Three Weeks Ago

Three weeks ago today I lost it. Big time. I mean, I lost it like I’ve never lost it in my life. I lost it in a way I didn’t know I was capable of. I thought the unthinkable and I’m still trying to get past it. It’s not been easy. It’s not been easy to forgive myself. It’s not been easy to move forward though I’m trying very, very hard. It’s not been easy to put it out of my mind. I keep telling myself, put one foot in front of the other. Let it go. Forgive yourself and move forward. It was your breaking point and you finally reached it. It had been coming for a really, really long time. But now it’s time to come back up and see all the light that each day holds. Truth be told, I’m trying, but I’m just not there yet. I started having panic attacks that I haven’t had since my mom passed away and that weren’t there before. I have knots in my stomach sometimes that weren’t there before. Sometimes I find it hard to breathe and end up dizzy. They are slowly going away, but I don’t know how long it will take until I ever fully forgive myself. I know that I will because I must to keep moving forward.

Who in the hell was I? What had I become? How did I get to this point I keep asking myself? What did God think of me? Will I ever go there again? The answer to that is a resounding NO with a gospel choir behind me backing me up.

It was because I wasn’t taking good care of myself. Not at all. I’d felt pretty good, together and somewhat content before the massive drinking started. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew it wasn’t good for me, but it was so fun to just let go and have a good time, carefree. The everyday worry and fear that we all feel to some extent had been rocked to sleep. The problem was I couldn’t do that and also tend to myself. I never claimed to be a good multitasker. I’d forgotten the hefty price I’d pay later as the alcohol built up in my system. The depression, the anxiety, the worrying, the emotional upheaval that would plague me for days after drinking like that. I know with 100% certainty that never would have happened had I not been drinking (heavily) for a few weeks, here and there. But, oh, to take the edge off and be someone else for just a little while.

There are blessings in hitting rock bottom. I ended up in the hospital for 36 hours and saw humanity at it’s very core. I met people with some of the saddest, heart wrenching stories and wondered what would become of them. I ate breakfast lunch and dinner with these colorful spirits and listened to their stories. I tried to offer encouragement as best as I could. They asked me why I was there and I told them I’d been drinking a lot and had posted something incredibly stupid on Facebook about wanting to end my life. They would just stare back at me in silence, but I could tell they were thinking, “Why would you do that?” “I don’t know,” I silently answered. “I really don’t know why.” I still wonder about many of them, for they made an indelible impression on my heart. I think of them and I pray for them.

I made a friend there that I’ll call Molly who had been in the military and she had a beautiful service dog named Steve. We talked a lot about life and the challenges she has faced. She was a beautiful soul who’d been dealt a crappy hand. But she was still witty, kind and absolutely hilarious. We laughed a lot together and cried a little, too. As much as Molly had endured, there was a still a magnitude of hope in her eyes that simply could not be measured. I still think of her and wonder where she might be now. I know wherever she is, she’s kicking ass, taking names and laughing all the while.

Playing Small

I learned at a very young age to play small. Perhaps I taught this to myself as a way to cope. I was a very shy child until I really, really trusted. I was always a person who felt things big. I felt things before they happened. I felt things that were there that I wasn’t supposed to know about. I felt things that no one dare talk about. The thing I was being protected from was my mom’s cancer. There was an elephant in the room and I didn’t dare antagonize it by being me. Though my parents protected me from it, I didn’t feel like there was any room for me. I can’t say that anyone else put that expectation on me. It’s just the way I felt. So, I taught myself not to rock the boat and carried that all the way into adulthood.

As a very little girl I would come home from school and go straight to the bath. That was my safe haven. My place to escape the silent chaos I felt inside about what was going on that no one was talking about. I would sit in the bathtub and run the water until it turned cold. Then I would wait for more hot water, drain the tub and repeat. I felt very safe there and the sound of the water was so soothing to my mind. Almost every single day I would do this. Escape to the bath and the sound of the water and the feeling of being safe there and covered. The terrifying thought of losing my mom was quieted. Sometimes I would stay in there for three hours. My parents would come knocking on the door, asking me if I was okay. “Yes!”, I would answer as cheerfully as I could make myself sound. Yes, I was okay as long as I was in the bath, wrinkled up like a small human prune.

