Oh Dad. You're everywhere.

Oh Dad, from the time I was a child, being forty years older than me,  you reminded me that you would not be around forever. It sounded morbid. But I understand what you were doing. You’d talk about the circle of life and of all the generations that had come before you. Still, Mom and I used to tease you for your serious matter-of-fact talk, “Where you going, Dad? Are you leaving us soon?” we’d ask. Mom would brush off your talk. But you gave me decades of preparation for this. And in the past few years, you ramped up that preparation. You set out your wishes. You made clear your intentions. You did not fail us children in any way. Oh but Dad. I wanted another summer of daily living with you. I wanted more time. But Dad, this summer I am seeing and hearing you everywhere. I just can’t believe that you’re really gone.

You were everywhere today. I saw you in the faces of old men who held the door open for me, and in the Maine Maritime football t-shirt I saw another man wearing. I thought of you making pancakes for us and I saw you again pretend to drop mine on the floor. Oh how you’d laugh at the memory of how I called you out on that-- the one time you really did try to serve me a pancake that had fallen. Oh how I miss your laugh!

I saw you ordering ice tea with lemonade and I heard you call the waitress “honey” or “darling” before you stopped, attentive to my lectures to you on how those names sounded sexist or too flirtatious.  I had a panini for lunch and heard you exclaim how delicious these warm sandwiches are--how the cheese melts and the bread gets so crispy. I remember how thrilled you were with all the different kinds of cookies I baked and packaged up for you and Mom this past Christmas. Oh how I will miss cooking and baking for you!

I hear you snicker at how I prefer liquid soap over bar soap and tissues over a cotton handkerchief. I see movies and books I want to buy for you. I think of the list of movies you borrowed from me for those long winter months, and the way you’d loved the first Ken Follett The Pillars of the Earth book. While out shopping today I even saw dresses for me that I knew you’d exclaim made me look beautiful.

I see you bend over the recliner to ask Mom if you have kissed her yet today, and I see you brush her cheek with your lips before you turn around to wink in my direction. I love how devoted you always were to Mom. Always a gentleman. I hear you telling Paul one more time to make sure he wears his retainer now that his braces are off, and how you wish you had worn yours like you were supposed to, all those years ago. I hear you telling Eric about the next project the two of you would do at camp this summer. I hear you ask me where your packets of Sweet-n-Low are in my cupboards, and I see your flashlight on my bedroom bookshelf, the one you placed there so you could use it to navigate your way in the “Walker Inn Suite” each Christmas Eve.

When we went to Goodwill today, I thought of your joy at finding another bargain at the St. Martin’s Thrift store. I saw your old red truck behind me on the road and I could have sworn I saw your yellow AARP Fraud Fighter t-shirt in the audience at Sunday’s matinee. I heard you singing the show tunes from my latest musical and asking the girls to write down the lyrics so you could learn them.

It is the dailyness of life that we seemed to appreciate most when we were together. We were relaxed and natural in our time together. No formalities. No need to impress. They say that when a loved one dies, there are so many regrets. But, I don’t know, Dad. I know I never liked listening to you discuss the world I’d live in after your death, but I was listening, Dad. More than you may think I was. And one thing I know for sure, is that the only regret I truly have is that we do not have more time to enjoy all the little things we would have continued to share together. But I promise you, Dad. I am going to live and love this world fully. I am going to continue to appreciate each day and I am going to love my children fiercely until the day I join you again. Be ready for me when that day comes, Dad. I owe you a pancake with special seasoning.

Sleep well, my dear daughter

The past few years have been challenging, to say the least. The security of my home and my family’s well-being was turned upside down in 2011, after I took on the care of a troubled teenage girl. My beloved dog of nearly 17 years died that year too. The following year, we learned we would lose my mother-in-law to cancer. She died a day before my son’s 13th birthday last November. My husband had a tough school year after that and that stress took its toll on us. Then, this past month a mammogram directed me to have a breast sonogram which now leads to a biopsy tomorrow. In the midst of these various cancer tests, my Dad had a massive heart attack and died. Yes, it’s been hard couple of years, but I will not say that I have had it any worse than anyone out there. We all have our battles, and my blessings far outweigh any hardship I face. I fully understand and appreciate that.

