Welcome Back!

It has been several years since I last sat down to write for fun.  I can't say why I walked away from writing other than the usual, "I didn't have anything to say" and "Life got in the way."  So what brings me back to the blog after all this time?  Good question.  I can't say exactly.  Perhaps it is that I started to write my dissertation again and I always need to balance academic writing with creative writing.  Perhaps it is that as my children grow, I find that I have more that I need sort out and writing has always helped me to sort out all the messiness in my head.  I don't know that I will write more consistently now, but I feel like I have a few things to work out, starting with how to explain to my  teenager daughter and her friends what it means to be in love.  Wish me luck.

Balance

Balance: Equilibrium or an equal distribution of parts. 

Balance.  Such an easy definition.  Such a difficult concept.  I haven’t struck balance in thirteen years.  It is as if my body houses two vestibular systems-one that is found in the ear and controls the balance of my body, and a deeper system that lies within my head and heart that controls all other balance systems.  The second vestibular system broke the minute a tiny baby started growing inside me.  I have consulted doctors, acupuncturists, personal trainers, therapists, professionals, friends, schools, and books in search for a cure to my disequilibrium.  To date, I have found no such cure.

I can’t quite figure out how to consistently balance between work and family.  I struggle to balance time between each child, my husband, my friends, and my extended family.  I can’t balance between bouts of extreme dieting with bouts of sheer gluttony.  I have no idea how to balance my desire to be surrounded by the people I love with my need for solitude.  I can't balance my own needs with the needs of my children and I certainly have no idea how to make a tripod scale that would also balance the needs my husband. 

When it comes to raising my children, my sense of balance is even worse.  I can’t quite figure out how to balance anything.  How do I teach my children to be successful without cultivating greed, arrogance, and selfishness?  How do I teach my children to be happy with themselves without leading them to complacency, idleness, and lack of intellectual, spiritual, and personal development?  How do I teach my children to strive for excellence without at the same time sending the message that the person they are now is somehow not enough?  How I do teach them justice without causing them look at every situation through the lens of equality or becoming overly reliant on the application of deserts (the justice kind, not the dry, sandy kind)?  How do I protect and guide them without creating dependency and lack of resilience?  How do I teach them that vulnerability and strength can, and should, co-exist?  How do I hold the hard line and help them prepare for adulthood without seeming cold and indifferent?  

I don’t have a great answer-I wish I did.  Here is the only tidbit I have used over the years to help me.  When I look at my children, I ask myself is that behavior something that I would be proud of in adulthood? Am I teaching them moderation-a balancing of all sides-that will allow them to self-determine when it is appropriate to be off balance and when it will be necessary to recalibrate? Am I teaching them to appreciate the nuances of life, the subtle grays of every situation, the beautiful shades of diversity?  I am teaching them to always weigh the issues of humanity heavier than tangible items?  If the answer is no, then I know that I must pay attention and teach them better. 

I hope than in my struggle to achieve my own balance, they are learning their own.  I hope that they are learning to embrace the complexities of life, and of themselves.   Perhaps in helping them to seek balance in their own lives, I will find balance in mine.

Compassion

To all the mommas who secretly envy the fee time divorced mommas get, here is what you don't know: We do all the same work in half the time and send our kids out into the wilderness every time we kiss them goodbye. We spend time apart from our children worrying and trying to figure out how to stay connected and we spend our time together fighting like crazy to keep our kids on the right path and undo what has been done in that time apart. We fight hidden battles no one could imagine. Our hearts get broken again and again and again. We not only battle societal influences and friend influences, but we battle parental influences, which is so much stronger. We go to war every day to protect our children with half our army. The other half of our army has defected to the other side and knows all our secrets, which makes strategy that much harder. We can't give up because they are our children...and yet, it feels hopeless at times because we seem to be fighting a battle that can't be won.

We are all mommas....we are all tired...and we all have struggles...so please have some compassion. Divorced mommas were once full time mommas. We understand how difficult it can be. We know how tired you are. Please try to understand our struggle. Saying things like, "Must be nice" and "Oh, that's right...you only have your children part of the time. You have it easy." is just hurtful and naive. We don't get the day off just because we aren't physically present with our children. We don't get to be perfect mommies that have all the answers and are idolized-every time we send our children off, someone is telling our children how flawed we are. We are doing the same parenting job with half the tools, myths, values, traditions, and supports.

No one questions how difficult it is to be a full time stay at home mother or a working mother. Divorced mothers are all those things and more. We aren't looking for pity. We aren't looking for judgment. We aren't looking for perspective. We aren't looking for a scorecard. We are just looking for compassion.

Beauty Within

captured from Pinterest

~Silly~Careless~Speedy~Loud~Lazy~Worried~Loving~Flawed~Distracted~Sweet~Tender~

~Bleeding Heart~Twinkle~Crinkle~Witty~Scared~Soft~Passionate~Impetuous~

It doesn't matter what words you use to describe yourself, embrace every last one.

 

Make list of your own and then own the list. These words are you and you are your own kind of beautiful. 

