by my side (he unexpectedly flew down the night before) and my family around a small outdoor table, we enjoyed a delicious supper of chicken kebabs and grilled veggies, homemade Hawaiian bread and potato salad. Then a blanket by the lighthouse, an incredible display of fireworks over the ocean, and homemade ice cream and star-shaped cupcakes for dessert.

I cannot remember the last time I went home and felt so carefree. I cannot remember the last time I stood on that shore and let all thoughts drift out to sea or the last time I breathed in and allowed the salty air to cleanse my soul. I cannot remember the last time I stood outside, looking up at ancient oaks and dancing Spanish moss and saw the pure beauty that those trees behold. Or perhaps I should say, I couldn’t remember the last time…until today.

the words just aren't coming...

2006-06-29T18:36:00.000-07:00

I know I should be writing. I’ve missed another Sunday Scribblings, another Poetry Thursday, and even my own idea of starting One Word Wednesdays has left me empty this week. The thoughts fly in and out of my head, spinning and swirling, getting tangled in one another. But the truth of it all is that I just haven’t felt like writing. And so I am trying to be okay with that. Some days I feel like writing, some days I don’t. Yet even as I try to flow with the instincts and desires living inside me, I find myself feeling guilty. Guilty for not writing more, for not putting more words out into the world. Guilty for fear that all of you will think I have forgotten about you, when in reality, I carry pieces of you all with me each day.

And I wish that I had a better reason for my recent lack of words. A better reason than just not feeling like writing. Perhaps I do…perhaps it is worries of recent health concerns, or the lack of direction I feel now that school is out for 2 months. Perhaps my lack of words is my evasion, my avoidance of admitting my worries, my concerns, my felt lack of direction. Or perhaps it is truly just that I haven’t felt like writing.
Whatever the reason, please know that I have not forgotten you all, my lovely tribe of cyber sisters.

I am leaving soon for the holiday. With excitement at seeing my best friend and then spending a few days with the family, I shall set off soon. Hopefully as I stand on the Georgia coast, I will find the inspiration, the words, so that I may again find my writing flowing as freely as the spinning thoughts that overwhelm my head.

I hope you all have a wonderful and safe 4th of July! Until next week…

beginning of a love affair...

2006-06-26T19:16:00.000-07:00

There is something incredibly soothing about the feel of wet clay against your hands. As the wheel spins, swirls, turns, your thoughts begin to slow their own spinning, swirling, turning. With your hands cupped around a small mass of wet gray clay, the world fades into the background. The teacher’s instructors to keep “centering” take hold, not only of your hands upon the silky texture of the clay, but of the internal chaos as well. The tumbling of thoughts ebbs, breathing slows, and in that moment, you become one with your creation. As the clay becomes centered, you can feel your own self becoming centered. The worries, the anxieties, everything else ceases to matter as you become immersed in an act of love between the strength of your hands and the fragility of the clay. You find strength where you didn’t know it existed. The typical shakiness of your hands vanishes and they hold steady, strong, molding and shaping and centering. The rain beats down heavily outside the door to the studio and you can literally feel the cleansing of the earth. Your own hands immersed in water, bathing the clay. Your hands become the rain, the clay becomes the earth. With each motion, you are cleansing, you are being cleansed, the world is being washed anew. As my skin and spirit became immersed in the act of creation, so began my love affair with clay and wheels and kilns…my initiation into the world of pottery.

