And a one and a two and a three, turn!

Listening to Dreamgirls loudly throughout my house – I Am Changing – seems appropriate for me right now – yes I’m changing…taking back my life, my soul, my heart – this song is from my past, my youth so the images that flood my mind and heart are of dancing, pulsing to the music and working hard to get the body to do the choreography, some of it easier to accomplish than others – much like life – some stuff you have to work extra hard at, pushing and pulling, molding, shaping, stuffing, fighting to put it the way it should be and then whatever was resisting finally gives and it sorts itself out. Other times life comes together so easily it’s like you’ve never had to spend hours working on a particularly hard dance step. But in each instance, the dance at the end is still beautiful.

Having a hard time with titles tonight...

Was musing the other day about the difference between a blog and a journal.  I think a journal is a more intimate journey for the writer and the reader.  Blogs can be great information sources, can be entertaining, can be good escapes but blogs are not journals.  I haven’t come across a blog yet where after reading an entry or two or three where I say – I know him or I know her, what makes them tick.  Every blog I’ve read so far keeps things on a superficial level.  Who are these people really?  What gets their passions up?  What saddens them, what brings joy?  Why do they all try to be so clever?  It’s like we’re hiding behind cleverness instead of truth.  We build up layers and layers of skin,  masks to who we really are.  Are we afraid of revealing ourselves to the world or more importantly are we afraid of revealing ourselves to ourselves?  Are we afraid of our own rejection?  Can we reject ourselves?  Have we already?  Is that why we walk on by when we see pain, why we turn our heads away from the homeless man on the street but cause traffic slow-downs (if not crawls) when passing the scene of an accident?  Isn’t there pain in both situations?  Why do we choose to look at one and not the other?  Is it because in our insulated cars, we ‘feel’ as if we’re watching a movie or television show – but the homeless man sitting on the sidewalk asking for help looks you in the eye and there is no ‘monitor’ or glass between us – just humanity.  And why do we walk away from our humanity? Why do we cover our own needs up with cleverness, humor, makeup, anger, bitterness?  What is so scary about being at one with yourself?  When we open our hearts, lay them bare for the world to see, for our own eyes to see, we often see a child.  Our inner child, the pure one, the innocent one, the one who hasn’t learned to hate yet and we often see that child sad that he/she has been put away and ignored for so long.  When I opened my own heart to myself, re-examined things in my past, acknowledged decisions, and forgave myself, my ‘inner child’ cried with joy because she hadn’t been free in decades.  She had been pushed down, I often thought I had to be something, someone other than me.  I wished so hard sometimes to be just like someone else I admired – that I lost myself.  I wanted all the qualities I admired in others to manifest in me.  But I thought mistakenly that I had to relinquish my own essence to grasp those qualities.  Instead of just reaching down into my soul and releasing those qualities.  Because they were always there, just buried under a concrete wall and levee that even Hurricane Katrina wouldn’t have been able to penetrate or breech.  But who or what finally broke through my walls?  You would think that it would have been someone else but no, the architect of my walls was myself and I was the destroyer of those walls as well.  My soul, my inner child kept chipping at the stone for years, kept working its way toward my heart until I could no longer suppress my self’s desire to be free and to be loved for who I am.  And not loved by someone else but loved by me.  I had rejected my very being for the better part of my life and it was time to celebrate my self.  I can’t say that it was an easy process or that I’m done and all fixed now so that I’m overwhelmingly fabulous.  The process is/was/always going to be hard and that fabulous though I am, I can be ever so much more fabulous to myself.  I do welcome each day I’m blessed with with much more excitement than in years past. Each time I figure out something new about myself I get excited at the resulting clarity in thought.  I have had so many “ah ha” moments and with each subsequent layer or concrete block being removed, I experience not a feeling of vulnerability at the loss of my protective shield but a feeling of strength and dominance, my shield is my truth and acceptance of myself.  No one can change that.  Only me, and I don’t want to build concrete walls, levees or nuclear bomb shelters around my heart and soul.  My world has been so much richer these past few years I don’t want to go back to the way it was.  I like it as it is now.  I like me as I am now. 