Seek others that appreciate your beauty, all of it, unconditionally.

Love yourself.  It's the hardest love to find and perhaps the most valuable.

The Wilderness

Insecurity, stop following me, with your beautiful lashes and your delicious smell.  Your kiss, so soft and so sweet, steals my breath and blackens my eyes. Your siren song ruptures my ears, deafening love.  Your strong embrace is so enticing, but you are no good for me.  So I am leaving you. Please stop following me.  Out in the wilderness, in the speckles of light and shadows of beauty.  Please stop following me with your promises of warmth and belonging.  I am fooled by you no more.  Your whispers of us are silent now.  Out in the wilderness I go, without you.  Out into the speckles of light and shadows of beauty.

Awakening



Morning Light by Anna Razumovskaya

I didn't know I was asleep. My life felt dreamlike-fuzzy around the edges. I felt happy and content, but with a mildly acidic undertone of something more sad, or lonely, or fearful...something that could never quite be identified and was so subtle that it almost felt imagined.  Perhaps it was fear of more- more pain, more of the same, more of the past, more of something I couldn't handle, more sadness for what I would never have.  Perhaps it was fear of less-having less, being less, accepting less, owning less of myself.  It was all very wispy and quiet and when I sat still and listened, I couldn't hear it.  I couldn't hear anything but the whispers of other's dreams that I couldn't distinguish from my own.



As I start to wake, I lay lazy and content, ready to receive.   In the space where sleep and awake mingle, I am still in the mist, letting what is true be revealed to me with the sun. In the past, I would have strained to see with my eyes.  In my forcing, I would mistaken the grayness for something more concrete and I would have called it truth.  Now, I wait as the truth shines through the kaleidoscope of reality and wishfulness. I let the colors dance on my skin-I let them change me, warm me, brighten me. In the space between sleep and awake, I am peaceful and whole.  I can hear the whispers, and they are my own.

Things I lost in the Flood

Tsunamis are odd things.  They start as a disturbance that happens deep under the water.   The movement is slow at first, gaining inertia through the reconstitution of it's own energy, creating slow, long waves that almost appear harmless.  Miles away, unassuming bystanders have no idea what it coming.  There is no storm, no explosion, no breaking of levies, no crumbling of  mountains...there is nothing to signify the impending danger. The sun still shines on the day of a tsunami. Videos of tsunamis often show the victims staring at the large rolling waves, their brains unable to process what is different about the sea.  They stare into the blue, searching and scanning for something-but the same blue waves answer back. It isn't until the floods start to sweep away the structures that have been present for decades that the brain registers the danger. And it is only after the floods recede that everyone returns to survey the damage.

Years ago I experienced a small disturbance that happened deep under the water.  I didn't notice the quiet rumble or subtle shift in the sediment...and yet, it was already moving, changing, growing.  Cut to the present day, I am drenched, gasping for air, and returning to the scene to make a list of the things I lost in the flood.  I surveyed the damage and found that my family, the love for my husband, my career, my education, and my will were still intact.  Here is what I lost in the flood:

1.  My sense of style.  For the past three years I have either been pregnant, nursing, or trying to get pregnant.  I have gained weight and retained water, making me look puffy and lumpy.  I was limited in exercise and forbidden to diet.  I didn't want to spend money on clothes because I might get pregnant again and wouldn't be able to wear the new clothes.  I gave up shopping, accessories, and shoes.  I replaced high heels for tennis shoes and comfortable boots. My designer jeans were tucked away in place of yoga pants and stretch jeans.

2.  My beauty. I gave up all skin care regimens, certain hair treatments, waxes, and manicures and pedicures because of the potentially harmful effects on the non-existent fetus.  I forgot how powerful, put together, and beautiful I felt when I took care of my looks.  As the waves grew stronger, my personal sense of style and beauty began to erode.  It etched my face, dulled my skin, and snuffed out the spark in my eyes, leaving gritty pools of grey underneath.

3.   My sexuality, passion, and fertility.  See above. It is hard to feel sexy and desirable when feeling fat, lumpy, dowdy and old.  My sense of womanhood is intricately intertwined with my sexuality and fertility.  The power of the tsunami ripped them apart from each other, leaving notches and scars where the three had grown as one. Although my fertility perished in the flood, my womanhood and sexuality have remained, temporarily weak, but with a renewed sense of strength now that they have been freed from interdependence.

4.  My smile.  Not the face smile I give everyone, but the smile that happens from the soul and shines outwards,spreading joy and happiness regardless of whether the face smile is present.  It's the smile that doesn't require any effort and that takes my breath away every once in awhile.

5.  My sense of adventure.  I used to be the kind of person who loved to try new things, go new places, break the rules a little, and jump out of bounds every once in awhile just for the thrill. I delighted in creating my future.  Then the tsunami happened and  I became a slave to schedules, to needles, to the unknown.  The future stood still, just waiting for me.  I stood still, waiting for my future.  We stared at each other, paralyzed, waiting for someone to make the first move. 