However, feelings are feelings. I have a right to feel what I feel, and I give myself permission to express those feelings as I need to. You see, those challenges I have faced, and continue to face, have taught me incredible lessons. The most important lesson I have learned is that I know who I am and what I am made of. I know that I turn to writing to make sense of my feelings. In writing and in sharing my feelings with others, I heal myself.

I also know that I am strong and I am brave. I am trusting and loving. And when I open my heart, it does not happen without full acceptance of the consequences. Do I get hurt? Of course. I am not immune to heartbreak and pain. But I am not afraid of being hurt, because I know I can work through any injury life throws at me. I am not inviting pain; it’s just that I know I must risk being hurt because by opening my heart, by trusting, and loving fully, I reap great joy and I find peace.

So why am I writing these words tonight? Well, because I promised myself that as of July 1st, I would start writing blog entries again. But I made this promise prior to the unexpected death of my Dad on June 15th. Two weeks and two days later, I see the clock and it tells me I have less than 45 minutes before it is July 2nd. I’ve been thinking of this promised post for awhile now. I tried writing it a few days ago, only the words would not come. I felt scared. Threatened. Silenced. What could I say? How could I possibly write about my loss? And if I tried, how I could I ever find the perfect words?

Today, as I drove with my husband, we talked about my Dad. My words got caught in my throat at times, but I told Eric that one thing I am happy about, is that I was always honest with my Dad. We were honest with each other. We laughed, we talked, and yes, we sometimes argued. He was bossy at times but I can be bossy too. And he knew that I was smart and opinionated just like he was. He and I had a lot in common. We were both fierce and determined to meet our goals. We worked hard but we were affectionate and demonstrative with our loved ones. And whenever I could not say what I needed to say in person, I turned to writing and I shared openly with my father. My Dad also turned to writing and he always gave me credit for the way in which he began keeping journals in the last few years of his life.

Last January I was hurting. I was completely distraught after having a bad day complete with car problems, but more than anything I was suffering from an overabundance of guilt. I wanted to do more for my Dad and yet I could not. He was caring for my Mom and it was a lot of work to do so. As I cried to myself, I heard many voices late that evening. Voices telling me not to write to my Dad, not to share my feelings with him. Voices that tried to tell me to keep my feelings away from him, to not be so selfish in putting my own troubles on him. That I should hold back and keep quiet, out of some sense of protection of him. He had enough to deal with in caring for my Mom. But as I sat with the rest of the world asleep, I trusted my gut and I wrote to my Dad. I poured my heart out to him, just as I always had. I told him about my day and of my anxiety. I told him I had always envisioned doing better by he and Mom. I finished my email letter and I shakily hit “send”. Less than an hour later, just as I was about to power down my computer and head to bed, my Dad sent a reply. His letter to me gave me absolution and reassurance for all that I was going through, for all that I was feeling. After telling me that sometimes he wonders how I do everything that I have to do, day after day, my Dad wrote: “Sleep well, my dear daughter--I love you”.

Others may judge me for being as open and as honest as I am, for sharing my heart the way I do, and that’s okay. My way is not the right way for everyone, but it is right for me. And in regards to what I am feeling now? Well, I know what I had with my Dad and I know who I am and what I am made of. I am my father’s daughter and he is proud of me. There are no perfect words for this return to my blog writing. There will never be perfect words to fully express the love I have for my Dad or for the feelings I am feeling as I mourn this loss. But I am going to continue to trust my gut and to know that my father always had my back and he will continue to understand me. No voices will convince me otherwise. I realize that I’m far from being able to say everything just right tonight. But I’m being honest. And Dad, I will sleep well tonight. I love you.

A Vulnerable Rose

It’s been a tough week. Seven days ago I was so fragile that had someone touched my shoulder I swear I would have crumbled into dust. I’ll come back to that day in a few minutes.

On Monday my ears were hurting again. I began to worry. I was starting the second week of pressure around my ears. The feeling that they needed to pop, as though I was climbing in elevation, was unsettling. By Tuesday I knew it was time to see a doctor. I made it through the school day and figured out the timing of getting to a quick care facility so I could have my ears examined. I returned home with some ear drops and instructions to take a decongestant but was told this was something that would take time to clear up. Still, I was happy to have the reassurance that I was not in any danger of losing my hearing.