Untitled for now

I reached out to find a cool spot where he once laid his head.  My hand patted the sheet and stroked the empty pillow.  My eyes still closed, I breathed in through my nose and his scent lingered about me.  I smiled, a satisfied and happy woman.  Sometimes I would just pinch myself to make sure it was all real and not just my imagination.  Yep that hurt.  It’s real.  He’s real. We’re real. Many had questioned me why I was involved with him, wasn’t I afraid of getting hurt, wasn’t I afraid of him leaving me at some point?  Wasn’t it easier to be alone and not love than to risk all the pain that comes with loving?  I used to think like they did.  I used to have high concrete barriers built around my heart.  Those barriers had served me well, too, for many years.  I did not allow myself to get close to any man longer than a couple of hours at a time.  Men served a purpose but not in any sense of growing my heart and my capacity to love others.  I had been in love once before.  Or rather, I thought I had been in love but now with the power of hindsight vision, I had been in love with the idea of being in love.  I had married young.  I had children.  I had made a home but was empty inside for many years.  I busied myself with my work, my children and their needs, my home; I kept busy so I didn’t have to answer that nagging voice inside me that kept saying “There’s got to be more to living and loving than this.  Come on, this isn’t what you signed up for.  How much longer are you going to ignore me and how miserable you are?”  I had gotten quite good at ignoring my misery.  I managed to suppress it for seven years.  But one day, it was all over.  My husband left.  That was it.  Twelve years together all came down to the simple act of taking the house key off his key ring and placing it on the entry hall table.  His wedding ring had come off many months earlier.  I had been too busy to notice that.  But watching him place the house key on the table, I noticed everything.  Through my tears I started to see the vibrant colors around me, I breathed deeply and felt the cool air enter through my nostrils and fill my lungs to capacity. I exhaled, tears streaming down my face, and the weight of so many years of resignation lifted off me like magic.  My heart was filled with hope again.  The last time I had this much hope and excitement for my future, I was 10 years old and dreaming with my best friend about what we would be when we grew up.  I began to dream again.  It was a bittersweet moment when he put his key down and walked out of the house.  I was sad that it hadn’t worked out for us like we thought it was going to but was also relieved that it was over.  No longer did we have to suffer under the weight of a marriage that was not meant to be. We had given each other the best gift that day, the opportunity to love and be loved.

I didn’t know then how much work I would have to do on myself before being capable of loving and being loved again.  I didn’t realize then how many memories from the past I had to let go of and to forgive myself for.  I didn’t realize then how much damage I had done to myself by suppressing my identity, my passion and my soul.  It had not been an easy journey.  I had been cautious.  I clung to past hurts with two clenched fists.  I got angry at the world for putting me in this tough predicament.  I moaned and complained about how hard my life was and how it was not fair but at the same time I could not even fathom the idea of returning to my previous existence.  I just wanted the healing to be done and over quickly.  I didn’t want to face the darkness and the sadness inside me.  I wanted to busy myself with someone else like I had done for all the years of my marriage.  But there was no one else to take the focus off the work I had to do.  So I plodded through it.  I cried, I laughed, I prayed, I “offered it up” time and time again.  I never thought I'd see the light again; I never believed I would ever be happy again.   However slowly and steadfastly, with every little step forward, I shed pieces of my iron armor that had held captive my soul and my passion.  And that hope I felt the day he put the key down came rushing back in and filled my heart.  I began to smile more.  I took deep breaths.  I found myself enjoying life.  I had embraced myself and finally understood the necessity behind the journey I had to make on my own.  My heart was now ready to love and to be loved.  It was just a matter of time.  And then he entered my life.

Halls: Great Ones and menthol ones

“I just wish my nose would stop running. Shit! Here comes that tickle in my throat. Oh no and now the cough. I just want it to stop! I am so tired of having this cold or allergy or whatever it is. Maybe I’m allergic to work?” I thought as I sat in the large, hallowed conference room with dark wood trim around the windows and heavy large doors waiting for the next person to come interview me. Her heels clicked on the wooden parquet floor that has been cleaned and polished to impress anyone who enters the room.

Cough. Cough. Cough. I turn my head to see who has entered the room. It is the head of development for the university. She is a little woman, probably mid to late-40s, with graying hair. I wonder how this interview is going to go – not well if I can’t keep my eyes and nose from their full-on assault.