One Word Wednesday....Echo

2006-06-21T18:59:00.000-07:00

Echo…

reverberations against my soul
crossing endless miles
the melodies of Nature’s song
and I feel the vibration.

not the canyon of greatest magnitude
but the footsteps, two pairs, one pair
unworn paths come full circle
and I see my life mirrored

catapulting off gray cement walls
guarding danger, trapping fear
four, six, eight sets of steel metal doors
and I force deafness upon my ears

bitter words of cruelty, deception
haunting, burning through the years
freedom only found when
I hear and then I release

Echo
the sound of the earth
footsteps of a life
danger and fear and cruelty
and I let go
Echo

technically challenged...but here's your One Word Wednesday

2006-06-21T08:57:00.000-07:00

So I spent a large portion of last night surfing the internet in an attempt to figure out how to work all the technical aspects of blogging. I managed to set up a new blog page for "One Word Wednesday" and then accidentally lost it. I had no luck in figuring out how to make a pretty banner to adorn the page, and even less luck in deciphering how to put up links, etc.
So there you have it...I am officially technologically, and technically, challenged. Until I can recruit some help in this department, I will post a prompt here on Wednesdays for those of you interested in participating.
Today's word for Wednesday is....

Echo

inspired by Sunday Scribblings...

2006-06-19T20:35:00.000-07:00

I’ve never been the biggest fan of Sundays. When I was a child and teenager, Sundays meant waking up early, sitting through a sermon that I would often tune out, and then the dreaded anticipation of another Monday. Since I’ve lived on my own, Sundays have most often entailed a long days worth of work, constantly running on my feet, serving people that often see me as nothing more than a servant. Sunday work has been equated with being a servant with no real identity. Ironic, I suppose. A servant on Sunday…maybe that was God’s intention all along. In any case, regardless of dreaded early mornings or bewildering sermons or long work shifts, Sunday have always been the precursor for Mondays. And as we all know, Mondays start the work week (at least for most people, though I’m not really included in that group). Mondays are the beginning of another long week, more long hours of work or school or both. And so there is it…I’ve never been a big fan of Sundays….until recently.

When my dear friend Megg and Laini started Sunday Scribblings, I was thrilled at the prospect of being given a prompt each week. A phrase or question that would allow my inner creative juices to flow, my imagination to run wild, the essence of my soul to emerge in words upon a blank screen. And Sunday Scribblings has indeed allowed me such freedom. It has brought me to tears, shaken my insides, left me confused and frustrated and also beautifully inspired. Thank you Megg and Laini…you have given so many of us a gift. Now, instead of dreading Sundays, I look forward with excitement, wondering and waiting for the topic to arrive. Wondering what feelings will be evoked, what stories will spring forth from the recesses of my mind, my heart, my spirit…and those of others. I wait to read the words that evoke such strong emotions, making me want to reach across oceans and mountains, plains and deserts. Words that make me want to bathe these souls in love, in comfort, in admiration, in pride.

As a result of the inspiration and beauty that Sunday Scribblings has brought into my life, I would like to begin an additional arena of writing prompts. One of my best friends and I used to work on our writing skills and creativity by giving each other a single word and then allowing the other to write for a set amount of time. It was poetry that we were writing in those days (and nights), but I would love to use such prompts for any form of writing. And I would also love to take the time limits out of the equation…just one word and writing of whatever is evoked by that word.

Unfortunately, I have absolutely minimal knowledge when it comes to the technical aspects of linking to other blogs, etc. And so I am sending this out into the world, hoping that one of you may want to join me on this quest to begin… “One Word Wednesdays”.
If you are interested in helping with this new site for writing prompts, please send me an email.

I hope you all have had a wonderful Monday!

Beds...endless nights and endless thoughts...