The next few days brought more discomfort and fatigue. I tried to take each day as it came, but my nerves were shot with work stress and anxiety. I found myself in bed by 6:30pm on Thursday and on Friday I patted myself on the back for staying up until 8:30pm. Awakened by the dog early Saturday morning, I pulled myself out of bed and made my way downstairs, calculating the number of hours I might still have for sleeping if she did her business outside and came straight back in to eat her breakfast.

But then I opened up my school email. In it were some missing journal entry assignments a student of mine had sent. I decided I’d read a few of his entries as I waited for the dog to come back inside. And that’s when I came across these words. In response to an article I had given my students to read, my student wrote: 

I can’t agree more with Laurie Okin when she says “..arrogance prevents vulnerability, and you can’t have good work with that.” Great things oftentimes come from when you’re feeling your most vulnerable. If you shield yourself off from things that make you uncomfortable or never step out of your comfort zone you won’t get as far in life as those who do. You have to have the confidence to let yourself be vulnerable. As I mentioned earlier in the year, one of the reasons I signed up for Drama II and auditioned for the play was because I wanted to step out of my comfort zone. I knew nothing about acting and wanted to test the waters. Even sticking your toe in requires a bit of confidence that it won’t be bitten off. But you’re letting yourself take that chance. Hell yeah I was nervous when I started. But the longer you’re in the more you feel like swimming. Now I love being involved in plays and am looking for another to audition for. If I hadn’t taken that chance by stepping out of my comfort zone I never would’ve known that being in a production could be so much fun.

I remember my Mom often saying the phrase, “Out of the mouth of babes”. This phrase came to mind as I read my student’s words. Here I am, experiencing an enormous degree of vulnerability this week--physically, mentally, and emotionally--and a young man I had led to taking my Drama class and to auditioning for the last production of the year, was offering me a poignant reminder. The student was teaching the teacher. Now let me return to what happened last Saturday.

I was on stage, rehearsing for an upcoming production with community theater. I am playing Rose, the overbearing stage mother in the musical, “Gypsy”. The show ends with a big blow out fight between Rose and her daughter Louise. Rose is finally put in her place during that fight and leaves Louise’s dressing room. She is seething as she reacts to her daughter’s words. “What did I do it for?” Rose asks herself. She is hurt at being pushed aside. She doesn’t want to let go of her Louise’s career. She fumes and begins a song, “Rose’s Turn”. It is a song full of raw emotion.

I began the song in the final few minutes of our three hour rehearsal. I knew there was much being expected of me in this number. I wanted to shine. But I was distracted by the sights and sounds of my own daughter and her classmates and teachers who were assembling in the lobby outside of the auditorium. They were scheduled to do some filming for a school project. The door was open and I was spewing Rose’s lines. I had one foot in the role of Rose and one foot planted firmly in the role of Anne, Emma’s mother. I kept singing. Then Emma’s teacher was there in the back of the auditorium. He’d never seen this side of me, the actress. I suddenly felt insecure. Emma’s classmates were peeking inside. I kept singing. But it felt like a bad performance rather than a rehearsal. I wasn’t ready for anyone to see me as Rose. I didn’t feel ready. I was distracted and suddenly I needed to stop. I was just a little ways from the end of the song. The director was confused as to why I had stopped. I saw the teacher go over to explain we needed to clear out of the space. My eyes began to water. I could barely speak. I tried to explain what I was feeling but I didn’t really understand it myself at the moment. I stammered out a few sentences, said I was okay. And I left. And I cried all the way home. Taking refuge in the recliner for the rest of the afternoon, I felt embarrassed.

Whether my head and heart were spinning out of control due to ear pain, exhaustion, fear or embarrassment last Saturday does not really matter. What matters is that I felt exposed, vulnerable. Rose is a role that challenges me unlike any other role I have ever had on stage. I knew this to be true when I accepted the role and the truth is, the challenge was, and is, exhilarating. Rose is a strong yet broken. She is hard and harsh yet damaged. She makes promises and has good intentions but she drives off the people who love her. She steals and yells and makes elaborate plans in search of stardom but thinks she is doing it out of love. She goes too far. She uses people. She is infuriating and selfish and desperate. Unlikeable, really. She just doesn’t seem to understand what she does to other people. Yet there is something in her desperation that has me rooting for her.