For much of my adulthood I tried very, very hard not to rock the boat. Sit still. Sit on your hands if you have to. Bite your lip. Laugh when it’s appropriate. Always, always smile as if you are the happiest person on the entire planet. Don’t talk about your feelings or say anything that’s really real or true inside. Keep the conversation safe. And try to look pretty even if you don’t feel it. Truth is, I sucked at this, badly. At parties, I did my best to keep this persona going. Just smile and pretend. I could feel myself disappearing, being absorbed into the wallpaper, etched there with other half asleep souls, one dimensional, stuck up on the wall for decoration. I couldn’t stand being that still. And, finally, I would succumb to a drink and the whole world would change. Just one or two was all it took for me to feel completely different, at ease, confident, because I was a lightweight. Always have been. A drink or two or three was my bath water, baptizing me with courage and words and laughter and truth. All better.

I took to writing as my outlet as a child because that was the one way I felt I could really express my feelings even if no one else heard them. As I strip alcohol away, I’ve taken to writing again and am no longer half asleep, numb. No more sitting on my hands, biting my lip, being a fixture on someone else’s wall. And I know there is plenty of room for me, the real me in the world. There is plenty of room for all of us, our imperfections, and our truths.

Telling My Story

I started this blog to tell the story of being human and how significant we all are in this world. I had lofty ideas that I would write a post every single day. It turns out that it is a bit too much for me. I’m going to write a post when I feel like writing and may or may not post it to Facebook. I don’t know at this point. I haven’t made up my mind. I know I am tired. I know I have my kids this week. I know I haven’t been sleeping well at all. I also know that I started this blog because I wanted people to know they are not alone in their battles, no matter what they are facing. We are all HUMAN. I am absolutely going to continue but am not going to write one everyday just for the sake of saying I did.

I also know telling your story requires a very delicate balance. My cast of characters has to be just one person. I will always protect the beloved people in my life or out of my life. Because each of them is just that, BELOVED, whether in my life for a short time, for a long time, to teach me a lesson, to make me stronger, to be a seasonal friend or a lifetime friend. So, I guess I’m pondering that balance right now as well. Anyways, I will be back soon and thank everyone who has been reading so very much!

The Mess

I’m a mess. We are all a mess about something in our lives whether big or small. I love the phrase, “a beautiful mess”, but I don’t feel like a “beautiful” mess. I feel like a complicated mess of colorful threads, knots within knots, spilling out at the seams of the frayed edges of all that I am. I try to control the mess or numb the mess, pulling each thread out and laying it flat and straight. I try to organize the mess by sorting the threads color by color and separating them from each other. Somehow, despite my efforts to organize my mess, they all quickly mesh back together, get tangled up in each other, entwined together to tell the story of who I am.

This past Friday I felt like an ugly mess, not a pretty, delicate one. I’d had a terrible day at work and was coming home to an empty house. For a long time, I’d become very good at coming home and hiding, hiding from the world. I got so good at untangling those knots and keeping the colors sorted and organized in perfectly straight lines. I’d become an expert at stuffing my feelings deep, deep down and being colorless and free of knots, or so I thought. Now, as I come back to life, the feelings are bubbling up to the surface of all that I am. As I write, more come forward as if to say, “acknowledge me and take care of me. Accept me and the knot I am.” Colors are spilling out that I’ve never seen or felt before and it’s unsettling. I treat each one with the respect it requires and deserves so that the knot doesn’t become a cluster I can’t untangle and make sense of, even if only for a moment.

I came home Friday night and felt those knots rising up inside of me and instead of shoving them back down in the dark, I recognized them. It wasn’t a happy feeling at all, but a necessary one. I called a friend and started to cry. Then I got upset with myself for crying and my friend said, “Diane, it’s okay to cry when you’re sad or frustrated.” “Ohhhhh,” I thought, “I AM allowed! That’s right. I’m human.” Almost as if I truly didn’t realize it before. We are all a perfectly curated collection of chaos and heartache and pain and love and joy and peace. You can’t have one without the other. That’s being human.

