Who loves you, baby? YOU should love YOU.

Staring at that wall, I sometimes forget my legs are moving at all.  This is where I go when I am angry, happy, thoughtful, excited, scared or confused. Truthfully, it's usually never just one of those that drives me there, it's usually two or more.

This past week, my blank wall held the secret to a recurring nightmare that I've had since about  the age of 5. The dream begins delightfully enough on gently rolling green hills. The sky is blue and the sun, the brightest yellow. I'm the only one out there. Nothing is nothing wrong with this picture, it's perfect. I find myself running on these hills - fast and free. It's pure joy. Slowly, I lose my step, and my legs can't keep the rhythm to the point when I am eventually crawling and dragging myself along the green grass.  I look all around and there doesn't appear to be a cause for my new disability - the  weather is great, I'm not sick, there's no mud - nothing. I just can not.  At this point,  I manage to wake myself up. I never stick around to find out how the story ends because being stagnant is too painful.

Last week, running under those full-spectrum light bulbs (a purchase made back in 1997 prior to a move to Vancouver, WA in preparation for the overcast, Pacific NW winters) I felt warm and happy and  in a state of "flow". The song "Unknown Caller" by U2 began and I heard these lyrics (and by the way, I never liked this song until this day):

Force quit and move to trash
I was right there at the top of the bottom
On the edge of the known universe where I wanted to be
I had driven to the scene of the accident
And I sat there waiting for me
Restart and re-boot yourself
You're free to go
Oh, oh

Shout for joy if you get the chance
Password, you enter here, right now
Oh, oh

You know your name so punch it in

And for some reason, my running dream came to mind and I thought, "It's okay to let her go." Stop hanging on to the gal who really likes to eat sugar, who looks in the mirror and cringes, who wallows in ruminations that serve no purpose, who worries entirely too much about things and people, who discounts her own accomplishments (but, has no problem recalling failures), who seems to thwart any forward progress for lack of self love and manages to create a secret inner world of melancholy. In other words, get up and start running again: I am the reason I can not run.

And that is where the great chasm lies. I do not recall feeling a sense of self love or worth throughout my life. I shoved self love and narcissism in the same box. They weren't so different to me and so, I held on to the idea that they were both bad, bad, bad. If you loved yourself so much, you certainly wouldn't feel the need to improve any negative characteristic about yourself. (This is just the sort of black/white thinking that causes so much harm on this planet.  I'm an expert at it so, if you'd like to know how NOT to think about things, call me.) The great "kick in the gut", which almost sent me flying off of the treadmill, was that the opposite is true: If you do not realize your self worth, you will never, ever feel better or do better.

So what does it take for you to realize that you are worth the trouble? What does it take for you to realize that taking care of your Self spiritually, mentally and physically is a worthwhile labor of love? When do you accept that you matter? Maybe the answer is when you begin to reflect upon your life. Personally, I found myself to the point of exhaustion.  Reliving and debating decisions long gone, grasping for missed opportunities and living in the past while the present patiently waited, but eventually walked on  - it was a tiresome and spiritually draining way to exist. I looked in the mirror and can sometimes only see the gorges between my eyes - where I carry worry and anxiety.  When I see those Botox ads, they ask, "Do you have an 11 on your forehead?"  No, actually, I have 1,111 on my forehead AND I don't have to make a stupid face to achieve that look.

Botox.com...erasing your emotions one injection at a time.

And a year ago, I found myself at a crossroads. While I had worked on the outside, the inside was still suffering. There was no peace and that's when I stopped moving...  just like in my nasty, little nightmare. I quit. I stopped some of the things I loved: volunteering, CrossFit, being engaged with others. I, quite literally, quit. Do you remember when Forrest Gump stopped running? I mean, he just stopped. That was me.

What a profound infirmity: the dissociation between the inner misery and the outer robustness. I (and probably you) can not function that way. As Buddy the Elf would say, I sat "on a throne of lies." Fortunately, despite the discord and upon aching reflection, I discovered that some of that wholeness from my outer-shell had oozed its way into my spirit. For the first time in my life, I realized my self imposed doom. Oh my God, I was the human Eeyore! When Michael asked me how much time I thought I had in this life and he emphatically stated, "You only get one shot at this," I began to feel Eeyore's stuffing fall out. I was listening and more importantly, believing.

The reality is, that somehow, someway, someday - you and I have to find the strength to take a truthful look at ourselves. It's not that pretty at times, but turn the page and guaranteed, you will find at least one positively, breath-taking quality about yourself (if you are having trouble finding one, contact me...I know I can find one for you). What is working and what isn't? What hurts us or holds us down? We attach ourselves to negative people, acts, and thoughts which become habitual, but the beauty of it is that we can detach ourselves, too! Maybe you need a little help doing that... and that's okay. We are THAT powerful when we embrace the fact that we are loved. And the love that matters the most is the extraordinary kind that we give to ourselves.

Michael asked me, after my run, what he should put on the white brick wall. He had considered a Portland Timbers pennant or poster. As much as it pained me to deny the Timbers a spot on the wall, I asked him to leave it blank.

And I sat there waiting for me

Restart and re-boot yourself

You're free to go

Oh, oh

Shout for joy if you get the chance

....