2006-06-18T20:54:00.000-07:00

Three straight nights of twelve hour shifts. A body filled with exhaustion, confusion about the day, the time. The inner workings tangled in a web of daylight and glowing moons. The road becomes endless before my strained eyes and I dream of my bed, the plush scarlet comforter, the soft black sheets cooling my overworked skin. My mind drifts to other worlds, other places, other times, anywhere that will keep me engaged until the long road ends. I think back to the bed with the velvety Asian comforter, the one with the old, weathered mattresses, and the nights alone, thinking too much, crying too much, finally finding myself in the comfort of my aloneness. My mind wanders across two states and three condos, into rooms with skylights that made it impossible to nap at two in the afternoon, nights spent lying beside a man. A man with whom I shared a name, a home, a life. A man whom I never truly knew, who gradually taught me of the fragility of trust and love, of the importance, the necessity of finding and loving myself. Of the need to keep myself safe. I think of the aqua and gold satin comforter that covered the bed, and me, in the months when the depression was at its worst. When the medications were leaving my body, slowly, more day by day. When I hid beneath those ugly covers, hoping that the world would stop turning, that the tornadoes ravaging the city outside would take me away in the whirlwind of my own black spiraling tunnel. Days when I sat on the roof of that old Victorian home, pondering what would happen if I jumped into the busy street below. I don’t want to think about those days, all that pain, from which emergence was impossible. I have lived that pain, that hopelessness, and now I think of all the anonymous comforters, adorned with large, bright flowers, or paisley patterns of burgundy and brown. The comforters that held my traveling soul, offering me excitement in foreign lands, beauty unbeknown before the day, the night, the moment. I think of a bed in Santa Fe, an adobe fireplace in the corner, a beautiful night of eating chocolate frosted cookies and drinking shiraz in bed with a soul mate. A bed in New Orleans after a night of drinking and gambling, the romance of the city as intoxicating as the wine that flowed endlessly. My thoughts run wildly as I remember beds in so many cities, in other countries, in exotic or romantic or serene places. As I remember beds shared with childhood friends and best friends and soul mates. Beds shared as new friendships were formed, as new relationships evolved. As I remember the nights of comfort, of passion, of grief, of love. As I climb into my bed in the darkness of tonight, I will keep remembering and I will embrace the comfort of this bed, this night, these moments.

Poetry Thursday - night shift

2006-06-15T12:31:00.000-07:00

It's easy at 5 a.m. to get lost. Lost among the streets in a widespread city of towering buildings that all begin to look the same. Lost among the thoughts that accompany a night filled with too many tragedies, too much intensity, too much lost hope. It's easy to find yourself lost among the madness of the night, the detailed delusions recounted, the screams of fear from voices that do not exist in our reality. It's easy to get lost.
After more than a year of these periodic nights, I don't allow myself to get lost at 5 a.m. Sadness and anger still strike their simultaneous chords, but the melody is what I force myself to lose. I carry compassion with me, the passenger on my right side as I traverse mile after mile, from one hospital to the next. But at 5 a.m. I must bid farewell to the agony of others' pain, to the torment of a full moon. At 5 a.m., my passenger and I struggle to keep our eyes open, but only to see the road. My ears are still strained, but only to hear the melody that comforts me in the stillness of the early morning.
At the end of the night, with the first light of day breaking above me, I come home, climb into bed, and drift into a dreamless sleep.

~night shift~

3 p.m.
last I checked
6:30 a.m.
a long drive home
from hospitals
more than one
screams echoing
off stark white walls
anger and silence
warning of death
the radio played
another top 20
I switched the dial
Spanish language
melody of love
I did not know
the words being sung
the future of my patients
only the moment
the melody
the long road home.

Today I write...

2006-06-12T15:29:00.000-07:00

Today I write
words of confusion and passion
words that bleed with memories
of nights under endless skies
and endless stars,
nights of endless love.

Today I write
and the words flow freely
unlike the feelings
locked within me,
my soul battling the world
of reality and guilt
remorse and “what ifs”.

Today I write
of journeys traveled
of comrades lost
and remnants of life moments
that hang dangerously
by single threads, pulling
threatening to break
and be lost from me forever.

Today I write
hoping that somehow
these words will ease
the pain and fear,
the anxious nerves that traverse
my veins, my skin
that shakes with ambivalence,
my stomach that aches
with a battle it cannot win.

Today I write
and each word
each line
is like the erupting
of a volcano, lava flowing
hot and fiery, destroying that
which it touches,
words of fire, of ice,
of impenetrable cages
binding the heart and mind.