Since my newfound proclamation that I’m not drinking, I must say, I’ve had many of those human moments. Moments when I’d like to enjoy a glass of wine instead of being fully present and cry. Everyone cries for all kinds of reasons and I’ve never judged anyone else. We all have our days. We all have our unruly threads and unkempt edges. In fact, I’ve always had such compassion for people being human, for having their own colorful cluster of complications and confusion. So why was I being so hard on myself? I’d had a bad day at work and didn’t want to come home to my empty house. It’s that simple. The only difference is that I’m not hiding anymore, not even from myself. That is why things are rising within me. As it turns out, I’m a crier and I’m a human. Crying is just a part of who I am. I embrace it and accept it. Happy, sad, frustrated, whatever it may be, that’s how I unravel the frayed and colorful edges of my soul.

My Birthday

Yesterday was my birthday. And it’s one of the best birthdays I’ve ever had because it was real. Some of my dear friends planned a night out a few weeks back for all of us to go to the beach, watch the sunset (my thing) and go to dinner. This was before I announced to the world that I was done drinking. It’s been an interesting thing. Moments where I wonder what in the absolute hell was I thinking. Moments of fear. Moments of asking myself if I can really pull this off. Moments where I wonder if I can take it back. So here my friends have planned this wonderful night out at the beach and then I make the big statement. While I may be making some changes in my own life, I’m not asking anyone else to change with me so I decided I’d offer to be the designated driver. My friends wondered if I was really okay with that. I was. After all, I’m not going back into hiding and I have to be able to navigate the real world with or without a drink in my hand. So I treated this like a test. One where I would pay very close attention to how I felt through the evening and take notes on whatever might arise from within.

I started getting ready yesterday afternoon, paying attention to my thoughts and my heart. Normally, I’d have a glass of wine here at home while getting ready just to take the edge off and get in party mode. I didn’t, of course, but the thoughts that went through my head while I was getting ready were very telling. While I was trying to find something to wear, which is quite a feat these days since I can’t get into most of my clothes right now (I’m working on it slowly but thank menopause -a post for another day), I started thinking that once I had a drink, I’d be able to find something to put on. I’d catch myself and say, “No, Diane. You can do this without a glass of wine.” I actually have never kept alcohol here in my house so it wasn’t really a choice anyways. Then once I was finally dressed and looked in the mirror I was so unsatisfied with my outfit and thought again, “Once I have a couple of drinks, I won’t care anymore.” Again, “No, Diane. You can do this.” And this old, familiar train of thought continued on about ten more times before I was even out the door. “Wow,” I thought. Who knew? I certainly didn’t. This was scary new territory for me.

So with knots in my stomach and gratitude in my heart I walked out the door and went to my friend’s house. My friends started showing up and I greeted them at the door with my bottle of water. I was feeling incredibly vulnerable, like I was missing a limb or had lost my shield of protection, but I slowly eased in and drove everyone over to the beach. We went to a rooftop bar where I ordered a yummy mocktail. We watched the sunset which brought me great peace. We went to dinner and I laughed more than I have laughed in a long time. Belly aching laughter that I felt all the way to my core. It felt wonderful. My senses were all completely intact and I was enjoying my friends and everything they had to say. I was really listening and seeing them. It felt magical and I found myself having a better time than I ever thought I could.

On the way home we listened to Natalie Merchant, Travis Tritt, Garth Brooks, “Jessie’s Girl”(more than once) and some other old college tunes. And we belted them out at the top of our lungs. It felt so freeing to me and I thoroughly enjoyed it WHOLLY. The knots in my stomach had long since dissipated and my heart was bursting with love, joy and so much appreciation for these dear friends who have supported me through it all. And this morning I woke up feeling great instead of awful knowing I can pull this off.