And now it is time for me to root for ME. I am now in need of finding that resolve I have inside of me that knows exactly what my student is talking about. My vulnerability as an actress will allow me to do great things. I know this to be true. I may have stumbled last Saturday but I can do this. I know I can. I have a lot of work ahead of me. Hell yeah I’m nervous. I’m doing much more than putting my toe in the water. I’m taking the plunge. The pressure is in more than my ears. But with more practice, and with my eye on where that life preserver is stationed for the next panic attack, I’ll be swimming in no time.

A Mother, Faults and All

“Surrender not only to the physical pain of childbirth but the far deeper, unending heart pain of letting go, letting go, letting go –  from the womb, from the arms, from the front door...know that umbilical cords can be cut — but heart strings never can”.  --www.aholyexperience.com

I am the Mom of three on Earth with a fourth up in Heaven. I carried each of them inside me, doing what I hoped was enough to give them life. Knowing I was pregnant in April 1991, nine months before I first saw Sydney Rebecca’s face, I pause to think today how I’ve been a Mom for nearly half of my life.

When Sydney was born I began months of creeping to her side. Is she still breathing? Is she warm enough? Too warm? When she cried and cried, before I realized she was not getting enough from me and needed formula, I walked her under the kitchen pot lights for hours to soothe her. In her toddlerhood we played with laundry baskets and cool whip containers which made wonderful hats, and we cuddled and giggled as we read book after book. At night, I took my spot on the floor next to her crib. Sydney extended her hand through the bars to find me. For months, she drifted off to dreamland clutching my hand.

When I was expecting Emma I received false news that she was not healthy. Enduring tests, I waited by the phone for the diagnosis. When it came and they gave the “all clear”, I breathed for the first time in weeks. After her birth, I returned to months of making my way to the side of a crib. By then I knew which floorboard to avoid so as to make a silent entrance. At her changing table Emma would shake her arms, the first sign of bottled inner excitement and enthusiasm for life that would carry her through childhood and into her teens. There were also years of night terrors. But I learned how to endure the fright of those terrors and how to best bring her out of them. I read every article I could find. Why was she having them? Was she okay? Could I prevent them? She’d wake in the morning, completely unaware of them, and thankfully they stopped as she grew older.

Before I carried Paul, I lost a baby. Losing a child, even one that you never meet, forever changes a Mom’s heart. But I know that Joy is watching over us all and that I’ll meet her someday. And I thank her for the gift of my son. If it had not been for her sacrifice, I would not have had Paul who was born 13 months later.

When I carried Paul, I was in pain. I had never had any great discomfort carrying my other children. “Sometimes a woman’s body just starts wearing out”, my doctor said. I remember thinking this sounded foolish. I thought of my own Mom who had five children, and of her best friend Pauline who had seven. How could my body be wearing out so soon? But Paul was born, my body recovered, and I began raising my first little boy. He was a sweet baby, just as easy as his sisters had been, until he discovered he could screech. In his high chair he would make this hideous noise. Unable to talk, this was his way of communicating, but the twinkle in his eye after we each tried to tell him not to do that (as the windows were about to shatter), told us he was not about to make things easy for us. Paul has made his way through babyhood, childhood, and adolescence on a more independent path. Even as a toddler he showed us his stubbornness, his will power, his witty intelligence. But he has always been affectionate and loving; he is forever giving hugs, crawling over into our laps, long after the toddler years of requesting a “bubba-movie”, a movie and a bottle.