You know your name so punch it in
U2

https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=5&v=YMzfeV2GE0M

http://www.timbers.com/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flow_(psychology)

http://marmonmuscle.com/  :  CrossFit Williamsburg, where a lot of the outer strength made my brain start thinking the inside could be just as resilient.

How to Meet A Husband

When I moved to Baltimore after graduating from college, I decided to go to culinary school. I don't really know why. In hindsight, divine intervention must  have placed me there. A friend and I (she had moved to a new city, too) had agreed to answer three personal ads. This way, we could cut through all the BS and connect with potential suitors (aka we were not good at socializing and were too shy to talk to any men). When I tell this story, people say, "Oh, you met online!" No. This was back when only a few folks had desktop computers and when you wanted to connect to the internet, you would hear a screeching sound and then several sounds similar to what a coiled mattress spring might sound like when it bursts out of the cushioning. Not only that, but it took about 10 minutes to connect. The answer is no. We met through the "City Paper" - a gritty, urban "newspaper" found in all diners and seedy corners of Baltimore.

True to my agreement, I responded to the three ads. Bachelor #1: Mystery man who liked Salsa dancing, cooking and who requested over and over that we meet for the first time at his apartment (which was probably a buried school bus..think Kimmy Schmidt). Naturally, he got the ax just as I might have...along with duct tape, a gag and a roofie. No thanks, Norman Bates. Bachelor #2: Nice voice, charming med student on a Caribbean island who was home for the holidays. We agreed to meet at the Inner Harbor - in public, I'd have witnesses. I don't remember how we identified one another, but we did. Perfectly nice gentleman...dressed nicely, clean cut and very desperately wanting a companion (then again, so was I...I was responding to personal ads, after all). While I enjoyed his company, the announcement, "When you meet my family at Christmas time...", scared the hell out of me. He spoke those horrifying kind words and the magic died more quickly than a mother in a Disney movie. Bachelor #3: Looking for someone "liberal in thought, but conservative in values," likes going to museums and being outdoors. Could it all possibly be true or was it too good to be true? I decided to find out by meeting him at The Admiral's Cup in Fell's Point.

Nervous energy got the best of me. I managed to lock myself out of my apartment. My apartment on St. Paul Street was a hell-hole. It wouldn't have been the end of the world had I never regained entry. Brown "water" leaked from the ceiling above into my tub, and the hole underneath the kitchen sink allowed wafting clouds of marijuana smoke from my neighbor's apartment seep into mine (but I didn't inhale). Of course, this also meant I was locked out of my minty green Toyota Tercel. Oh well, I got a cab and eventually found myself doing a pedestrian drive-by past the Cup's window. There he was, he was as handsome in person as he was on paper.

 I sat next to him and we engaged in a nice conversation while he ordered a beer for me.  Let it be known: I hate beer. I pulled the 'ol, "Oh just pick one for me," because: 1. I don't know any beer names  and 2. What's the difference? They all taste like hay anyway. That beer was politely sipped for a few hours.

Michael's covert plan of meeting at a bar was directly related to the perceived success of the evening. If we were incompatible, we could escape immediately after the beer. If it went well, we could progress to dinner. We progressed to dinner. (By the way, I noticed Michael had really great teeth. They looked strong, like a caveman's teeth. I mean that in a nice way...it seemed like such a primal thing to notice. I'm telling you the truth, though - ridiculously fabulous chompers.) The decision was made to go to The Wild Mushroom, but to get there, we had to ride in his car.

Riding in a stranger's car? Had my parent's taught me anything?  Apparently they had not. I was ready for such a moment. In my pocket, I carried law enforcement quality pepper spray. Below is a picture of a very similar can. As you can see, it resembles a fire extinguisher and it sprayed like a fire hose. Weeks earlier, I tested the spray with my friends in the alley-way behind my apartment - big, big mistake. The heavy stream ricocheted off of a brick wall and the droplets (and it only takes a few) sent us into uncontrollable coughing fits and stung our eyes so that all we could do was walk in circles and bump into each other laughing and crying all at once. With my trigger finger ready, we hopped in the car (not the sports car, but the Ford Taurus next to it - another reason I love my husband - he is sensible when you REALLY need
sensibility).

We had a terrific meal and the date continued on to Funk's
Democratic Coffee Spot. Funk's is now defunct - a great little hole in the wall that once offered to pay me "under the table" to make their bakery items in their tiny basement kitchen. It never happened, but I swear I would have been content working for them. And, who knows? Maybe as the secret baker, I would have served Michael a delicious slice of my pecan chocolate pie during his date with someone else. Sadly for her, I would've stolen his heart. He never stood a chance!  I digress. Michael, a coffee connoisseur, ordered quickly and expertly. I had never had coffee. I did not know how to pronounce "cappuccino" or "latte". Capushino? Capukino? Cap uh ke ke no? Lahhhtay? Laytay? Lateee? Hot chocolate. Yes indeed, "I'll have a hot chocolate, please," the sure thing.

Let's go back a little. Michael told me his name was Gus. Gus is a nickname bestowed upon him by his friend, Michael (who coincidentally  is coming to see us this evening and has the nickname, Woodrow). I suppose he used a false name for safety.   