Today I write
reminded of too many yesterdays
the uncertainty of tomorrows
knowing that today
I must write.

Sunday Scribblings - Mystery

2006-06-11T09:52:00.000-07:00

Life is filled with mysteries. The future holds nothing but mystery. Even that which we think we know, that which we anticipate and hope for, is nothing more than the merging of our desires with the reality of mystery. The present is mysterious. This very moment, there is so much we do not understand, so much that we cannot understand. And the past…some may argue that the past is the only certainty we have. But I think the past holds the greatest mysteries of all. All the “what ifs” and “what might have beens” leave us stranded on abruptly ended paths, wondering where this or that path might have eventually led. And we will never know. The past has departed, replaced by the present, anticipating the future. But the mysteries of the past will never die.

Every time we take a walk through the memories of our past, we encounter the mysteries of our lives. Each moment of the past has already been lived, each one unalterable and undeniable. And yet do we not wonder? Do we not, at times, find ourselves retracing steps of previous paths and wondering where that path might have led? The endings of those paths will never be known. We can wonder, we can imagine, but we can never know. It is, in fact, this lack of awareness, this inability to know, that is the beauty of mysteries. If we could know the mysteries of our pasts, or our futures for that matter, how would we ever be able to live fulfilled in the present?

I once sat down and tried to imagine the mysteries of my abruptly ended paths. I even wrote what I imagined to be those endings, or perhaps beginnings. Of course my words were nothing more than the manifestation of my imagination. They were not words of truth or understanding. They were merely words of curiosity. But those words helped me to accept the mysteries of my past. I still wonder sometimes what my life would be like now had I decided to continue with this or that relationship, had I chosen to attend a different school at a different time, had I moved to California as once planned. But despite the wondering, despite the mysteries of my past, I know that I am right where I am supposed to be on the path of my life. There will be many more questions, many more unknowns, and many more mysteries.

Mysteries make for a life of unknown possibilities.

Poetry Thursday - "chasing feelings"

2006-06-08T22:36:00.000-07:00

Inspired by observation of strangers...

~chasing feelings~

Words overheard,
intoxication driving emotions
as one hurried ahead,
the other behind,
an attempt to end the chase
and the emotions.
On a walkway
past a bar,
tucked in dark shadows,
where melodies and voices
emerged through panes
of glass, through doors
inviting smiles and songs,
laughter and whispered dreams.
Doors that opened
the flow of red wine,
blue liquor, dark beer.
Songs of emotions
but hurry,
hurry,
the feelings are not
for tonight.

Sunday Scribblings - Earliest Memory

2006-06-04T17:25:00.000-07:00

It’s Sunday and that means it’s time for scribblings, time to focus on the topic chosen for this week, time to crawl back into the recesses of my life and dredge up memories of times when youth and innocence overwhelmed the world of reality. I must admit that initially I did not want to write on this week’s topic. I know my earliest memory and it really isn’t all that fascinating to read about. Additionally, as I’ve just spent the past semester intently studying psychoanalysis, I personally have no desires left to reach back into a period of my history and reminisce about a Christmas when I was three years old. Talking about earliest memories is not such a simple task for those in the field of psychotherapy. Along with the memories come analyses of every possible meaning of those memories. Why was that particular memory the first one I was able to recall? What is the significance of the people that played a role in the making of that memory? How was I feeling during the time of that memory, and what was it that evoked those emotions? You see…earliest memories are a dangerous territory in my field. Consequently, my initial response to this week’s prompt was not one of enthusiasm. I honestly considered just letting this Sunday pass me by. I then considered writing a post of a completely different subject. Only after several hours and repeated deliberation did I decide to truly explore the irritation and hesitation I was feeling rather than ignoring it. Instead of allowing the negative emotions to block my words, I have decided to share a bit of my earliest memory and a bit of the present emotions that this memory evokes.