My three children are now aged 21, 17, and 13. I am so proud of the young people they have become. I am truly blessed. Two will be in college next fall. I wonder how my son will do alone with his old Mom and Dad for the next five years. Despite their successes and the good people they are, I always remain my own fiercest critic. As my children age, I can’t help but worry whether or not I have been doing right by them all these years. I think I have. I pray I have. Their childhoods went by so fast--how does one know for sure? Did I miss opportunities to do better?  I have such wonderful memories but will they be enough to sustain each of them? Now, as Paul moves into his teen years and as the girls move to the next stages of their life, I am again reflecting on my job as a mother. I make mistakes nearly everyday. I am too loud one day and too quiet and introspective the next. I am too busy one minute but then I hover too much. There are days I worry too much over a clean house, the safety of each child’s adventures, or whether or not they are brushing their teeth or keeping their contacts clean. I am letting them hog the tv or letting them retreat to their bedrooms for hours. Are they okay?  I am seeing too much of them and not enough of them all at the same time. I am giving them too much and not enough. I am too open and too honest. I am too emotional often. But do I cheer for them enough? Do I expect too much? I burden them unnecessarily at times, right? Was I too harsh yesterday? Am I being too lenient? Are we having enough fun? Am I taking enough time to listen? I think of the past week. I missed Paul’s lacrosse game to go to the spa. That was selfish, right? I snapped at Emma for not picking up a mess in the house that I myself had walked past for several days. That wasn’t fair to her. I did not send a finals week care package to Sydney. That wasn’t cool. Have I done anything well as a Mom recently? Has it been enough?

But I know that, down deep, I do my best, just as I have done every day since I first learned I was pregnant with my first born. I miss some ball games, I lose my patience every so often, and I am not the most consistent sender of care packages. But I am there for each of my children. And they know that.

God made me a worrier. He gave me a mouth which can articulately express my feelings but one that is sometimes harsh. He gave me strength, wisdom, and tenderness. He guided me through years of crying babies, projectile vomit, inaccurate diagnoses, screeching defiant toddlers, dentist and orthodontic bills, dirty bathrooms, carpools, endless fundraising, and teenagers who test the limits. And he blessed me with the opportunity to raise three beautiful, intelligent, affectionate, kind-hearted, motivated, self-directed, creative, talented, altruistic, hopeful, and loving children whose lives have enriched and sanctified my own. God knows we Moms all blow it at times. What matters is not that we are perfect Moms, but what we do after we screw up. We humble ourselves with an apology and a prayer, a resolve to do better, and we keep trying. God has to know, has to see that I never stop trying.

Sydney celebrated me today with a beautiful Facebook collage and caption. Emma met me at church with a bouquet of flowers. Paul cuddled with me on the couch early this morning then almost pushed me into a mud puddle as we walked across the church parking lot. Because that is how we are; this is how he truly shows his affection for me. Soon, I’m going to call my own Mom and wish her a Happy Mother’s Day. I hope she is having a good day and feels as surrounded by love as I do. Oh, how I have come to fully appreciate everything she was for me, everything she did. But first, I’m going to get on my knees and thank God for making me a mother, faults and all.

Into the Mud

A week or so ago, I took my husband and two of my children to a mud race. I had somehow hoodwinked them all a few months earlier into agreeing to do this messy obstacle course. I signed us up to be a team of four and paid the registration fee quickly before any of us changed our minds about participating. I was shaking my head as the race date approached. I was scared that I was not going to be fit enough to do the event. But despite the anxiety, I couldn’t wipe the smirk off my face every time I thought about it. I was genuinely excited about the idea of pushing myself out of my comfort zone, forcing myself to achieve what I knew, down deep, I could indeed achieve.

The four of us, donned in silly Avenger costumes no less (as was a requirement of all teams), arrived at the race, signed in, and waited for the announcement to call us to the starting line. With an enormous mass of people, we counted down, “TEN, NINE, EIGHT, SEVEN, SIX, FIVE, FOUR, THREE, TWO, ONE!” and began running. The kids patiently slowed their pace to accommodate Eric and I, and we all laughed as we burst through the first surprise, a cloud of paint. We were racing. We were running together as a family. Smiling at the chaos around us. Laughing. I felt my energy surge. A fleeting thought of, “I can’t run. I’m not in shape for this”, ran through my head but I squashed the thought when I realized I WAS running. My body was there for me. I had two children on either side of me and a whole mass of people running with me and I was keeping up. Sensitive to my husband’s pace, we slowed down and began walking at different intervals, but I could not help but feel victorious. We were only in the first 10 minutes of our journey.