Last night, as I scrubbed away the soot and the salt and took stock of what was lost, I also started to rebuild. I remembered how to walk in high heels, let the smile shine through my eyes, and remembered how it felt to feel sexy, stylish, and whole.
 
As with any natural disaster, there is much to be rebuilt...and yet, like with any natural disaster, there is an unwavering spirit and a sense of resilience that is revealed.  There is new growth, new developments, new hope, new beauty.

While much was lost in the flood, fertile ground has been left behind, ready to birth a new future, ripe and colorful with possibility.

Little Dreams

Little One,
I have dreamt about you for years.  I can't tell you how many nights I have laid in bed, my hands on my  belly, willing you into existence-or how many times I sat in the silence of my car, thinking of you, almost sure I could see you and feel you growing.  I dreamt of our life together.  I dreamt of you with you brother and sisters, laughing and running around the house.  I have spent countless hours laying on the couch, daydreaming of how you felt in my arms, the smell of your warm milkiness stuck on my skin.  I could see your round pink lips sucking in your sleep and your pillow hand curled around my finger.  I saw you  growing in my belly.  I felt you kick.  I saw you sleeping in the stroller.  I saw your first steps.  I saw you learn to talk, jump, run, and skip.  I saw the day I dropped you off at daycare.  I saw your first day of preschool and your first loose tooth. I saw your sisters hold you and your brother kiss you. My littlest one-I have wished for you so hard that I almost forgot you were just that-a wish, a hope, a dream, a whisper.

Today, I am so sad because I have lost you...not one, not twice, but three times.  You were growing inside me and then you weren't.  I blame myself for  for not being strong enough to hold onto you.  My head knows differently, but my heart still hurts.  I have lost you so much more than that-every month for two years I was sure you were with me, and every month I have mourned the loss of you.  But today, today is the worst because I not only mourn the loss of you-but I mourn the loss of the possibility of you. 

Littlest one, know this-I tried so very hard for you. I wanted you more than anything and I would continue to feel pain and loss for months on end if I knew that eventually I would get to hold you in my arms.  But sadly, the doctor said that isn't possible. I am so sorry.  I am sorry I am old and my body has failed you and your dad.  I am sorry for the life I can't give you or your father.  I am so sorry that my best just wasn't good enough to make it work this time.  I am having difficulty getting over the fact that I have lost this battle.  My body is sore and tender from the anger and frustration that is richocheting inside.  I hate losing-I also know there is absolutely no point in battling God.

Time will move on and you will become a shadow in my heart.  A shadow that I hide with light and glitter because I am afraid of the dark.  I will move on and be happy and live and love and appreciate the gifts I have-but I will always be sad that you weren't able to grow up with me. 

My love for you is great, and I am so sorry it just wasn't enough.

A Love Letter to My Husband

Everyone talks about what love IS.  Weddings almost always include the words, “love is patient, love is kind…”  Greeting cards, posters, and books are filled with what love IS.  Rarely do people talk about what love isn’t.  And yet, I find that the absence of certain qualities is exactly what makes true love different from all other variations of love.  Most people who are in love can point to some example in their lives that supports what love IS…and yet, their lives are also filled with free radicals that eat away at the healthy love and secretly birth cancers that crowd out what is good.  For some, these cancers will be maintained, causing only mild sickness and discomfort.  For others, it will take over until every space where love used to be is rusted and rotted.

True love is the absence of certain things.  It isn’t that two people work to eradicate these things; it is that true love creates the absence of oxygen for these things to live and grow in the first place.  Here is what true love ISN’T:

Judgment: This is the little and the big things.   Judgment hides in little statements that are written off as “just kidding” or “no big deal.”  It ends in “you are too sensitive.” It is veiled by jokes and eye rolls and chips away at the identity and worth of someone else.   Judgment lies in what is said and unsaid and it speaks to how we view each other.  It feels harmless, and yet is perhaps the most cancerous of the ISN’T’s. 

Keeping Score: Love understands the natural ebb and flow in life.  Love ensures that everyone’s needs are met when they need to be met.  It understands that as long as each party is putting the other first, everyone will always be cared for and will feel safe and supported.  Love doesn’t have memory capacity to keep score.  It doesn’t remember inequalities of yesterday, first because it doesn’t have the capacity to view it as an inequality, and second because it is busy making sure everyone’s needs are being met today.

Fear: Fear of losing love.  Fear of being judged.  Fear of not being enough.  Fear that revealing the “true self” will make the other cringe. Fear creates cancer in the heart and the mind.  It causes misperceptions and misunderstandings.  Fear creates the urge to attack in order to protect and hide vulnerabilities.  True love identifies vulnerabilities in the other and helps to protect those vulnerabilities from the outside world instead of using those vulnerabilities to win an argument or hold as collateral.

This seems like an odd love letter to my husband. And yet, before I met him, I didn’t understand that love was not only the presence of certain things, but the absence of other things.  I didn’t understand the power of love to grow and flourish, to be happy and strong.  I didn’t understand how to nourish love and how to protect against the free radicals that hide in the environment.  I would like to thank him for showing me true love.  I would like to thank him for showing me how to love, fully and completely, without fear, judgment, and scorecards.  I would like to thank him for the abundance of beautiful memories of those in existence and of those yet to come.