“Hi Michelle, I’m Peggy Lundstrom.”

“Hello, Peggy.”

"So glad you could wait for me. I apologize for the delay. So how are you feeling? I remember you telling me the other day that you were a little under the weather” Peggy continued.

“Well I’m on the tail end of this cold. It’s sort of just dragging on and on. I sound worse than I feel” Okay so I’m lying through my teeth. I’m just trying to drudge up some sympathy here and to explain away the inevitable onslaught of snot and tears…

“Well I will take it that into account during our discussion," replied Peggy.

“Thanks” Score! Maybe she does have some sympathy for me?

"So why do you want to work here?" she inquired.

God I hate this question. Should I just answer truthfully – “because if I work here, my children’s college education is guaranteed and I have to do my best for my kids since my ex-husband is too wrapped up in his own ‘affairs’ to save any money for college” or should I answer “because I value the work of the university and wish to contribute in my small way to strengthen its ability to continue to provide quality education to the young energetic minds who come here searching for answers?”

Instead I answer

“Well as a development officer for a small not-for profit, it is an honor to have an opportunity to work here and to learn from the premier development group not only in the region but one who carries a fabulous reputation nationally.”

Peggy smiles and says, “Well you’re right, we do have a great national reputation for being able to raise substantial amounts of money from our alumni base.”

I couldn’t hear anymore what she was saying because my throat began to get all dry and itchy and I knew that I would have to break down and open my old standby, the cough drop, in order to get through the interview. My eyes started to water furiously; I began to “ahem and ahem” in an attempt to clear my throat while trying to appear interested in whatever the director was saying. I fumbled for it and then grabbed the cough drop from my purse all the while smiling and nodding my head as if in total agreement. I unwrapped the cough drop and popped it into my mouth. Ah relief…I reached up toward my eye and delicately wiped the tears with the side of my finger praying that I would not smear my makeup any more.

“And this position would be responsible for connecting with 7-10,000 alumni annually. So do you have any questions for me?” asked Peggy.

“Well” I pause, “ how long have you been here and what have you found to be the most rewarding aspect of the job? “

God, what an awful question, I sure hope she hasn’t already told me this but I really need her to continue talking because my eyes are welling up again and I think, oh my god, I think I’m going to sneeze. Inhale. No. That crisis has been averted. Maybe if I just turn my head and cough I’ll be able to get this damn tickle out of my throat.

Peggy continues talking. I hear words like, “it’ll be ten years this spring since I joined the university…. I was also at a small not-for-profit…”

I can’t bear it anymore, I must do something about the tickle, the tears, the snot just welling up in my head before I completely implode.

I slowly turn my head and cough ever so gracefully (at least I thought). And the cough drop comes flying out of my mouth and crash lands on the beautifully polished and scholarly floor. I squeal “oh my god!” Peggy stops and says “you okay?” I laugh in a sort of shock and disbelief and I say “yes, I’m fine but….” And I get out of my chair, laughing and walk over to where the cough drop has landed. I pick it up and quickly walk it to a trash can. I can’t control my laughter. Only me on a very important job interview…would spit out a cough drop! I walked back to my seat and I didn’t get any more tickles the remaining five minutes or so of my interview.

Guess what? I didn’t get the job either. But it is pretty funny.

Heartfelt Gifts

They were the loveliest red roses that I had ever seen . I was overwhelmed when they gave them to me because I knew it was a tradition in their family to mark special occasions with roses. But I never expected to receive roses; I was touched deeply.

An ornate jewelry box designed and created by The Artist and a beautiful red necklace and earrings inside the box from his wife, The Piano Teacher. I was speechless. I just shook my head "no" saying, "What generosity, oh my."

A few days after I received the ornate jewelry box and flowers, I told The Artist that I couldn't believe they had given me such lovely gifts. I told him that they had already made me so happy with just the flowers, but when I saw the box that I was overcome and then to find the jewelry simply rendered me speechless. I said to him, "You shouldn't have. It's too much."

"Why?" asked The Artist. " You don't think you're worth it?"

I stammered "Uh uh well, no... I guess I don't?"