Sadly the night had to end. To this day, I can instantaneously recall the awkward smiles, the shyness we both struggled through during the evening, the surprising ease of conversation and, best of all, the fact that I could not look directly at Michael...Gus...whatever. No eye contact. I had an exceptionally tough time engaging with him in this way. I looked all around his head....it was tough looking at a real man with a real life with sensibility and intelligence and handsomeness and just plain general appeal - and I had his attention. Me. Me? Me. Again, we left the next step open ended and I hoped for a call from him because in my heart, head and belly, I knew. He was marvelous and I had room in my life for him.

I didn't hear from Gus again for about two weeks. Two weeks, I said. While I was relieved that he eventually contacted me, those two weeks were filled with checking my answering machine and mindless distractions. When he did contact me, he was apologetic and confided in me that his cousin had been tragically killed in an accident (I believe it was the night we met or the night after). Michael had an immense love for his cousin and, fortunately, he had just visited him in Washington state -the unspoken decision for Michael to eventually live in the NW had been solidified during this visit. He was hurting - it was clear in his voice. And maybe it was this event that allowed him to dive in head first with me. As Michael would tell me years later while gently grabbing my shoulders during what felt like an exceptionally helpless moment, "How long do you think you have in this life? You get one shot."

Eventually, we would meet again. On this next date, we would get in the old Taurus and head to a friend's party in Federal Hill. The conversation on the drive there:

Michael: Oh, by the way, my name isn't Gus.
Ivonne: Hahah! What? Ha.
Michael: It's just a nickname that my friend Woodrow/Michael gave me.
Ivonne's thoughts: Shit. I forgot my pepper spray.

20 years later, my humble advice to you is to answer that personal ad (with pepper spray in hand).

 My date. One of the finest qualities in him is that he is honorable: moral, honest, ethical.

Plus, he's incredibly handsome and funny.

Dad duties with trombone accompaniment

Running/moving meditation - during which some of our best conversations happen. I swear he is not running away from me.

Enhancing lives in his favorite space: http://enhancinglife.uchicago.edu/

__________________________________________
Top 3 memories from year one with M:
1. Serving him chocolate pecan pie in my apartment. He confesses he could not finish it because it was so sweet and rich. I have never been able to successfully corrupt his only slightly sweet tooth - probably why his teeth are still in good shape!
2. Michael walked several miles though a snow storm to visit me one evening. That is the truth.
3. Sitting in Donna's Coffeehouse one night and discovering the "Passengers" Soundtrack . Afterwards, we walked up St Paul St. to the train station for no reason other than to be together and take in the simple and strange elegance of our gritty Charm City.


http://www.donnas.com/
http://theadmiralscup.com/
http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/texas-pecan-and-chocolate-pie-103169
http://enhancinglife.uchicago.edu/people/consumer-wisdom-a-modern-virtue-for-a-qualitatively-better-and-more-sustainable-economy

Check out this blog , especially the TEDtalks E. Perel gives. Completely worth it.
http://www.estherperel.com/blog/

Valuable Reading...and Rereading

"It is such a privilege to have people who continue each day to bless us with their love and prayer. These inner friends of the heart confer on us inestimable gifts.  In these times of greed and externality, there is such unusual beauty in having friends who practice profound faithfulness to us, praying for us each day without our ever knowing or remembering it. There are often lonesome frontiers we could never endure or cross without the inner sheltering of these friends. It is hard to live a true life that endeavors to be faithful to its own calling and not become haunted by the ghosts of negativity; therefore, it is not a luxury to have such friends; it is necessary." - John O'Donohue, To Bless the Space Between Us, A Book of Blessings

Let me not pray to be sheltered from dangers, but to be fearless in facing them.
Let me not beg for the stilling of my pain, but for the heart to conquer it.
Let me not look for allies in life's battle-field, but to my own strength.
Let me not crave in anxious fear to be saved, but hope for the patience to win my freedom.
Grant me that I may not be a coward, feeling your mercy in my success alone, but let me find the grasp of your hand in my failure.  - Rabindranath Tagore

I suppose I consider this next one a prayer. I used to read it everyday walking into work...

Desiderata
Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and ignorant; they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals; and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be critical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.

And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be careful. Strive to be happy.
- Max Ehrmann

A prayer of Thanksgiving

Garden Meditations 
by Max Coots

Let us give thanks for a bounty of people.

For children who are our second planting, and though they
grow like weeds and the wind too soon blows them away, may
they forgive us our cultivation and fondly remember where
their roots are.

Let us give thanks;

For generous friends…with hearts…and smiles as bright
as their blossoms;

For feisty friends, as tart as apples;

For continuous friends, who, like scallions and cucumbers,
keep reminding us that we’ve had them;

For crotchety friends, sour as rhubarb and as indestructible;

For handsome friends, who are as gorgeous as eggplants and
as elegant as a row of corn, and the others, as plain as
potatoes and so good for you;

For funny friends, who are as silly as Brussels sprouts and
as amusing as Jerusalem artichokes;

And serious friends as unpretentious as cabbages, as subtle
as summer squash, as persistent as parsley, as delightful as
dill, as endless as zucchini and who, like parsnips, can be
counted on to see you through the winter;

For old friends, nodding like sunflowers in the evening-time,
and young friends coming on as fast as radishes;

For loving friends, who wind around us like tendrils and hold
us, despite our blights, wilts and witherings;

And finally, for those friends now gone, like gardens past
that have been harvested, but who fed us in their times that
we might have life thereafter.