 Happy Valentine’s Day.

New Beginnings

As many of you know, this isn't my first blog.  I had another blog, fourfunmommy.blogspot, in which I followed my journey to become a mother of four.  I captured my journey through three miscarriages, two failed IUI attempts, and two failed IVF attempts.  When going through these experiences, I found comfort in reading the inspirational blogs of others.  I have decided to keep the Four Fun Mommy blog open should anyone else find comfort from reading about my experiences.  However, since I will no longer be pursuing a fourth child, the blog title suddenly didn't fit my life anymore.  I have started this blog, My Beautiful Life, so that I may move forward and continue to write about everything that inspires me in my beautiful life.  I have transferred over some blogs as these writings reflect my random thoughts.  I could have called this blog Random Thoughts, or My Ramblings, as that is likely what this will look like to others.  I don't spend a lot of time writing, and I don't write all that often.  There are weeks that I write every day and weeks where I don't write at all.  I write only when I am inspired and I don't spend a lot of time worrying about editing or structure. I write from the heart and I write with the intention of capturing exactly what I am experiencing at the time.  Sometimes it's fiction in content, but it is always authentic in emotion.

I love the idea of capturing life in print-through pictures or words.  My new obsession is Pinterest.  No longer do I have random photos saved on my computer.  Now the things that I find beautiful are captured and organized on pinboards.  Anyone interested in my pins can find me at jenlynch2.  So through this blog and through my pins, I am  attempting to capture what moves my heart and my spirit. Hopefully, along the way, I will move someone else as well.

Thank You for My Gifts

I used to think that as a parent, it was my job to impart Gifts to my children. Not the gifts that Santa brings, but the type of Gifts that will live on long after I am gone. I provide them with love and support. I teach them everything, from walking and talking to how to be a kind and generous person, a responsible citizen, a respected worker, a loving spouse, and a selfless parent. I viewed the love of parent and child pulsating between two hearts-glowing and magnitizing-but stronger and brighter in one direction. As a child myself, I have often wondered if my parents have any idea how deeply I love them...yet as a parent, I understand the profound deepness of parental love. A child's job is simply to love, grow up, and grow away. A parent's job is to love, to teach, and to stay still. We are lighthouses atop a rock-a stable beacon of safety and security for our children so that while they may wander, they may always find their way home.


Of course, as parents, we know that it is ridiculous to think our children don't teach us. Our children teach us every day. We learn patience and humility, selflessness and humor. We learn to recapture innocence. Our children force us to cast off our glasses, smeared and chipped from the smog and hardships of life so we can see life with the same brilliance they see- dazzling and sparkling under the virgin sun...all of it wondrous and new. It is in these moments that I am overwhelmed by parenthood. I am weightless in the joy and warmth.


We also know that our children are our beacon of light. Yesterday I was changing my son's clothes and gave him a kiss on his belly. He roared with laughter and shouted, "Again!" I chuckled and repeated....and repeated...and repeated....and repeated. We were stuck in a moment that will now forever be part of my fabric-his damp baby breath soft on my cheek, his warm hands on my face, and his sweet baby scent swirling and mixing with his laughter as it hung around us. We were nose to nose, giggling, breathing each other. In that moment, I was struck that my children are my Gift, straight from God. These moments are what Heaven feels like, smells like, sounds like. In that sliver of space between my nose and his-where we connect as one, in the absence of time and the abundance of light-that is where God lives. In those moments, God shines through my children to show me the way home.


I know that moment wasn't a gift to my son because that moment has already passed through him, indistinguishable from thousands of other moments. That moment was a gift meant for me-a moment captured with my breath and absorbed by my heart.


So while I give my children the Gifts they will need to grow and live well, they give me the Gift of Heaven on Earth each day. They help me to see as a child sees, as angels see, as God sees. Every day they walk me closer to Heaven. While I have been focusing on giving them the Gifts that will sustain them long after I am gone, they have been giving me the gift of Eternity.

Throwing Away New Year's Resolutions

This time of year is my favorite time of year. Not only is Christmas my favorite holiday, but because I work in the school system, I get a vacation between Christmas and New Year’s Day. During this week every year, I play with my children, nap, cook, read, and engage in my guiltiest pleasure-morning news television. The morning news programs tell me why my winter coat is no longer in style, what those crazy Kardashian sisters are up to now, which movies I must see, and how to turn leftover Christmas dinner into quiche. However, there is also a darker side to watching morning news television during this week. This is the week in which the segments are filled with tips regarding New Year’s resolutions. Each day I learn how to do more with my money, get fit, and eat healthier. I watch segments on how to be a better parent, a more dedicated employee, and a more responsible citizen.