"You are." He said and waved me off as I tried to say thank you again. He had stated his truth. There would be no more discussion about the gifts.

The Dancer met me one night at a local studio so we could dance tango uninterrupted for a few hours before he moved away. It was beautiful, lyrical, sensual, joyful and more. I kept thanking him for the generous gift of his time and his dance over and over.

The Dancer tried to thank me back for the dances, but I kept deflecting his thanks because I felt that surely he was only dancing with me as a favor, not because he wanted to as well.

"You don't think you're worth dancing with?"

I stammered, "Um, well no I guess not?"

"You are. You are a lovely follow and very fun to dance with. It was my pleasure too."

I blushed. This was the second time in as many weeks when I admitted that I didn't think I was worthy of the gifts people were giving me.

In the following days, I thought about this difficulty of mine to accept that people would want to do things for me just because I am me. Why was it so hard? Was I always this way? I tried to remember a time in my childhood when I didn't think I deserved any of my birthday or Christmas presents. Fortunately, I could not find one time. As far as I can recall, I deserved them all.

So what happened between then and now? Was it the years of being married to someone who only gave me something when I either asked for it or he wanted something from me? Was it the years of constantly giving to others who just continued to take and take? Was it because after living as a non-significant other, I internalized that I was not worthy of kindness from friends or strangers? Was it a result of being divorced with three children and having to do everything for my family, that made me feel uncomfortable receiving help from others for fear they might judge me? I suspect it is all of these and more.

The Artist, the Piano Teacher and the Dancer – who knew that their gifts would be me?

The Reader

She has always been an insightful, compassionate, smart, funny little girl. One night when she was four-years old, she announced to her father and I that we were not living our own lives but the lives in a story. I asked her to explain and she said, matter-of-factly, that someone was reading a book and we were the characters in the book and when we went to sleep at night that was when the reader closed the book. I was amazed at her imagination and couldn't wait to hear what my budding philosopher would think up next.

So, from then on, to get my daughter to bed at a reasonable hour, I would remind her that the reader was getting tired and would close the book soon and she didn't want to fall asleep standing up, now did she? She would shake her head no and scamper off to her bedroom.

And I would look forward to what the reader would read next.

When I Grow Up

"You know what I want to be when I grow up?" My youngest asked me while riding in the minivan.

"No I don't, " I responded looking at him in the rearview mirror. " What is it?"

"I think it would be great to be, I don't know what you call it but someone who works where the trash is..." he said. I could see him looking at the bottom of a plastic water bottle searching for the recycling triangle.

"Oh? Really?" I paused at this revelation that my youngest wants to work as a garbage man. "I think that's called a 'Landfill Manager' " At least I could dress it up with my words, I thought. "Why do you want to work with trash?"

"Oh I think it would be cool because then you could see what people had for dinner or lunch and see what they do in their lives from their trash."

'How wise!' I thought and smiled. He wasn't interested in being a garbage man... he wants to be a sociologist studying people's garbage to gain understanding about our society.

And I was afraid he was going to tell me that this way he could find ALL the balloons in the world.

Balloon Quest continues

He keeps looking. Last night the children were able to pick an Easter Egg from the basket as part of the end-of-the year celebration. He was absolutely thrilled with what was in his egg until he saw that the other prize was a balloon. He spent the next 90 minutes searching for an egg with a balloon. Several times he came back to me to complain that he couldn't find one and that he really wanted a balloon. I told him that I understood but that all he could do was look for the eggs with the balloons. He sighed, disappointed I could not help him, and left to continue his search. However, he was not successful last night. And every time one of the 'lucky' kids would pop their balloon, I would see the heartbreak in his eyes. As we walked to the car, he slipped his hand in mine and repeated how much he wished he had a balloon. I told him not to worry that there are many balloons in this world and one of these days, he'd have his own balloon again.

And one day I will have my own balloon too.

Running to Stand Still

Sometimes my “ah-ha” moments hit me at the strangest of times. I was jogging in the park when mine smacked me upside the head. When I run, I think. I think about how my day went, my kids, my future, how my legs hurt, why my butt gets tight going up hills and my thighs tense on the way down. I wonder about the idiot that didn’t pick up their dog’s mess on the trail; and agree with myself that U2 is the best band EVER for jogging. Running is my tranquil time. And since I don’t run fast I am able to maximize my peace.