For all these we give thanks.

Forgiveness. What the hell is it and how do I do it?

Forgiveness, unfortunately, has been on mind lately. I don't know how to graciously ask for it or receive it and, while I can give it, I'm embarrassed to say that I'm not actually that good at it.

I talk to Michael a lot about the subjects that occupy my thoughts. My writing was his fabulous idea. If he thought it would keep me from "yapping" so much, he was wrong. Truthfully, it's done the opposite - probably opened up a vault of hidden thoughts and words. Recently, I asked him to give me any information he might find related to forgiveness. Michael is an avid reader and is constantly learning. His mind does not stop and I take advantage of that. He sent me this article:

http://www.mindbodygreen.com/0-22322/10-reasons-to-just-choose-to-forgive.html

I don't love the subject line: It's best to leave retribution to the universe. It sounds as if you are waiting for that person who "did you wrong" to get hit by the karma bus when they least expect it. If you read more, you will find the true meaning of karma. I don't define it very well, but in my simpleton words: you create your own inner heaven or hell. You are the master of your well being. If you act like a jerk, you'll probably feel like a jerk (and if you don't, then you are a sociopath and you have bigger issues so, you should get to a psychiatrist).

I'm attempting to understand forgiveness not because I need to hand it out, but because I need to receive forgiveness. If I think for a bit, and not to strenuously, I realize I would need more than two hands to count out the people who probably feel they need an apology from me. When I dissect the situations,  I am painfully aware that most of the "dislike" actually comes from misunderstanding or miscommunication. The good intentions are abundant (I always recall that old Randy Travis song that says something like: the road to Hell is paved with good intentions), and good intentions matter to me, but they don't do too much when you are in urgent need of mercy. I have a few apologies to give, yes I do.

Sadly, the words "I'm sorry", weren't really a part of my vocabulary until adulthood. My husband taught me the value. He's a good man and knows that those two words (or three because, hey, "I'm" is a contraction) are not empty. He has never delivered those words without meaning. And when someone says I'm sorry (in the right tone and humbly - because those snotty, snarly I'm sorries that you know you've heard your children say to one another, don't really count), it matters. It matters a lot. I'm thankful for those words and for being given the opportunity to say them to someone I've hurt.  While being the giver of or the recipient of  forgiveness requires outrageous amounts of vulnerability, it is among the finest gifts we can share. 


I have trouble defining forgiveness. I have to remind myself of what it is and what it isn't. I can not turn to the Bible or any other religious readings to find its meaning. I do turn, however, to science. There are times during which I wish I had the extraordinary religious faith that many of my friends exhibit. I don't. I've tried and maybe someday I will find my answers in religion, but currently, I am a religious mutt and science holds my attention.
This article clarifies it all for me. I read it and reread it.

http://www.pbs.org/thisemotionallife/topic/forgiveness/understanding-forgiveness

 I often feel that forgiveness should be quick and forgetful. I am always disappointed when it is not - which means, I am always disappointed in how forgiveness works. I want to be better at handing out forgiveness (I don't need to do this very often - my closest friends are great empathizers and our wires rarely cross). Family is a bit more tricky. I don't have a thorough understanding of this...yet. Honestly, it seems like an enormous undertaking - coming to some understanding of familial forgiveness and relationships (expectations, disappointment, love, hurt, pain, joy...). It almost overwhelms me.

As mentioned before, I have read some of Nadia Bolz-Weber's writings. I agree and disagree with her, but she is entertaining and so unapologetically human that I can't do anything but adore her. Two of the biggest points I've found in her writings are:

1. You have to learn to live without the apology you think you deserve.
2. You will eventually be disappointed by others. Decide how you will respond.

These are tough lessons, especially because we have all been on either end and have probably agonized over each. I don't personally know anyone that purposely  sets out to inflict pain and suffering upon anyone else (even the passive aggressive nonsense...I can have a twinge of empathy seeing that this is a form of unresolved anger). These two points are like an atomic bomb exploded in my heart.  I owe someone an apology and I don't even know it!?  And, I KNOW I have disappointed others, but not purposefully . Here, I ask for forgiveness for any distress I've caused. 

Wouldn't it be nice if it were as simple as a form letter? If only.

I _________(name), offer an apology for the following reasons: __________.

I mean it, I really do. Can we forget about it now?

Love, __________(name).

I do wish for all of us to have the ability to delicately and gracefully share our hurt when it is necessary for peace or with quiet, but courageous compassion, find a way in our own hearts to bestow mercy upon others. We all need this peace. Whether we are the almsgiver or the beneficiary, we all need the opportunity to do better, to be better.

Crossfit...One of My Other Churches

It has already been established that I am headed to Hell (prior post) so, I typed out the title of this post with freedom and a smile. It's okay, I do go to another "real" church.  I go to church for community, to learn, for forgiveness, and to gain some understanding. Hopefully, I come out inspired to give another week a shot at being a good person. I found this somehow very similar to the reasons I go to CrossFit. Religious church and CrossFit are like fraternal twins on good terms.