The year was 1983. Technically it was winter, though true winters rarely grace the South with their presence. It was the first house I ever lived in, a brick house with white columns on the front porch and a black metal mailbox at the end of the driveway. The interior décor still sung with melodies of the 70’s, with shag carpeting, a plush orange chair, and splashes of retro green and yellow scattered about. The Christmas tree was decorated and positioned in its sacred spot, though I have only vague memories of where that spot actually was. I am quite sure there was the usual abundance of gifts for my sister and me, though my memory involved only one gift. This gift was thoughtful and fun, but apparently not what my three-year-old self was wanting. To my mother’s great dismay, I told the gift-giver that I wanted something different. And indeed, sweet giver that she was, she exchanged my original gift and let me pick out the gift I had wanted.

The irony is that this memory shaped much of my life in the years to come. Openly speaking my mind (or heart) was sacrificed at the expense of being a “polite and well-behaved” child in my early years. But my silence ceased with the arrival of adolescence, when my voice knew no limits and every thought was freed in utter opposition of my childhood.

My inherent nature has always been to speak the truth, even when that truth doesn’t quite seem appropriate. Of course, I’ve learned as the years have passed when I can embrace my true nature and allow my words the freedom to fly. Certainly, there are times when such behavior is just not a viable option. But I also have learned that my original boundaries regarding speaking my feelings versus keeping my mouth shut began a bit blurred. Though my mother’s efforts to teach me proper manners were very well-intentioned, my three-year-old mind got somewhat muddled. Even now, I question myself at times. There are times when I openly voice my opinion, times when truth flows from my lips with such vivacity that only later do I stop to think that perhaps I should have turned on my inner censor before speaking. But there are also many times that I have kept my mouth tightly shut, rigidly holding in every ounce of feeling and life in the fears that my words will result in harm to others or myself. With those moments, I find myself later wondering what suffering has occurred at the expense of silence.

Ultimately, it is all a matter of balance. But balance is quite a complicated concept for a three-year-old.

Though my earliest memory is not itself heavily laden with emotions or drama, the lessons learned from this memory have both haunted and enlightened me. And maybe my own controversy with allowing myself the freedom to speak has nothing to do with this memory. But certainly now, in retrospect, my earliest memory holds a life-long lesson. A lesson of balance, of the importance of honesty, of the beauty of innocence, and of the origins of my inherent nature to let my words flow freely.

reading out loud...not just for poetry

2006-06-01T11:11:00.000-07:00

I loved this week's totally optional prompt to read poetry out loud. My love for this prompt can be traced back throughout many, many years of reading everything (not just poetry) out loud. My best friend used to tease me about reading to the birds and the bugs and the grass in the backyard. But it's not just the birds and the bugs and the grass. I read to the dogs, to the trees, to anyone who happens to be within listening distance. I read freely and openly and out loud. And I love the whole experience of it all.

There is something comforting and inspiring about hearing words of wisdom or tragedy or beauty roll off your own tongue, infusing every ounce of air around you with the pure emotions of the words. You feel the words differently as they resonate within your chest and then free themselves into the expanse of open air around you. You find beauty in the pure sound of the words, the syllables, the pronunciations, the inflection of the voice...beauty that is more than just the meaning of the word itself.

As the words form on my lips, as they vibrate in my throat, as they escape the inhabitance of my body and find release in a greater beauty beyond...as I read out loud the words of poets and fiction writers and autobiographers and myself...I am empowered. I too become infused with the beauty of language, the beauty of words, and the world opens its windows a little wider, the wind blows a little stronger, and serenity washes away the doubts, the fears, the hesitations. With each word, I breathe in tranquility and beauty. With each word, I release vibrancy and passion and life.