What is wrong with all these tips? Well, in short, they make us feel lousy about ourselves. Even the term “resolutions”makes me cringe. Just the act of making a resolution sends a message that we are broken and must be fixed. When we feel incomplete, it changes who we are, how we look at the world, and how we interact with others. We exhaust ourselves trying to hide our flaws, appear perfect to the outside world, and find the cure for our hideous imperfections. Every year, most Americans make a resolution, and every year by February, most Americans have already broken those resolutions. We feel terrible for being such weak and horrible individuals and we spend the rest of the year silently whipping ourselves for our weaknesses, only to begin the crazy cycle again next year. Why do we do this to ourselves?

I am calling for the end of New Year’s Resolutions and the beginning of New Year’s Celebrations. We should celebrate that which is beautiful, special, unique, and ordinary about ourselves. Instead of looking ahead or lamenting the past, we should be still in the moment. Sit quietly. Take in all that surrounds us, all that is within us. We should embrace ourselves, our scars, our soft bellies, and our crinkled eyes- for those scars are trophies of that which have made us strong, our soft bellies reflect time we spent lingering over meals with our friends and family, and every line etched around our eyes tells our story of joy or sorrow. Instead of resolving to change, we should resolve to first love ourselves as whole individuals, perfect and unique, ordinary and rare. Wrapped up in all our quirks and“imperfections,” we are whole, we are worthy, we are special. So I raise a glass and toast to you, for all that you are is all that you need to be in this moment. Happy New Year!

Tips for Halloween

When my oldest daughter was just over 2 years old, I bought her a cow costume for Halloween. She was with me when we picked it out and she mooed and squealed with delight in that warm, sweet baby voice that makes any mother’s heart melt. For weeks before Halloween, she wore the costume, mooing and jumping and laughing. I couldn’t wait to take her trick-or-treating for the first time. She and I were both convinced it was going to be magical. On the evening of Halloween, I woke her from her nap to get ready to go trick-or-treating.
Lesson one: Never wake a sleeping toddler for your own holiday pleasure. She was cranky and miserable. I wrestled her into the costume, convincing her how much fun we were going to have through my own clenched teeth. She refused to go, and I forced her in the name of fun.
Lesson two: Scowling at children as a way of convincing them they are about to have fun is a poor strategy. She cried, whined, and refused to walk. I schlepped her around the neighborhood wearing high heeled boots and a sweater with no jacket, balancing her on one hip while the thin plastic strap of her plastic pumpkin dug into my wrist. I had such high expectations for our first trick-or-treating experience; by the time we returned home, we were both exhausted and frustrated.
Lesson three: Dress appropriately. Halloween is a contact sport, not a fashion show. Wear appropriate shoes in the event that you have to chase children, run from scary costumes, or carry toddlers through half of Catonsville. Dress warmly. Bring the mittens, scarves, parkas…whatever it takes. It is surprisingly cold waiting for toddlers who insist on walking by themselves or supervising teenagers who insist of filling an entire pillowcase with candy.
Lesson three-and-a-half: A good cup of coffee, hot tea, or a glass of wine is not an accessory but a necessity. Good neighbors who gladly refill your glass are cherished gifts.
Lesson four: There is nothing wrong with eating your children’s candy as payment for your suffering. Don't feel bad. When they have children of their own, you can let them in on the secret and they can have their own after-bedtime candy raids. That night I put my daughter to bed, still in the cow costume, and proceeded to eat almost everything in her plastic pumpkin.
A few years later, my younger daughter hit the same age and I excitedly pulled out the same costume. Just like before, she mooed and giggled until the big day. Just like before, when Halloween came, she was tired and cranky. I had learned my lesson and so when she refused to put up the hood on the costume, I didn’t fight her. It was so cold, she had to wear a coat and no one could see the costume anyway.
Lesson five: Don’t sweat the costume. No one is going to refuse to give candy to a child because they can’t tell if the child is a cow, a dalmation puppy, or Lindsay Lohan. A few years later, the same daughter couldn’t wait to be Tinkerbell and then cried and ran away when I tried to attach the wings. As an experienced mom, I threw away the wings with a smile and secretly ate her candy after she went to bed as payment for trekking around two Targets and the mall to get the perfect Tinkerbell costume, complete with wings.
My girls are now twelve and nine. The benefit of older children is that they walk by themselves and collect their own candy. The downside is that they are no longer happy to walk the neighborhood; they now need to walk every neighborhood in Catonsville in search of the “perfect score.”
Lesson six: End all fights about candy by eating it yourself. My brother and I used to come home from trick-or-treating and would spend the night bartering and trading candy with each other. My daughters do the same. They have learned not to argue because mom will eat whatever candy is the object of discussion. Thank goodness they have learned their lesson because a grown woman can only eat so much candy in one sitting.
My son is almost two and so, once again, I am preparing for Halloween with a toddler. The entire family chose the perfect Halloween costume for him. We purchased the most adorable golfer costume, complete with knickers, tasseled shoes, and a hat. Of course, his feet are too fat to fit into the shoes, he refuses to wear the hat, and when I gave him the stuffed golf club, he threw it on the floor and got his real golf club. I am already prepared that he won’t wear his costume and he will end up toddling down Montrose Avenue in his pajamas and winter coat. All the experienced moms will smile at me and raise their wine glasses as they stroll down the street in their tennis shoes and parkas. I will bring the stroller and he will refuse to get in it because his sisters are walking. Every time someone puts candy in his bag, he will likely cry and toss it on the ground. The girls will insist on hitting every house and I will return home slightly frostbitten. After they go to bed, my husband and I will raid their candy and then vehemently deny it in the morning as we shake off a sugar hangover. It sounds like a bit mess, but I will have had a great time...and hopefully, if I did it right, the children will have enjoyed it too.
Final lesson: Relax, go with the flow, have fun, and don’t take it so seriously. It’s just Halloween. Oh, and don’t forget to save the best candy for yourself.