When I walk in to CrossFit, I am acknowledged: a hello, a hug, a wave. I am surrounded by friends, old and new.  I know that when I walk in, I am accepted and anything that has happened beyond that door frame doesn't really matter at the moment. My heart is genuinely happy to be present and I've brought a few of my companions - acceptance and well being. Our athletes are filled with hope. What will be the outcome of the challenges we face? We can oversimplify and feel that some outcomes are failures. For example, missing a heavy lift or not being able to complete a workout as we had anticipated. It's never a failure. We are all aware of that. We are all aware that any attempt is moving us toward becoming. In this community, you'll amass the greatest cheers if you are struggling because you are unrelenting - we all appreciate your journey and the "brass ring". When you are successful, we all feel it. It's rather organic, isn't it? When you win, I feel like I won, too. That's fellowship. Every member matters.

A hallmark of CrossFit is the community. Our members have similar objectives and a certain amount of stubbornness! Fortunately, the stubbornness is directed toward barbells. Despite our similarities and differences, our community holds us responsible for ourselves and holds us socially responsible. We are a collective of citizens who are interdependent and share ownership of our community. Go ahead, call it a cult and crack the "Drink the CrossFit Kool-Aid" jokes, I will be the first to offer you a swig from the chalice (which looks a lot like a protein shake bottle) . I firmly believe that people without a community are more prone to mental illness, substance abuse and even, given the right personality, more likely to engage in violent acts towards others (and/or themselves). This particular community may not be for everyone, but it's important to find a community that nurtures your spirit and mind in positive ways.

Recently, I went to a 9:30 class at CrossFit during which I griped about a recent series of events that involved one of my children and the internet. These events were, to say the least, unpleasant and I feel that I failed as a parent.  My 9:30 comrades quickly offered me some hope, advice and more importantly, perspective that included copious amounts of laughter. After a few sets of  back squats, another member chimed in about her recent issue. Granted she is far more level-headed than I am, I believe we both reaped the benefits of our community. The combination of dopamine and camaraderie is enough to cure what ails you. The situation was cathartic (and full of PRs).

I suppose my point is that I am a member of a community that is full of some sort of unspoken intimacy. It's a mutual understanding that we are all trying our best. I am given the benefit of the doubt, and you will be the recipient of such a gift. Inside our walls, we have established a league of givers and takers, winners and losers, lovers and haters and we are all here to encourage you to be your best - no matter which of those hats you're wearing at the moment. When you walk out, start again...renewed and empowered. You have a lot of people who believe in you.

When I walk into my religious church, I'm worn out. I'm looking up, around, over and under for a second chance in the upcoming week. I want to feel better and do better (it wouldn't hurt to look better, either). I find grace at the very start. We open our service with these words, "Come, come, whoever you are...your presence here is a gift. All are worthy, all are welcome." And those words keep me going to religious church and those words, although unspoken, reaffirm my membership in my CrossFit congregation.

Thank you Rachel Karnes Photography!
http://www.rachelkarnesphotography.com/
And, thanks KC Batik for my favorite tank. I love the Burg.
https://www.etsy.com/shop/KCBatik

Jesus and Buddha and all those other nice folks

Lately, I've rediscovered an inner peace. Probably something I have not had inside me since childhood.

Growing up as a Catholic kid, I knew I was going to Hell. At least, that's what I was told. Once, I drew on the wall with a crayon. It was that neon orange color. That delightful crayon probably had the name "Sunny Day Orange" or something very joyful like that. Needless to say, when it was discovered that I had faintly outlined the doorknob to our downstairs bathroom with Happy Orange, I quickly denied the crime. "You go to Hell if you lie", is what I was told. I was 5. I was doomed by the age of 5.

I prayed the rosary. That was not the last time I would turn to Mary and Our Father for forgiveness. No matter how many times I prayed the rosary, it felt useless. I was going to Hell. I went through the motions of Catholic life: First Communion, Confession, Confirmation. I had no idea this was all supposed to have meaning in my life - other than I was trying to sell my entry ticket to Hell.

I remember being Confirmed in college through the Catholic Campus Ministry. We went through many discussions and formalities so that we could be certain we would be prepared to commit to the Catholic Church. I felt ready, I was ready to follow in the footsteps of Jesus. This was the guy that was supposed to save me. His Dad, God, was looking out for me, too.

A few days prior to Confirmation, my Confirmation group met. In the midst of the discussion, I became aware that God was not some fellow high up in a cloud, wearing a toga and a long white beard while pointing a staff at things that he either wanted to create, repair or destroy. What the Hell? He's not a guy? He's not at least a spirit of a guy looking out for me? I was floored. I was angry that no one had ever mentioned God's true identity to me. I felt like a fool, but I committed to Catholicism anyway because it seemed like the right thing to do.

For years I walked around angry at myself for being Catholic. For agreeing to something I did not whole-heartedly believe in, for not understanding it after years of going through motions. Then again, I did not bother to dig deeper to discover what I did believe in. I spent many years just being me...no sail, no paddle, no motor, no extra water, no life vest...nothing. I was wandering, but mostly lost.