We saw the dirt path in front of us. “Here’s where the mud will begin!” we heard others shouting. SPLASH! We hit the first muddy stream. We saw some charge through and we laughed as we saw mud splattering up on us for the first time. The mud pits continued to greet us, some of them requiring us to crawl on our knees or bellies to get through. Towering hay bales, water filled milk jugs to be carried up and down a muddy hill, giant saw horses, and Chinese jump ropes strung from tree to tree all met us to challenge our physical stamina. The four of us powered on.

At the finish line, people cheered. Hearing the applause and happy hollering was the warmest of hugs. We were not anywhere near the front of the pack, but we were certainly not in the last group of finishers either. We accepted bottles of water and made our way to the grounds where picnic lunches waited for us. As we sat in the sun, the mud dried on our arms and on our legs as we ate turkey sandwiches. I looked up to see the faces of each of my children and my husband. I realized, once again, I am the luckiest woman alive.

The past few years have been especially tough. There has been loss, intimidating obstacles, and it has been hard to find my footing at times.  I’ve fallen. I’ve gotten hurt. I’ve wanted to stop and pull myself off the course. But I kept going. I got up every time I fell. And I’ve grown stronger. Life isn’t always pretty. It gets messy out there. It gets muddy. It’s easy to be overwhelmed by how quickly life changes, with how much it hurts to let go of the past. Frustration sets in when it seems no one quite understands. But whether I’m in mud up to my chest or not, once I stop that inner critic which instigates the doubt, the fear, and the defeat before I even begin, I realize I can power through. Run the course. Set my own pace. Run with the young, the fit, and the brave. Run with others who struggle, for there are many. We all make it through the mud together. We have each other’s back and we are one another’s source of strength and determination.

I’m ready for another race. I see advertisements for charity 5Ks and I think of signing up. Maybe I will. But in all honesty, I’m not sure I need another race to get my heart pumping the way it was last week at the mud run. Time will tell. In the meantime, I am smiling. I felt free when I squashed the voice of doubt in the first 10 minutes of that race. I was strong as I successfully overcame each obstacle. I was powerful as I realized what my body was doing, how I had let go and trusted myself to do it, to succeed. That’s when I defeated the fear. I believed in myself and allowed the arms of the angels to embrace me, mud and all.

Embrace the Possibilities

In the last few days since the Boston Marathon bombings, I’ve watched some coverage of the news on tv--not a lot but enough. I have checked articles online to learn the identities of the three fatalities, to learn something of the human beings whose lives ended on Monday, and I have viewed the praise of the brave people of Boston who ran towards the area of the bombings in an attempt to help the wounded and the selfless racers who continued on another two miles past the finish line of the race to the hospitals where they donated blood. I’ve also viewed speculation on the bombing suspects, have witnessed the public’s outcry for justice, seen beautiful displays of solidarity and respect, and have read words encouraging everyone to focus upon the way in which this traumatic event might strengthen us.

In the aftermath of the Boston bombings people's emotions have varied. People have reacted in ways that are most understandable. People are only human. Anger, shock, disbelief, heartache, sadness, compassion, fear, vengeance, grief, confusion, defensiveness, even seemingly oddly-placed humor will come from us when an event like this occurs. The day after the bombings I went for a long walk in my neighborhood. It was peaceful. A few cars drove past me and I was quick to wave to my neighbors. They wove back. And that’s when it hit me. I am just one person adding my own two cents worth, but I feel the need to write this. We need to do some things differently. We’re not all in a position where we can run to the wounded or investigate the crime that was committed or counsel the victims of the atrocity. But we can do something to make a difference. And we can start with our own circle of fellow human beings.