I have been running for a long time. When I was in high school, my dad and I used to go out for jogs through the neighborhood. Since we lived in the desert, our route was not very green, could be quite windy and we always had to contend with a few hills on the course. Dad was always in the lead until the last ¼ mile when I would give a little extra effort and finish first. I loved our runs. I have gone jogging with my own kids a few times; but, I am looking forward to when they are a little bit older and we can run more often together. I know they will finish first, too.

I was in a good groove this particular afternoon. The fresh air filled my lungs; my feet hit the path in a good rhythm, arms swinging along with my beat. I was a fine-oiled 38 year-old machine. I was in a running trance listening to my breath inhale and exhale. Thoughts, observations and questions about my body, my marriage, my relationships, and my future ran through my mind.

Then my brain called out “Abandonment.” My heart said “What?! Hush!” My brain said louder (to be heard above the heavy panting that was my actual breath) “Abandonment. Abandonment. A-ban-don-ment!” I stopped running. There it was, so clear. My fear! All my observations, thoughts and questions about my body, my marriage, my relationships, and my experiences were all part of my subconscious to avoid ‘Abandonment.’

My curvaceousness. My relationships with otherwise “obligated” men. I had devised a pretty successful subconscious mechanism for protecting my soul from feeling the pain of abandonment again. I didn’t want to be rejected for being me so I kept on a few pounds and I chose men who were in no position to reject me because they couldn’t truly have me.

I continued walking on the path. My breathing returned to normal. I began to pick up the pace. I mulled over this revelation. Yes I was afraid of abandonment. I was afraid of feeling that pain again. I had made it very easy to not experience those feelings again. I had managed to build into my life a set of easy, fall-back excuses when things didn’t turn out as hoped or planned.

So why did this revelation come crashing to the surface and demand to be acknowledged? Why? What was I supposed to do with this new-found self knowledge? I was already exercising and watching what I ate, although the weight wasn’t exactly coming off. I was already refusing additional ‘otherwise-obligated’ male companions, although I hadn’t exactly sent the others back to their obligations. I was still only going through the motions of healing from my loss. I wasn’t really getting any closer to being able to be open and vulnerable to another person. And yet, that desire for surrender and intimacy with another person was pushing its way through my shield. It was saying to me “look, until you quit manipulating yourself with mind games, until you quit hiding behind your well-placed, convenient and strategic excuses, until you quit acting like such a scaredy-cat (well it actually used a bit harsher language there, I think you know which one), you will NEVER again experience the love that your soul is craving.”

“Yes, I know.”

Tears streamed down my face. I finished my jog and walked back to the minivan absorbing the fact that I was about to head down an unfamiliar and potentially painful path. But for some reason, I wasn’t nearly as afraid.

Water-colored Lenses

Everytime I pick up a glass to take a drink, I clink it on my new glasses. And everytime it happens, I remember that it happened the last time. I haven't resorted to removing my glasses everytime I want to take a drink, yet. (Okay sometimes I lift them up off my nose.) Instead I just keep feeling like an idiot. Would there have been a training session for those "new to life with glasses", I would have signed up. Instead, they showed me how to clean them and sent me on my way. And in my innocence and ignorance I thought that was all I needed to know. But I am learning slowly and seeing things awash through my water-colored lenses.

Il Bacio

I have a picture called Il Bacio that hangs in my dining room. It shows three children. Two girls and a boy. The boy is sitting in the middle of the girls and is kissing the cheek of one little girl and the other little girl is scowling at him. I bought the picture because I identified with the scowling little girl. I wanted to be the one who got kissed but the boys always seemed to choose the other little girl instead of me. One day when my daughter was about five years old she looked at the painting and exclaimed, “Mommy! Look at that!” She pointed at the picture. I responded, “Yes?” She continued, “The little girl getting kissed is wearing SHINY SHOES!” She was right. That little girl was wearing patent leather shoes and the scowling one had on ratty sneakers. My daughter identified with and focused on the attributes of the girl getting kissed. I promptly replaced my ratty sneakers with patent leather shoes. I rarely scowl anymore.