 I'm about to turn 42. I've had awhile to think and still retain some level of confusion (this is particularly true since I hit the age of 40). What I know is this: there are a lot of good, admirable people on this planet. Before us, one of those greats was Jesus. He is one of many truly admirable people whose teachings I take to heart along with those of other great men and women. Jesus did not want us to worship him, he wanted us to be good people (act like him). Whoever can teach me to be a good person, whoever can serve as a fine example, I will watch you and listen to you. Buddha, I'm listening. Mother Theresa, show me the way. Gandhi, I'm all ears. We have in our lifetime, incredibly kind people roaming the earth, sending us messages about goodness, hope, faith, healing, understanding. We may not realize it now, but they are out there. I believe that. I'm sure some walk by my side and I don't even know it.

I've discovered a great book as I search for understanding of my own faith, Accidental Saints: Finding God in All the Wrong People by Nadia Bolz-Weber. I've listened to her NPR interviews and find that she speaks my language. I understand what she is saying and she is giving me some clarity and hope that Jesus is not going to stamp my one-way ticket to Hell. If there is hope for me, there is hope for you. The icing is that she's a CrossFitter, so she can't be THAT bad, right?  =)


Here's a link to Nadia Bolz-Weber's interesting insights:

http://www.nadiabolzweber.com/latest-sermons

Thoughts.

9/28/2015

Every time I make food, my boys and husband eat it. I just want them to look at it sometimes so that the food lasts as long as I had intended it to last.

When did entertainment gossip become news?

Who let Donald Trump in?  Can we build a wall around him?

How do you respond to being told  you were "an accident"?  I yelled, "SURPRISE"! I was about 35 when the truth came out. I guess the moment was gone.

My strength is slowly seeping its way in from the outside.

Who decided to polarize everything? Where's the middle ground and more of the "we" not "me"?

Being nice isn't that hard. Being happy is much more difficult.

Google: "Flow". Read the Wikipedia description entitle Flow (psychology).

You're either married or you're not. Act like it.

Apologize. It's worth it.

"No one comes out of childhood unscathed." T.D.

One of the most difficult things I have ever done is to make myself vulnerable. Read some Brene Brown literature.

I believe God and Science can coexist.

Don't we all know by now, without the reminders, that we are each fighting our own private battles?

You are worth the time and effort it takes to feel well.

Kids aren't kids for too long.

Social media isn't really socializing. Somehow, I think it makes you feel more lonely.

I wish I had taken better care of myself when I was younger because now I've found I'd really like to around to see how the story ends.

I love my family - it's through them that I find strength.

My kids know how to deliver an incredible handshake thanks to D. Anderson. This is a great life skill.

I hide my chocolate.

9/11

My son had an assignment today. He was required to interview me about how I experienced 9/11/2001. I can't say my experience is any different than yours. He forced me to think about that day and what, 14 years later, realizations I might have.

He asked me what I remember. I remember being at a story time at a local bookstore and one of the employees interrupted every mothers' attempt to create a peaceful, but eventful morning (story time often leads to good naps) for our children. She hollered that a building was on fire in NYC as was the Pentagon. Story time = over. The rush began. What normally was a 15 minute ride home became a several hours ride. Traffic stopped, people leaving their cars on the side of the road and choosing to walk instead. While the Pentagon was not in sight, the smoke was. It created its own tower into the sky. I remember feeling confused and fearful.

I lived in a neighborhood in Arlington, VA that was a true community so, eventually, when we arrived home, the neighbors all gathered. One of our neighbor's ran an extension cord through their home to the front yard and we watched the story unravel on a small TV. The kids played and we watched knowing that our lives, but more importantly, their lives had changed.

When M asked me today what I've come to believe about 9/11, what I really wanted to say is that our world is a crazy mess. How could I say that, though? So, I thought a little more - not to please him, but to realize my own truth. I told him that maybe 9/11 caused us to open our eyes a little more. To be more aware of other religions, skin colors, ideas, beliefs. I told him that not everyone loves America. We do some things wrong, but we do things right - and we do lots of things well. Our freedom is enviable and unattained by many. There was a time when America seemed unstoppable, unable to be shaken. This was the end of that.

I could argue that this event has led to our own reassessment of our beloved country. Maybe the turmoil we feel and see now is the beginning of a metamorphosis - a change into something more joyful - humane - patient - humble.  If I repeat this enough, I actually believe it.

Road Trip

We drove in to Chicago via Gary, Indiana. If you want to see a current scene from "Mad Max Beyond Thunder Dome", drive through Gary, Indiana. This is America? Gary tops the list of most depressing places I have ever been. I'm sad for Gary. Maybe it can be salvaged.
Yet, somehow its next door neighbor is brilliant Chicago. It was moving and exciting, full of vibrant lives. Sure there was poverty and somehow it blended into the city. (Amazing how acceptable poverty can be. If you're fiercely banging out "That Girl is Poison" on Home Depot buckets, you can have any corner you want.) 

We made our way to the hotel. It was relatively fancy. Hipster fancy. I am not a hipster. At this point in time, it was regrettable. My Chuck Taylors are worn in and my Columbia sports-wear is the neon light that flashes, "Tourist". I'm okay with that, I fit the role of tourist well, especially when I am one.