Being Human

Being human is something I’ll write about often as I learn to become one again and all the ways I tried to avoid being one…

Being human means more than being born into existence. It means being vulnerable and messy and courageous with your feelings. It means taking risks and getting hurt when you finally choose to expose your heart. Being human involves suffering. It means accepting a life you didn’t plan on having. It means making connections with others which is one way I thrive, but I stopped. After my divorce I wanted no part of being a human. I was done with all that foolishness. Never again, I said. I was going to live the rest of my life on my own and just be “happy”. Problem was I wasn’t happy because I wasn’t living. I’d gotten really good at staying in the deep end where I was covered up, my soul under water, without oxygen, but safe from the world. Keep your heart and soul safe at all costs, I would tell myself. So I stayed under the water that had become a comfortable friend, so just my mouth was at the surface and I could breathe just enough to continue treading the water. I didn’t realize how exhausting that was, but God forbid I actually come all the way up to the surface and float there on my back like they teach you to do as a child for survival. Nope, this was my means of surviving. Never would I come up and float on my back there and expose my bare, naked soul to anyone ever again, let anyone touch me or see ME and my true heart with all it’s cracks. I was much safer this way. Safe from feelings, safe from others, safe from my mess and my truth, safe from the whole wide world. Ironic – float on your back to survive. So, naturally, being the incredibly stubborn girl that I can be, I chose to stay under, to stuff my heart and my truth all the way down, and I almost drowned myself.

I remember a particular morning not too long ago. My boys’ father had just come and picked up the kids to take them for the week. Something I don’t believe I’ll ever get used to. Every single time it still completely unearths me like a violent storm ripping an Oak tree from it’s roots. I feel uprooted and alone. I was standing in my kitchen reflecting on missing my boys and slowly coming to life with my first cup of coffee. I was staring out the window feeling anxious, waiting. Waiting. Waiting for what? Cars passed by and I continued to wait for something or someone, but no one was coming. I was here alone. No one was coming to save me from myself or the loneliness. Then I saw a moth trapped between the glass and the screen of my kitchen window, frantically pacing back and forth, anxious, like he too was waiting and finding it hard to breathe, like me. I tapped on the glass and thought to myself, “Turn around little guy! Look, there’s a screen on the other side. You can breathe. You got this!” I realized I was cheering on a moth (and rolled my eyes at myself and the absurdity of it), but, more importantly, I listened to that message in my head. “Diane, you got this. You’re just beginning my friend and you’ll get it down, little by little. Just start living and keep going.”

So being a human really is all about LIVING. And living, really living, requires some pain and suffering. On the other side of that pain is joy and passion and contentment. And it’s a cycle that will repeat itself within us to some degree for our entire lives. So I’m learning, like so many of us, to float on my back a little more, to relax, breathe and enjoy it, to show more of myself and my heart. I practice a little more every day and find myself feeling joy again.

That is why I started this blog that I’ve been threatening to begin for years. I had hit rock bottom and writing was and is the one thing that can bring me out of anything. I want to share my story and my experiences with others so that they know they are never alone. Maybe then others will start to try floating on their backs, sharing their hearts, their words and their truth. To start living. After all that’s what we’re here for.

Joy Through the Eyes of a Child

I wish we could all see the world through the eyes of a child. I wish I could. The innocent spontaneity they possess is infectious and can also teach us so much about the world we live in today. They see the small, simple things that make this life so full of wonder. They say what’s on their minds no matter how trivial or small we may think it is. They say it because it means something to them. And the things they often talk about are the things we no longer see as grown ups because we’ve been conditioned not to. Those little things could make such a difference in our lives if we could only condition ourselves to really, really see them. I wish we would all try harder to experience the simple JOY that children do, unencumbered and crashing into it. Crashing into joy.

I witnessed this with my own children. My oldest used to have to go out and say goodnight to the moon every. single. night. There were nights after I’d read to him and I was so exhausted from the day that I would hope he’d forget, truth be told. But that child never forgot his moon. It was his friend. It was his way of turning off the day to go to sleep. So every night, after bath time and books, “Mommy, we have to say goodnight to the moon.” So we’d go out in our jammies to find the moon. Moon hunting I called it. Some nights we’d go out and wave at the moon, tell the moon we loved it, thank the moon for the light it gave us in the night and my son would instantly be satiated, calmed down and snuggle in for the night. Then there were the nights that the moon was nowhere to be found. My son would cry because he was worried the moon had left him, that the moon was hurt or sad and hiding. I would come up with a story about the moon. Maybe his friend the moon was tired and needed to rest because even the moon got tired and needed a day off. Even the moon has hard days and needs to take a break sometimes. Maybe the moon had missed his nap. Eventually my son would come to accept that the moon had bad days too, but was still there for him resting peacefully behind the clouds. That simple moon, the one that’s still out there every night, had become an important part of our lives.