And so I will continue reading out loud, not just poetry, but everything.

letting go of wishes

2006-05-23T15:30:00.000-07:00

Ever since Saturday, I’ve found myself thinking about the wish fairy. For my Sunday Scribblings post, I let the words flow from my soul. For the first time in quite a while, I wrote without thinking or censoring. I wrote without worrying what other’s responses may be. I just wrote, and writing so freely felt good.

Indeed, I was quite amazed at the overwhelming number of comments I received on this post. My appreciation to you all for stopping by to leave your thoughts and let me know you’re out there, a precious reminder that maybe my words do mean something to someone. Maybe my writing is not always in vain. Maybe my words have a potential power that I have been too afraid to acknowledge.

My words for this week’s prompt were not words of conformity or comfort. How much easier it might have been for me to simply write out three wishes that I would love for some little magical fairy to grant me. But the easy road is not always the best road. If I want to expand my mind, if I want to grow within myself, if I want to be an authentic writer, then I have to get real with myself. And the reality is that I would love to make wishes and have them granted and live happily ever after. But the reality is also that my own life has shown me that turning wishes into reality is not always the dream we imagine it to be.

When I first began thinking about the possibility of three wishes, I thought I would wish for health and safety for all. And then I realized that this wish held far more repercussions than just a world full of happy, healthy people. Without sickness, we would not value health. Without death, we would not value life. And so despite the wonderful illusion of a completely healthy society, I realized that the losses that would accompany such a wish were far more costly than the reward.

For my second wish, I thought perhaps I would wish for no more financial problems and freedom from debt. Quite a selfish wish, but one I seriously considered. But again, I thought about this wish. The more I thought, the more I realized that without financial burdens, I would never know that value of intrinsic worth. I would never learn the importance of responsibility or experience the sheer joy and peace that follows a long day’s hard labor. With no financial concerns, I would be tempted to indulge myself in a life of luxury. Rather than making a difference in patients’ lives, I would likely find myself bored and empty and searching for meaning instead of truly living a purposeful life.

I never made it to my third wish. After all this thinking, I realized that I have spent far too much of my life making wishes. Perhaps it wasn’t a magical fairy to whom I made these wishes. But I wished nevertheless…I wished when the clock struck identical numbers, I wished when I threw pennies in fountains, I wished when I clasped my hands and prayed to God. I spent a large portion of my life wishing. And what I eventually realized is that wishing isn’t really living. In order to fully live my life, I have to ground myself in reality. This doesn’t mean that I never get lost in the clouds of imagination. But it does mean that I have come to accept the path of life I am walking. I have come to find my own path and my own pair of shoes to walk this road. And inevitably, I will encounter obstacles. But wishing away those obstacles would only keep me from learning the most valuable lessons in life.

And so it is…the wish fairy is tempting, but in the end, I choose to keep walking.

Sunday Scribblings - Three Wishes

2006-05-20T21:28:00.000-07:00

I thought, if I could have three wishes, what would they be? What would I wish for? Would I wish for world peace? Or infinite health for all? Would I wish that every person in this world would know and experience love? Or would I wish that my debt would vanish? That finances would never again be a stress in my life? Would I wish to be able to travel all the continents? Or would I wish to become a world renowned writer?

As I thought, I realized that the wishes really didn’t matter. No matter what I wished for, the results would not be purely positive in nature. The challenges of life are necessary so that we may know the heights of beauty. And we always wish for things which we do not have. So suppose this hypothetical fairy were to come and offer to grant me three wishes, once those wishes were granted, I would likely find myself wishing for something else, something better, something different.

It’s not that I don’t believe in daydreams and fantasies. In fact, I’ve lived a lot of my life finding satisfaction in these precise ways. And yet our daydreams and fantasies will always leave us wanting. If we were to live out the fairy tales in our heads, reality could not equal the thrill of our imaginations.

And so, if this little fairy ever does decide to approach me and offer me wishes of my own choosing, I think I’ll have to say “thank you, but I’m not interested”. I’d rather let life deal it’s own cards. The path of life I’m walking is the one I am supposed to walk. I think I’ll let fate and destiny and God keep directing that path, and I’ll let the wish fairy pass me by.