I amble towards the front desk. I find myself aware of the eclectic lighting, seating and décor. I find myself questioning my fashion choices as I approach Rossi, the desk agent. I wonder if Rossi would ever choose to be friends with me. He is wearing high fashion red pants. His hair is coiffed perfectly with the added shine and benefit of hair products that I can neither afford nor pronounce. No, Rossi is kind, but he is not interested in my sub-urban friendship. He hands me the keys and sends me off to my room with a stiff smile.

http://www.nytimes.com/2015/05/02/business/dealbook/the-enduring-hunt-for-personal-value.html?smid=nytcore-ipad-share&smprod=nytcore-ipad&_r=0


My husband sent me this article as I struggle with worthiness in my career (a short one so far, but a career nonetheless). I don't understand a lot of things in this world, but this is one thing that is clear to me:

"My search for the deepest sources of value is not over, because the journey is lifelong. But one simple principle does seem increasingly evident. We derive the greatest value not by seeking to build a better case for ourselves. Instead, we do so by understanding better what we value most — meaning, what we stand for most deeply and who we really want to be. Then we use that conviction and those skills in the service of others.

We feel best about ourselves when we stop focusing obsessively on filling our own sense of deficit. Making others feel more valued makes us feel more valuable." - Tony Schwartz

 

 

I Wish I Could Stop Thinking of You.

I can’t say I’m surprised that every time I think of her, I get a huge lump in my throat. I’ve wished her away, I’ve wished this feeling away – full knowing that she will never go away. Why is she so important to me? I’ve asked this over and over and I still don't have an answer.

I seem to recall that she was middle aged and had a liver disease. Apparently, she just got a bad liver. That’s some bad luck. The first time I met her, she was in what we call the “short hallway” at the hospital. And if you ask me, the room to which she was admitted always had the patients that wound up receiving a poor prognosis. Her nails were painted, her silvery hair was styled, and she had bright red lipstick. She could wear that bright red lipstick well. It looked good, no amazing, and it spoke to me about her personality. The message her bright red lipstick sent was clear and accurate. She was fire.

That day, her belly was full. She was often an inpatient so that she could get relief from all the fluid in her belly. She would “inflate” in the nursing home where she lived. She couldn’t really get around anymore, she was incontinent and you would never had guessed it had you just laid eyes on her. I would’ve guessed she was out dancing the night before. In any case, that was her situation. At best, not good. We got to know each other. She knew my name, we knew about each other’s lives. Her husband was on the road a lot for work. He could not be with her much because he was out earning money. I’m sure a lot of it went towards her care. We know he loved her despite his absence. She talked about him often and called him often. I imagine him filling some lonely miles with the sound of her voice. She also mentioned her son. Who later, I would discover, was a tall, strong young man. I never doubted he loved his mother either, but both father and son, as much as the love was there, didn’t really know what to do with Mom. She was lovely, but a remnant of her former self.

She came and went from my unit. I lost her a little with each visit. Sometimes her abdomen was the size of a beach ball. Sometimes she forgot me. And when she “got her marbles” back, we would reengage as if nothing had happened. I thought, “Welcome back, I missed you".  We went through this pattern several times over the course of a year or a year and a half. This was my first year as a nurse and she was “that patient”.

Each visit, I saw her worsening. Once, she was tearful. I knew the wastes were just accumulating everywhere in her body. I sat with her as she bawled, calling her husband (who probably was in the middle of nowhere) to tell him how awful the staff was, how we didn’t clean her up, how we didn’t care for her. Her lipstick was gone, her nails were dirty and her hair wasn’t shining or in place. She was crumbling right in front of me. I wanted to jam a syringe in that beach ball. The image of that…a massive leak and sigh of relief. She handed the phone to me and I spoke to her husband. “Do you think I need to be with her?” he asked. Really, he was asking, “Is this it? Is this the end"?  I told him no - I would be with her and he knew it was true. He trusted me and he knew I loved her. I felt that he knew. Our conversation ended there and as I hung up the phone and turned to reassure her, she said, “Girl, your hair looks like a rat’s nest!" She was back for a moment. THAT was her. Thank God for that horrible liquid medication that she willingly gulped down despite the taste and consistency. Miracle in a medicine cup. We had a good laugh and I confessed to her that I had not combed my hair that morning. Who could tell me my hair looked like a “rat’s nest” and not offend me? She could. She could’ve physically punched me in the stomach and we would’ve had a good laugh. As it turned out, the figurative punch was harder to endure.

The next time I saw her, I swear she was in that dreaded room again.  I always requested to have her as my patient. No lipstick, no hairdo - only yellow. A lot of yellow, all over: in her eyes, her skin, and her nails. Her hair was that rat’s nest and she was yellow like I had only seen in a box of Crayolas. We barely had any time to chit chat before her pulse suddenly jumped, her blood pressure dropped and she vomited blood. There was the red again, but this time, so unwelcomed. She didn’t stop vomiting, the smell of old blood and new blood filled the room. She sputtered blood at me when she commented that this situation was bad. There was no bullshitting her, yes, this was bad. Her heart didn’t stop racing and we raced her over to the heart unit and eventually, they raced her to the ICU and finally, they slowly rolled her to that last room on our hallway.