My youngest son saw delight in everything. I remember taking him to preschool one day and we were walking through the grass when a bunch of moths came flying up towards us. He said, “Look Mommy, they came to say good morning to us. ” And then EVERYTHING he saw came to say good morning to us. The sun, the grass, the trees, the flowers, the leaves, the breeze. And he looked at each thing with such wild JOY and delight. I remember thinking to myself, oh, to see with those eyes of his. What a beautiful way to see the world.

On Mothers Day he made a crown for me and haphazardly colored it in pink and orange and purple and green. Messy and beautiful. Truly one of the most treasured things I own. That crown, so simple and sweet, still rests on the lamp by my bed now because it represents the eyes of a child. Anytime I would get angry and start to raise my voice because my children were being unruly, wild little animals, my youngest could sense it, as children do. He would get very quiet, go and get that crown and without saying a word walk up to me and motion to me with his tiny little finger to bend down. I would bend down and he would put that crown on my head without uttering a word. Talk about a wise child and a humbling moment. Humbled me right on down. That simple beautiful crown with such importance. I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

For a short while I was a preschool teacher and loved it. If I could still do it today and make what I need to live I would. I used to write down the things they would say throughout the day and put them in my gratitude journal. They would speak their mind with conviction and bravery. The kind we all used to have when we were children, before we were trained to bite our lip and sit on our hands and be still. But that’s a post for another time. I don’t have my gratitude journal right here in front of me, but a few quotes that I remember…”Ms. Perry, I don’t like that book. It’s for humans.” ” Ms. Perry, my hair hurts.” And a little girl I will call Daisy said to me out of the clear blue yonder with more excitement than she could ever contain, ” Ms. Perry! I have never seen purple cotton Candy!” Her eyes were wild and big like she had just discovered the eighth wonder of the world and then she fell over giggling in pure delight at this newfound revelation.

Children are pure JOY. Uncensored and brave and honest and raw. If we could all go back and remember what we were like as children, maybe, just maybe, we could see what they do and make this world just a little better, a little more joyful.

My Mother

My mother was an amazing woman. She always knew her time might come sooner rather than later so she did everything to a certain degree many of us may never know. She was in a hurry to LIVE and do everything she wanted to do. She was such a beautiful example of living. As a parent she taught me many lessons, some hard and swift because she wanted to pack in as much as she could as a mother to two children with cancer. She also desperately wanted to protect me from this fact. Time was a luxury she didn’t have. When I have more time, I’ll write more about her and share her memory, which should never be forgotten. This is a poem I wrote about her. Please forgive it’s messiness as I didn’t have time this morning to edit, like most mornings…So please excuse the errors on my posts!

Perched Upon Your Vanity

Green eyes wide and wild with delight,

I have clambered my way up onto your vanity once again,

In such a mischievous manner,

Not able to help myself to some small part of you.

My eyes are marbled with fascination and curiosity

And mottled with shame, for I know I’m not to be up here.

Giggling, I put my head down as I hear your light footsteps

Coming to discover a fierce scavenger of a little girl,

Pillaging your drawer of beauty, the majestic drawer of you.

I am bathed in your perfume, Estee Lauder’s Beautiful.

My face powder puffed in pink shiny particles,

My knees are tucked up in my nightgown,

Arms holding me steady so I don’t giggle or rock back and forth.

My eyes stay low as I wait for you,

For any part of you.

The part where you play with me as I pretend to be a sophisticated, fancy and

elegant lady like you.

I daydream and wait and daydream some more until you finally come.

You laugh and smile at me as I clumsily walk around in fancy gowns that trail behind me,

In jeweled heels that swallow my feet.

I throw my head back and laugh confidently like you,

Jade bracelets bangling together in a jeweled percussion

As I wave my hands in the air in some sort of dance of abandon, no worries at all.