The Light of 911

I lost a school friend on September 11, 2001. She was on Flight 93. Tragedy brings 'close friends' out of the woodworks. I wasn’t one of those friends; I didn’t even have Liz’s email address. We were on the same sports teams and in the same activities in school. We had a few sleepovers during a brief period of closeness in high school and went our separate ways in college. We both were in retail management after college and would infrequently run into each other and have lunch to catch up. I liked Lizz a lot and I consider her a friend, but we weren’t close. Yet on the afternoon of 9/11, every memory I ever had of Lizz crowded the room leaving no room for me to breathe, or even stand. I was suddenly inexplicably connected to her. Every similarity from our careers to our hair color tied me to her. I felt immediately interchangeable and it shook me to my core. My own mortality had been challenged to a duel and I knew that in the end, there was no winning that battle. How could someone so lovely and talented with such a promising future be taken away at such a young age? She didn’t have the chance to walk down the aisle, start a family, or share in the simple joys with her friends. Why was my imperfect self in my very imperfect life still here?
September 11 temporarily shaped the lives of millions of Americans, and I am no different. I swore to appreciate life, to take every opportunity that presented itself, to hug my children longer, and to live with purpose. But like most Americans, life became crowded and there was no room to savor and act on such ideas. Plus, for me, my own life and internal chaos was so loud it was hard to hear my most intimate thoughts telling me to quiet down and listen the lessons of Lizz’s story.
Just like for most Americans, every September the story of 9/11 sweeps in like high tide and recedes again just as quickly. We are all shocked each year how it still stings and burns, as if the loss is fresh. The emotion moves so quickly, we can’t grab hold of it. Frankly, for many years I didn’t want to grab hold of it because the loss of Lizz and thousands of others in contrast to the life I wasting was so painful that I just wanted to shut my eyes and wish it away. However, just as each tide slowly changes the landscape of the sand, so the emotional tide slowly changes me.
With every passing year after the remembrance of 9/11, I continue to make small changes in my life that bring me greater peace, greater purpose, greater love, greater appreciation. I have seen interviews and spoken with Lizz's family members, who always show great restraint, love, compassion, and forgiveness. Lizz’s sister wrote a blog in which she talked about writing letters to her sister. I could see the space in her life where there should be a sister and the pain she felt from having only that space as a constant companion instead of a living, breathing sister. She spoke elegantly and with great love and kindness in her heart in a way that no one that has lost their most beloved family member should be able to do. I would like to thank the Wainio family for showing me how to be great. I will never be able to express my sorrow for what their family has experienced in a way that wouldn’t sound shallow or hollow. However, Lizz and her family have very slowly moved the sand for me.
Every year I am reminded of how precious life is and every year I am reminded to pay attention to things that matter and forget the things that don’t. Every year I recalibrate, refocus, and renew the spirit. This week we are once again reminded to pay attention, to value love, to lead life with love and kindness and forgiveness and compassion.
Lizz may not be here anymore, but she is still a friend I run into occasionally- only now we don’t catch up about the past, but she helps me to move into the future with greater purpose. Thank you Lizz for your greatness. Thank you Wainio family for the light you continue to shine. Thank you to all the 9/11 victims and their families for your greatest sacrifice. Your loss is not in vain. We are a stronger nation and stronger individuals as a result.

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Orioles Magic, Will it Happen?