Growing older, not as much fun as it seems sometimes...

Sometimes it sucks to grow old. And I’m not talking about just the physical changes you go through that indicate you are moving past your prime. I recently had to get my first pair of reading glasses. That sucked but now I don’t get headaches from too much computer work or reading. I noticed in the mirror that I have developed what I call “old lady skin” right at the top of my cleavage. That happened overnight! One day I had really nice, lustrous, soft-as-a-baby’s-bottom cleavage skin. The next day, it was gone. I don’t’ have to describe it to you, you know what old lady skin looks like. And, I’m not talking about how when after a nice couple mile jog through the park, your knees rebel as if you’d just finished a 100-mile hike through the mountainous wilderness. No, the physical changes are well documented and are not really all that shocking when they happen. They are not necessarily welcomed but they do not shock you.

What sucks about getting older is that death becomes a larger part of your circle of experiences. In my 20s, it was a time for attending weddings, college graduations, baby showers and baby’s first birthday parties. I remember attending two funerals in my 20s and those were for elderly relatives on my husband’s side of the family. I had never met them. Their deaths were just events and didn’t affect my outlook on life. Death still seemed very far away.

However in my 30s and now 40s, the occurrence of death among people I know is becoming more frequent. I told my daughter that is what I hate the most about getting old, attending more funerals than baptisms. And with every funeral I attend, it brings into a sharper and crisper focus my own mortality. I don’t want to acknowledge that I will not live forever. I don’t want to acknowledge that someday I won’t be here to laugh with my kids. I don’t want to acknowledge that someday I will no longer be able to dance tango or to love another person with my body and soul. I don’t want to acknowledge any of those things. It hurts too much.

A friend called me today with news that a friend of hers had died yesterday. Her friend was young and left behind three kids. My friend is in shock. Although she knew her friend was sick, she still was in shock. Death of a family member or friend no matter how prepared you are still seems too abrupt.

When my grandmother died this year, it was too sudden. She was 94 years old and had been having issues with not eating enough food, not being able to see well, not having anything to ‘live for’ anymore. I visited with her one Sunday afternoon and we just sat together on her red velvet chaise lounge. I held her hand and we talked. It was harder for her to talk because she couldn’t find the words as quickly as she wanted to. I could tell she hated that. She sighed to me that she wished it was all over. That she was ready. I held her hand and pleaded in a whisper “but I’m not ready for you to go, Grandma.” She squeezed my hand and said “I know.” I was not ready for her to leave me and not be a part of my life. I still wanted her to be happy for me when good things happened. I still wanted her to smile as she listened to my stories or saw my kids. I still wanted to hear her tell me about growing up and how she was so smart that she skipped several grades in school and graduated high school at 15. I still wanted her to tell me about being the first woman on the executive payroll when women were supposed to be staying home raising their kids. I wanted her to still be able to take us to the swimming pool and watch me jump off the high dive. I wanted her to still be able to play bingo with us. I still wanted to be able to hug her and smell her cologne. I didn’t want her to leave me. I was not ready.

We had a difficult few months trying to get her to move into another apartment or assisted living facility. Well, difficult is an understatement. It was an emotionally draining, frustratingly painful, hair-pulling, eyes-rolling, no roll-over minutes left on my cell phone couple of months. And it hurt. It hurt to fight to keep her alive when she was ready to go a long time before. It hurt because I didn’t understand why my grandmother would want to leave me, to leave us. It hurt because didn’t she know we were only doing what was in her best interests. It hurt. It just hurt.

And then on one Saturday afternoon in November at 3 p.m, the call came. Grandma had died. What? My sister repeated herself. “Grandma has died.” It took several minutes to sink in. Grandma had been in the hospital. My aunt was holding her hand and told her it was okay to go, that daddy (my grandpa) was waiting for her in heaven. And Grandma took three breaths and died.

And that was that. She was gone. And I’m here still wishing she were with me. Still wishing I could hear her sing “Meet Me In St. Louis”. Still wishing I could hold her hand.

Instead I have to heal from the loss. I have to go through all the steps of the grief cycle. I have to get older, accept it and grow up. And that sucks.