I continue to laugh in an attempt to sound like you,

An all-knowing woman, strong in her convictions.

Inevitably my laugh turns into hysterical giggles as I see the delight on your face.

And I’m happy.

Then I watch you so carefully as you shift like a well oiled machine

As you are getting yourself ready to leave.

Another cloud of perfumed powder fills the air – this one like a ghost,

Beautiful and translucent, yet ever so opaque and present like you,

A neatly pressed and original beauty,

A public figure with a public persona to uphold.

You apply your perfectly shaped red lipstick, your signature color to that wide

and hopeful smile.

The smile that has a curtain,

Behind it the immeasurable truth and pain I can so

clearly see,

But can’t touch.

You were perfect, a superhero,

So frail and slender – a soldier marching through her daily tasks of love.

Doing them without complaint.

And as I watched you so carefully, I always wondered but never dare ask,

“How do you really feel deep down to the soul of your bare naked bones?”

Because children know when something is wrong.

Perfume sprayed generously into the air,

You walked through it, sometimes dancing, sometimes singing, a happy yet

excruciatingly sad song all at once.

The citrus and floral notes tickle my senses with confusion

as you breezily pass through it’s blessing

As if baptized for a new day.

Always smiling that original beauty smile of yours as though you are cured.

I sit bewildered and amused and curious, always watching.

Green eyes filled with wonder at unanswered questions

And truths never told.

You were pure GRACE,

smiling that smile, pretending small tufts of your hair aren’t falling

from your head and landing around your feet.

I pretend too, my eyes always watching

and quickly becoming resevoirs of prayer and longing.

Please!, I silently plead with you, what do you feel on the inside?

I try to catch the floral droplets of your perfume on my tongue,

Try to catch the tiny shimmering diamonds of power in my hands like snow,

To taste and feel what you do.

I chase the ghost in the powder until she has vanished.

I remember you walking away in your kelly green dress,

And I close my eyes, clinging to the edges as you leave.

I need more and find myself burying my face in your flowing dress,

smelling you,

Gathered at your feet like a little girl.

Please don’t go.

Green threads falling softly around you like fresh spring grass.

I grasp at each intact thread as the dress begins to unravel around you,

leaving the naked truth I so longed to know.

The human, not the superhero.

Picking up each thread, I want to piece you back together again.

I need more of you.

I dream you are still here, playing a game of hide and seek in the powder,

giggling with me like a child.

But you would never play a game so cunning and I realize you are really gone.

I couldn’t move in that moment, I couldn’t leave your vanity,

That meant I would have to let you go,

say goodbye to my mother,

the superhero who did evertything with grace and love.

You wanted to protect me and also squeeze as much as you could into your life.

You had to teach me lessons while you still could

In a race against time, the lessons could be hard and swift.

You knew every day was one more day you weren’t ever supposed to have

and you protected me through each of them..

That is how I knew the depth of your love.

I can climb down now from that magical countertop,

Close the drawer of fanciful curiosities.

I can let you go and say goodbye,

knowing I carry you inside.

Sometimes you may find me perched upon your vanity again,

Rifling through your drawer,

Looking for answers,

As I feel my own way,

Searching for some clue from you and the beautiful lessons you gave me,

The superwoman and the mother who taught me so much.

Writing for My Mom

As a child, a very little girl, I loved to read and write. I kept a journal for as long as I can remember. Writing gave me a voice and a peace like nothing else. And it was the most sacred thing to me. My dad reminded me of that the other day when he told me I used to sleep with my journal under my pillow as a young girl. Writing was my voice and I was going to protect it at all costs.

I needed a voice because I was quiet and a little shy. Writing was my outlet. That was the way I was able to speak my mind, even if I was the only one to hear it. I grew braver with time and went away to boarding school where I was able to really start writing and be heard out loud. I loved my English teachers because they really encouraged me to write, and write I did. I wrote poetry mostly then and was active with our literary magazine. After boarding school, I started as a freshmen at Hollins, an all girls school in Virginia that had an amazing creative writing program. I knew I wanted to be a writer at the time. Something was happening back at home though that was breaking my heart wide open and I couldn’t write anymore.