I am an Orioles fan through and through. I don’t think I have a choice; it’s part of my history. My grandmother was a diehard Orioles fan. She would make dinner while listening to the game on her radio, which she propped against the screen in an open window for the best reception. She would read the morning paper and grumble about a trade and get in heated conversations with anyone about the strengths and weaknesses of the team. She passed her passion onto her boys, who passed it onto their children. When I think of summer as a child, it was marked by baseball in every way. It was our lullaby that rocked us to sleep at night, our leisure activity, the background of most events, and theme that ran through most conversations. My father watched the games on television with the sound muted so he could listen to the commentating on the radio. If we were so unlucky as to have to travel during a game, the game still came with us through static filled air waves. There would be times that the static was so loud we couldn’t hear the plays at all, but my father would shush us and listen ever so carefully, only to cheer to curse at something he heard behind the static. Our favorite family outing during the summer was Buck Night at Memorial Stadium. My mother filled thermoses full of fresh lemonade, wrapped hot dogs in foil, and packed our gloves. We sat in the bleachers and ate our picnic, listening to the crack of the bat, the roar of the crowd, and the call of the vendors. The air was hot and wet and smelled of stale beer, cigarettes, and hot dogs. It was the smell of the stadium, the smell of baseball, the smell of summer. We screamed “Charge!” and danced to John Denver and wished we were the lucky soul that just heard, “Give that fan a contract!” It was a time of the greats: Dempsey, Ripken, Murray, Bumbry, and Palmer. Fathers watched wistfully at the Ripken clan, wishing they could be the proud father waving their son on to home in the big leagues. We cheered when Earl Weaver gave us fireworks and we booed when we heard Jim Palmer was hurt, again. At the end of the night we would sit in traffic for hours trying to get home. We listened to the post-game show and recapped every amazing play. We didn’t mind. We were proud to be Orioles fans. I miss those days. I want to be able to pass on the Oriole pride to my children, but it’s hard to do when we have nights like the other night when we were down by nine runs at the end of the first inning. All over Baltimore there are conversations about what has gone wrong with the Orioles. Is it ownership or management, bullpen or bats? Everyone has a theory. Some have gotten so disgusted that they have put away their orange and black. Others have stopped watching all together. Baltimore is tired and broken, mourning the loss of a team we once knew and loved. While some think our glory days are behind us, I believe we are in a temporary slump. Baltimore is a proud city. We are a loyal city. While we may say that we have given up hope, we can’t shake the Orioles. Our blood runs orange and black and we can’t deny what is part of us, part of our history. We are 33rd street and Camden Yards, Robinson and Roberts, and everything in between. Deep in our bones, we remember what it was like to be great. While we may say we have given up all hope, I believe most of us are just waiting for the magic to return to Baltimore. I just hope it happens soon; there is a whole new generation eager to make new baseball memories.

A Call for More Responsible Voting

John Adams once said, “In a large society, inhabiting an extensive country, it is impossible that the whole should assemble to make laws. The first necessary step, then, is to depute power from the many to a few of the most wise and good.” I tripped across this quote the other day and it gave me pause. I have always viewed our elected politicians as mere representatives of the larger population. Campaigns and elections are built on the concept of selecting a person to go to Washington to represent and reflect the views of the larger community. As citizens, we have visions of our representatives sitting in on the Hill saying, “The people don’t agree and since my votes represents them, I vote nay.” Of course, that isn’t how it really works, and this is why the general population is angry. In politics, there is maneuvering and deal making, party lines, political favors and promises. There is no representation of the people, except in rhetoric and sound bites. Somewhere between John Adams and John Boehner, our political system has moved from the responsibility to govern to the responsibility to maintain power. This isn't the fault of those elected, but the fault of those who elected them. Our forefathers laid down specific guidelines that we have ignored. They asked us to select the good and wise, not the greedy and petulant. This is where we, as Americans, have failed ourselves. We have become careless citizens, ignorant and lazy, dismissive of our power and responsibility to vote for those most qualified to lead us. We vote because we like someone’s smile. We vote because they look like us, talk like us, are of similar intelligence, and check the same party box. We vote based on promises that are appealing to us as individuals and forego the needs of the country as a whole. We vote because we don’t like the last guy or because our lives don’t feel better since we last voted. We vote for the person with the better sound bites. We forget that we aren’t voting for student body president, but for elected representatives that govern our entire country. The competence of our leaders is a direct reflection of the care we take in selecting them. As citizens, we have the responsibility to select our leaders with care; we should be choosing educated, thoughtful, wise, and careful men and women to lead and govern. We don’t need leaders who think like us; we need leaders who think better than us. During this debt crisis, the concern isn’t that there won't be a decision. Come next week, a decision will be made. The concern is that it won’t be the best decision because as Americans, we have not chosen our best, most wise men. We have chosen rookies, mavericks, outliers, and fringe characters who are nothing more than sound bites. We proudly chose officials that know less about world history, geography, and government than us. We didn't choose leaders based on credentials, but lack thereof. American voters have behaved like children, choosing the most popular kids who foolishly promised recess every day. It’s the Lord of the Flies in government right now and it’s our fault as voters. We didn’t vote for the grown-ups who could responsibly manage complex economic and political issues, we voted for the cool kids. May this debt crisis be a wake-up call for all Americans to be more thoughtful and informed voters. We can no longer make decisions based on party lines, personal convictions, charisma, or flashy campaign ads. We have a responsibility to use our vote wisely. We need a collection of men and women who are much smarter than us. We need leaders who can come together and make decisions that are about governing, not about politics. We need a collection of men and women dedicated to the preservation of the country and not the preservation of power. We need a collection of the most wise and good. We can save our popularity votes for American Idol.