We can turn to the person next to us. We can say something nice to him or her...and mean it. Knock off the insincerity. What are we doing with that? Next, we can ask the person next to us to teach us something new. We can stop thinking that we know it all, that we know what is best for others. Sure, offer some words of advice when it’s requested, but beware of giving it when it is unsolicited. Then, perhaps we could work to spread positive messages of support to our neighbors, coworkers, extended family, and far away friends. We can stop spreading gossip, rumors, negativity. We can end the lashing out in passive aggressive ways that display our own insecurities. We all have them, but we need to stop projecting them onto other people who are simply trying to find their own way in this world. Stop trying to be right all the time. Stop trying to be witty. Stop trying to be the most intelligent person in the room. We are correct enough, witty enough, intelligent enough. We are enough. We have nothing to prove to anyone. We need to stop wasting time and energy and get out into the world to serve people. We need to work harder to accept others for who they are and begin practicing this with our loved ones. Let God lead people to a different path if that is what is needed. Just love others. Send them words of support. Give them a hug. Shut up and listen to them, work to understand their point of view instead of filling up the air space with our own.

We need to strengthen our spirits, our hearts. Spread more kindness. Find the beauty in the way people evolve. We need to step back and appreciate others. We need to trust more. Trust in ourselves, trust in others. We don’t always have to agree but if we just worked a little harder to be more open to others' points of views, we just might learn something quite profound.

We need to accept the fact that we are only human. We will contradict ourselves, prove ourselves to be hypocrites, display our weaknesses. But for God’s sake, can we stop pouncing upon one another when we stumble? Can we stop mocking one another’s beliefs, feelings, and choices? Can we stop competing, putting one another down so as to feel better about ourselves? We are enough and yet sadly contradictory, we are not even close to being what we could be for one another. 

Oh, I get it. Doubt will remain. I'll post this and there will continue to be heated discussions about crime, guns, education, religion, society, politics. But it all seemed so simple to me when I was out on my neighborhood walk. I looked out over the horizon of my small town and I felt the need to make sense of what was pounding for attention inside my soul. And after taking a few more days to think on it all, I wrote this. Violence is tough for me to understand. It isn't articulate. It isn't brave. But neither is doing nothing and blaming others for the ills of the world. So, pardon me as I get out into the world and give it a hug. It's time. I invite you to join me in an embrace of the possibilities for tomorrow.

The Voice vs The Blank Page

Hey. So it’s been over a week since I’ve taken time to write. In that time I have been reading, listening to music, talking with my kids, laughing with my husband, planning lessons, correcting papers, attending play rehearsals and performances, preparing taxes paperwork, paying bills, belting show tunes, and walking with my dog. All good stuff. Even the paperwork.

But all those items listed above cannot be the only reasons I speak of as to why I haven’t taken time to write. There’s been more to it than that.

Writing is hard work. There are some days when the words flow easily onto the blank page, but other days, a number of obstacles jump into the way. And those are not solely the lovable ones forever there in my daily life. The obstacles that are the hardest to leap over are those in my head, the ones I place there myself. The doubt. The guilt. The confusion. The hurt. The frustration. I type, then hit delete. I type again. Delete. I remind myself to breathe. Be patient. I expect more. I want to write but I think of my school bag with unfinished grading. I look at the clock and calculate when I have to get in the shower. I see cleaning that needs to be done. I think of tomorrow’s work agenda and what I need to do to prepare for the day.

But then I silence the To Do list. I push away the blank page that has haunted me with a few reminders that have dropped into my lap. One, from Shel Silverstein...

The Voice

There is a voice inside you
That whispers all day long,
“I feel that this is right for me,
I know that this is wrong.”
No teacher, preacher, parent, friend
Or wise man can decide
What’s right for you--just listen to
The voice that speaks inside.

Thanks, Shel. And thank you, God. For I know these reminders meeting me today are no coincidences. I hear the whispering again. I do know what is right for me. I’m listening to the voice. And what do you know... I’m writing. Left jab. Right. Go the distance, Anne.

Writer Elizabeth Berg wrote on Facebook yesterday. In part she said, “Each time I write... I want to say something about how beautiful life is while acknowledging that it ain't always easy being homo sapiens on planet Earth. And I want a reader to feel not alone. That is what writing gives to me..."

This is why I write and why I share my writing with others. Life is beautiful. It’s not always easy but I’ve never been afraid of a little confrontation, a little hard work, if it gets to the heart of the matter.  Honesty. Love. Having and using my voice to aid others, and myself. This is exactly why I’ll keep fighting the good fight. The blank page may win every so often, but this round isn’t over yet.