My beautiful and courageous mother had cancer and had fought it most of my life in one form or another. It was always there, like a cloud over our heads. I knew there wasn’t much time left and I just wanted to go home and be there with her. My parents, however, wanted me to stay at Hollins and get through my freshmen year. They were trying to protect me. So I tried to write about it, but couldn’t. In February of my freshmen year, I got the call from my dad that she had two weeks left and I began the journey home, finally. I’d been holding my breath for such a long time because I know the inevitable was coming for all of us. I could finally breathe again because I was on my way to her, to be with her for whatever moments we had left. Those two weeks will always be a bit of a haze for me. I have snippets of it in my mind, some laughter, some pain, watching her struggle, it’s almost more than I can bear to think about still. She was a fighter and fight she did. During this fight she had a request from me that I vowed to make good on. She wanted a poem from me. I was so honored and promised to get to work on it right away.

I was excited and eager to write this as a last gift to her. After all, I had so much to say, I almost couldn’t stand it. My deep love for her being the overriding emotion that would make this request effortless for me to fulfill. I immediately sat down with pen in hand and emotions ready to spill out of me all over the paper. And then, NOTHING. I simply couldn’t write a thing. I’d never had that problem before. I literally could not write the first word. And it broke my heart. That request had meant the world to me and I couldn’t come through. When someone requests something of me, I’ll go to the ends of the earth. But here I went to the ends of the earth and there was nothing. Believe me, I tried and tried and tried. I could not get the words out of my heart, into the pen, out onto the paper and into my moms heart where they belonged. I believe it was because it represented goodbye and I couldn’t say it. It represented the last thing I’d ever say to her and I wasn’t ever going to be ready for that moment.

I went to her in tears and she graciously understood and passed away a few days later. I stopped writing for twenty years. And after that, only wrote here and there. I did finally write her the poem I promised her and entitled it, “A Second Goodbye” which I will share soon. I write with her spirit in my heart. She always encouraged this love of mine and as rusty and “brand new” as I am at this, I know she is smiling somewhere above.

The Walk Back

The walk back to ourselves after a long hiatus is not a pretty, dainty walk. It’s a clumsy one, two left feet, putting one in front of the other, sometimes barely a shuffle, my feet never completely leaving the ground. Sometimes it’s a fitful march of furious stomps to the mental count of a drill sergeant in my head, deep voice booming at me, as he counts my steps of progress with a “hut, 2, 3, 4!” That drill sergeant is me, telling me to get it together, keep walking, no matter how I’m feeling. And there are other times that this walk is a wandering one, a clumsy, drunken stumble or stagger, as I walk in circles and become so dizzy I fall down and forget what (or who) I’m walking towards.

The walk back to our true self, towards acceptance, self-love and inner peace is full of missteps and mistakes as we walk through the pain, in spite of the pain. Oh, and the path isn’t straight. Not by a long shot. No, it loops around and goes up and down, backwards and forwards. And sometimes when you start to move forward again, a boulder shows up on your path, the path that was seemingly becoming a vast and peaceful sea of dandelions. You can’t climb over the boulder, or dig under it. No, it’s there for a reason. To teach you something. You could always simply walk around it as I have so many times, but it will come rolling towards you again, only a bit bigger and faster than the time before. The lesson has to be learned which means you have to go through it, chipping away at it, slowly and tediously. You don’t get a chipping tool. You have to deal with everything that boulder might represent for you with your own sheer will and determination. Grief, anger, loneliness, shame, guilt. And you chip away at it with your bare hands. With each tiny crumble comes a new and painful realization, but you must keep at it until you finally come away with a pebble, a lesson that maybe you put in your pocket, maybe you hold onto to remind you of the place you never want to visit again,

We all have that boulder, that struggle, that lesson that we just can’t quite learn until we hit the bottom of something. Oftentimes, that boulder has turned into a small mountain as we continue to walk around it, unacknowledged. Many of us lose ourselves this way and walk around in circles until we finally confront the lesson that has repeatedly come to teach us who we are, what we are here for, what we were put on this earth to do. As hard and painstaking as the chipping away may be, it must be done so that we can move forwards into our true heart of hearts, our true light where we will shine, just as God intended.