Running Away

I used to run all the time. I would run for close to two hours every day. People run for a variety of reasons-some like the health benefits, some like the runners high, some like the toned legs and flat belly, some like the peace, some like the challenge. I didn’t run for any of those reasons. I ran to keep my chest from exploding with pent-up anger. I ran to look good-not for myself or for others, but so that the darkest part of me would stop screaming at me about my flaws. I ran from a bad marriage, from a frustrating existence, from a sense of worthlessness, from a past I couldn’t escape, from all the bad decisions. I ran away. I ran to undo time. I ran to speed up time. I ran until I was exhausted and the voices in my head would be so tired, they would be still for a bit. I ran to sweat out the dark, sticky muck that was clogging my heart, dulling my senses, and weighing my limbs. I ran to think. I ran to sort through all my messy thoughts, which would race as quickly as my feet until we were both empty and exhausted. I ran towards something I couldn’t find.

I don’t run anymore. I don’t have to. I no longer feel the need to run from anything or towards anything. I don’t have to sort things out or try to carve my body back into my younger self.

Today, I went walking. As I looped around the river, I watched hundreds of insects dot the top of the water, giving the impression of rainfall on the otherwise still brown surface, and I thought, ‘bugs.’ I saw a caterpillar precariously creeping across the path and I thought, ‘caterpillar.’ I saw a leaf, crumpled and trampled on the ground and I thought, ‘leaf.’

I heard the swoosh swoosh of my own footsteps and I thought nothing. My mind was still. Peace had caught up to me because I had stopped running.

The Man and The Boy

I see a man. The man stands tall, proud, pure. He is a good man with a good heart. He believes in love, family, justice, peace, decency, honor. I see a boy. The boy cries for the childhood lost, the memories tainted, the scars, the wounds, the loneliness, the hurt. The boy cries for himself. The boy cries from guilt. The boy cries from anger. The boy cries from sadness. The boy cries from fear of the darkness of his thoughts. The boy cries all the tears he never cried. The boy desires to please, to smooth, to forget. The man knows these are childish thoughts. There is no forgetting, no undoing. There is only movement forward. Through pain. Out of childhood. Out of the past. The man weeps for the child. He weeps for his foolishness. He weeps for his innocence. He weeps for all things lost and all things that will never be lost. The two weep together until they are one.

Love Is...

Love isn’t a feeling or a passion, it’s a series of small actions shared between two people. It isn’t big events or grand gestures, but the things that happen in the little spaces, the small breaths, the silent seconds of every day.
Good love knits together these actions and these moments into a tight weave, folding the fabric back on itself time and time again until a thick quilt is formed, creating a cocoon for those wrapped inside. It offers protection, warmth, safety, comfort.


Bad love tries desperately to string together a series of big actions using big looping stitches, trying to shortcut and ignore the strength of the small stitch. The knots and stitches are loose, lumpy, and uneven. In the end, there isn’t a fabric but more of a moth-eaten bit of cheese cloth. Those that have woven this fabric foolishly think no one sees the holes. When others aren't looking, they pull and tug, stretch and fluff, desperately trying to smooth over, plump,and brighten the coarse bits of fray. They try to wrap themselves, but find only a fight with the other for warmth and protection. When one wins, the other loses. The fabric isn’t big enough for both. Both are left bitter, cold, shivering,and exposed to the elements.

The Feeling of Love

When I first met my husband, I couldn’t remember what he looked like the next day. Even after several dates, when we would meet, I was always surprised by his appearance. There is nothing wrong with my husband’s looks; I kept forgetting what he looked like because for the first time, my heart served as my eyes. My vision of what is true and good is much better this way. I should have used this technique a long time ago-I could have saved myself a lot of trouble trying to make the ugly pretty.


The night we first met, there was a hum and a pulse that slowly moved us through space towards each other. I didn’t notice. I was still seeing with my eyes. In blurry moments of rich darkness and laughter, we were together, alone, in a crowd. The hot night air wrapped the two of us up tightly. The hum and the pulse smothered the noise from the outside world. I remember his laugh tickling my ear, the gentle touch of his hand on the small of my back, the feeling of the night air on my skin as it drew us together. The world faded away. I could almost see the light connecting our hearts and pulling us together. Not a rope of light or an extra-terrestrial beam of light jetting out from our bellies, but a glow and a hum that is silent and invisible, blinding and deafening. Encapsulating us. Protecting us. When I think of my husband, I don’t see a body or a paycheck, labels, skills or scenes…I see the light and the hum-it draws me in, wraps me up, and keeps me safe.

He is the warm breath on the nape of my neck- the open, relaxed lips and brush of the nose right before a kiss-the eyes that I fall into and hope to get lost in forever. He is the nook of his neck where my head fits perfectly and I lay contently, breathing in the sweet fragrance of soap and shaving cream. He is the arms that wrap around me to block out the world and squeeze out my demons, keeping me safe from even myself. He is my harbor, my home, my life, my light, my redemption, my salvation, my love. I am me. He is him. Stripped down. Honest. Naked. Whole. Complete. Perfectly Imperfect.

I see him best when we are together, tangled and melted into one, eyes closed, breathing each other, with no beginning and no end. With every breath, we melt deeper into each other, into the universe, into ourselves. We are limp with light and warmth- like napping in warm sand. Our love rushes in and settles like a tidal pool, warm and safe and playfully inviting. This is what love looks like feels like to me.