Poetry Thursday - "only us and wind and fire"

2006-05-18T20:29:00.000-07:00

~only us and wind and fire~

The road goes on, and I am reminded
of days when time knew no boundaries
of nights when passion carried us
across miles and wind and fire.
Your gentle touch of masculinity
set my body blazing with desire
beyond chemistry or sparks.
We made love with just our fingertips
tenderly touching, finger to finger,
years unfolded and two lost souls
found knowledge and wisdom in the other.
And now I think of you, of me,
the unexplainable unity of us.
The tears fall in streams of grief and loss,
knowing that not one day
shall ever pass us by
without you seeing my face in the clouds,
me hearing your voice in the wind
memories of your fingertips brushing mine
and the world fading away.
Only us and wind and fire.

I know the assignment was to take myself on a field trip and find inspiration in a bookstore. But I have found my inspiration elsewhere this week. This poem holds so much emotion and intensity for me. I could not help but to share it.

Sunday Scribblings - The books I would write...

2006-05-15T12:15:00.000-07:00

The books I would write would be of travels in foreign lands, of lessons learned, of beauty seen, or awareness heightened. The books I would write would tell of adventures of the body and spirit, of the mind and heart, adventures of a fully lived life. These books would tell of my own journeys across native soils, the people, the culture, the diversity and challenges of life. Filled with my own moments of pain and fear, these books would tell the stories of overcoming danger and adversity, rising above the terrors and facing the world head-on with courage and grace. The books I would write would tell these stories through honesty and hope, imparting wisdom and bravery to those reading the raw words of my own experiences.

These books I would write in the hopes of making a difference in the world. By using my own life, the only experiences I can truly, wholly know, and molding these experiences into words, more than words, emotions and awareness and realizations that could touch the deeply scarred souls of this world. I would write these books because I want to live this life, because I want to have these experiences and to know that I am capable of surmounting the strongest fears and deepest pains. I would write these books because if I could live this life, then somehow I believe the answers would find me. And in turn, these answers, this wisdom and knowledge, could be passed on to others.

Or maybe the books I would write would be a collection of my actual experiences, moving memoirs of the life I have actually lived. Maybe I would write a book detailing the internal torment of a seven-year-old girl diagnosed with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. Maybe I would describe the constant fears, the disturbing beliefs that every detail of life must be lived out in a certain way in order to avoid catastrophic repercussions. Maybe I would write of the endless hours spent arranging and rearranging books and stuffed animals and shoes, or the feeling that no matter how much I washed my hands they would never be truly clean. Maybe I would write of being the preadolescent girl who ate her sandwiches at lunch by holding only the plastic wrapping, and the laughing sneers from her peers at this strange behavior, and the emptiness and confusion she felt. Maybe I would write this story.

Or maybe I would write a book about an adolescent girl sitting on a bathroom floor, a razor blade in her young hands, contemplating the meaning of life. Trying to understand why her male friend had tried to force himself upon her, to understand why she deserved such violation. Maybe I would write of a morning when the drive to school became a drive across the country, an attempt to flee from herself and the pain that no one could understand. Maybe I would write of drugs and sex and every avenue of self-destruction and the reasons these paths were taken. Maybe I would write this story.

Maybe I would write these books because these are the stories I know. Because these are the stories I’ve lived. Because these are the stories that may actually make a difference to someone, somewhere, in the midst of tormenting fears or the confusion of a lost identity. Maybe I would write these books in the hopes that lost souls would know they are not alone, that their path is one that has been traveled by many, that their story is not so different from mine.

So maybe, just maybe, I would write books of my life, both real and imagined. Books that tell my story, and the story of so many others. Books that remind us all that life’s journey need not be walked alone, that the burdens will not always weigh upon us too heavily, and that beauty can be found even in the midst of darkness.