Sometimes you’ll get this room because no other rooms are available. It has a nice little suite attached: sink, microwave and bed …a little extra room for your visitors. If you’re lucky or unlucky, depending on how you look at it, you’ll go there to die. That’s the room designated for death. And that’s just what she did. I didn’t have her as a patient on her last day. Maybe that was a stroke of luck? Her family was there - her son, her husband and a few others. It was the end of my shift and I couldn’t walk away. That room is down the long hall and the long hall must’ve been longer that day, at least, it felt that way.  I selfishly could not leave her and so I entered the room and introduced myself to her husband as we had never met in person. But, he knew me - he knew my voice. He quickly rose, offered a kind handshake, various introductions, and he held on to my hand all the while (maybe I was just hanging on to his). The hand holding wouldn’t last as it evolved into a hug that gave more comfort to me than to him. My God. It was time to go. I hugged her empty shell and moved all the tubes out of my way to give her one last kiss on the cheek.

 And that’s how it is sometimes….suddenly the bed is empty and you think they’d float away from your memory, too, but they don’t. Sometimes you can't let them go. 

MIM

MIM.

 I’m not her mom, I’m not her aunt, and I’m really…nothing in her life except for someone who loves her. My self-imposed responsibilities include: protecting her ferociously, pushing her forward like a freight train towards achievement and carrying her like a fluffy, baby chick. Let’s be clear, she wouldn’t let me coddle her. Simply stated, she is special to me (and probably to most people she meets). I find myself begging the universe to be particularly gentle with her. Her innocence seems more profound to me.  She’ll stand-alone one day. And I’ll still attempt to hold her close even though she’s going to run away.  

Nurse Ivonne

How does anyone survive being a new nurse? Medication immediately comes to mind. Health care providers learn the ropes on live, human subjects who speak, feel and hear. And that was precisely the foundation of my fear when embarking on this journey…this very mountainous, rough seas, tornado-like journey.

I suppose it sounds like an exaggeration. Maybe to you, but for a person who is fully aware that she cannot cure herself of some ailments, a person who lacked confidence and therefore, avoided experiences (that did not involve athleticism – for some reason failure there, was less of a blow) and placed more importance on the potential of doing more harm rather than restoration, comfort or simple care; it was unfathomable. With that mindset, acceptance to nursing school as a 21 year old had to be deferred nearly 20 years.

20 years? Good grief. This seems like an incredibly good time to address achievements. I have a PhD in what if’s, could’ve, should’ve and would’ve. Let’s reflect positively- that’s a new and different approach for me. Immediately after college, I went to Baltimore to learn how to cook…bake, specifically. It was a half-hearted longing of mine. I went for it though, and while I attempted to put some distance between me and myself, it was in Baltimore that I might have been found – at least by someone who believed in me.

I have a silly cartoon of a woman at a vending machine choosing her perfect mate. Similarly, there were personal ads and it was through those ads that I met Michael. First impressions of this fair skinned, dark haired man sitting in The Admiral’s Cup: he has great teeth. It's true, I noticed his teeth. I immediately bet all my chips on this one. It was a safe bet. Where would I be without Michael? I hate to think of it. He is the one. He is the one that never (outwardly- God only knows what he was thinking) lost faith. How he achieved this, I will never know. I am oversimplifying the benefits of having a Michael. 

Then there are 3 kids. 3 boys, 3 incredible achievements who feel and live and are grateful. The have so many opportunities ahead. They do make me happy despite the worry I have about the future. Nothing extraordinary, just the wonder of what will be and the hope that they will feel happiness more than anything else.

Now the boys are growing, in school and it was a good time was right for me to have chosen to go back to school, nursing school. What changed in those 20 years? What on Earth made me think I could do this now?  Honestly, not much in my mind had changed.  The biggest change was having my trusty side-kick, Michael, in my life. Michael encouraged me to set goals, make a plan and to go after even the loftiest. Becoming an RN was the pinnacle of loft. I feared the outcome of successfully completing nursing school. I’d get a job and I’d work as a nurse.  The Nursing Gods would stamp my Nursing card and tell me I was ready to work, ready or not. Holy shit.  I knew that people would count on me. They had no idea I was so green (or did they). All I could do was learn the skills that I had to learn and stay calm on the outside even though the inside was covered in colorful, profanity-laden graffiti.  From assessments to catheters, you spend your whole first year as an RN in a nursing fog and just when you think you can’t swallow anymore knowledge, the manager informs you of policy changes. It’s inevitable. Change, that’s what it’s all about. No….learning to deal with change, THAT’S what it’s all about. Needless to say, the first year was filled with tears. The stress of being someone’s nurse, at times, felt unbearable (let alone being a nurse for 6 people at one time). I continued only because I didn’t want to quit anything anymore. No more giving up on me, I would remind myself. Furthermore, I don’t think Michael would have let me.  Time passed and things felt better. I should say, I had experiences that were both good and bad, and I learned from them. Maybe I should go further and say that with every experience, I became more confident.

My confidence is, at times, fleeting and I tire of meeting standards that are based upon how happy patients are while visiting the hospital. Is anyone truly satisfied in the hospital?  I stay for the challenge, to build my inner strength and mostly, because I adore my patients.  Even though she's in her 40s and looks rather "seasoned", your nurse might be that new gal that's trying to start anew.