Category: Life

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Words are like Flowers and Writing is my Vessel

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“Writing is the painting of the voice.”-Voltaire

Writing is the vessel in which I sail my inner workings across the ocean of life. It is the  carrier of my thoughts and ideas, stories and lessons. It is the way I am heard, the way I share.

Deep within the matrix of our minds, thoughts and ideas are formed. Like trapped birds, they are released as the spoken word. Despite their beauty and complexity, each sound, each word, lasts only seconds before it’s gone, flittering into empty space. Though the message may linger, the words themselves are fleeting and seem to dissipate into thin air. The spoken word is easily forgotten or mistaken.

But ink that leaves a pen remains, permanently inscribing the words its master dictates. Thoughts put into readable form, the written word is a record. It’s a document. It is not the mumblings of a drunk or the talking in ones sleep. It is intentional. And it never lies or forgets.

When I talk, often I feel like a bumbling fool … awkward, disorganized and redundant. Words pour out of my mouth like children off a school bus … clambering and loud and clumsy. And my thoughts and ideas are often misconstrued and misunderstood.

But when I write, I am like a well choreographed dance. Every move rehearsed, every step cautiously placed, every word carefully chosen. And the words flow together like movements, creating a beautiful piece designed specifically to carry my message.

Words are like flowers. When I write, I walk through the most bountiful garden, hand selecting each blossom with careful and purposeful intent. Arranging the words into a bouquet, each arrangement is unlike the one I made before it. Each flower holds a unique purpose and aroma to the ear. There are no bad flowers, no bad words. And I yearn every day to discover a new variety, to uncover a new specimen to place in my piece.

Like every artist, my art, my bouquet, is not always appreciated. At times it is overlooked and ignored. Not unlike the painter along the sidewalk, the musician in the subway, the dancer dancing in an empty theater. But if only one person enters that theater, the heart of that dancer becomes full and she is no longer just a dancer, but a performer. When art is recognized, the artist gains the greatest fulfillment.

And yet, even without an audience, without a buyer, without coins in an otherwise empty case on the floor – those strokes, those notes, those movements, those words, are therapy for the artist. They soothe his soul and at the same time, they make him come alive. They are his heart and he cannot walk away from them. They are a part of him.

The highest honor is knowing that my words have touched another soul, hearing that my message has spoken to another heart. Feeling as though I have made a difference, I am fulfilled in my work. Like the chosen carrier of precious cargo, I feel worthy. I am grateful for my talent.

But even without recognition, without payment, when I put my pen to paper, it is therapy for my soul. Kneading through my angst and sorrow, the darkest part of my life, like clay, I create a sculpture of my life that is beautiful. And looking at that sculpture, I see how I have turned misery into joy and pain into lessons and I am proud of who I am and from where I came.

Life is a journey and each of us, an artist. We are handed a canvas and asked to fill the world with beauty. Be that canvas, a pot in which you cook, an instrument from which you play, earth in which you plant, wood from which you build, hearts of which you nurture … use your canvas to create beauty. My canvas is paper. And my paint, is words. Thank you for receiving my words. Thank you for taking the time to smell the flowers, to hear the notes that my heart sings, to feel the energy that my soul releases.

 

 

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Steel and snow…the angst of adolescence

snow heartI still remember the night we lost her like it was yesterday.

It was always the four of us. Two boys. Two girls. Just friends and nothing more. Every weekend we knew the best clubs. We’d close the bars down. And we were always the ‘last man standing’…dancing actually, at a party.

I was away on vacation when she got in the accident. And I wasn’t home long before her fight was over. I never made it up to the hospital to see her. Though the boys told me it was better that way.

They got the phone call first and they came to the house to tell me. I thought we were going to hang out … to try to get our minds off the worry. But distraction turned to mourning when they told me “Our girl didn’t make it.” We left my house and went to a small shrine to pray. Something we didn’t do much of in those days.

And then we gathered to tell the rest and to wash our sorrows away with the bottle.

I came home late that night. Just as my Dad was getting in the door from his middle-of-the-night shift. He tells the story that I came in behind him and stopped short in the foyer. “Dad…” I was still standing there, just in front of the door, steel-framed and expressionless, when he turned around. I told him in a deadpan voice, “Jenny died tonight.” He crossed the living room in silence; and when he embraced me, my steel-framed stance broke and melting into my father’s arms, I wailed like a child.

Her funeral was only two days apart from an old classmate’s who had committed suicide. It was unseasonably cold and there was frost on the ground and in my heart. And my knees shook as I stood graveside in my thin dress and no proper coat. And I thought I was “grown.”

While my brother’s death rocked my world in a way from which I will never fully recover, I always knew, deep down, that my brother wasn’t well. And there was some small sense of expectancy amongst his terribly tragic death. But Jenny’s death, and the old classmate too for that matter … nobody saw those coming. I hate unpleasant surprises.

I was 18 and practically on my own and I didn’t even have something appropriate to wear to the funerals, much less coping skills or the ability to properly process. I was just a teenager, hanging on by a thread … a hardened ball of snow, constantly getting too close to the flames. A warrior in the making, but so unbelievably broken in the meantime.

Trying to navigate, trying to understand, trying to grow up, trying to live … I still remember it all, like it was yesterday…

And just like that…

I am the mother of a teenager. And the subtle signs of the recklessness of adolescence are beginning to surface. And it is a far scarier view from this seat than the seat I took twenty years ago.

Last week, my daughter received her letter of acceptance into her high school of choice. Along with that letter came a sigh of relief, a surge of pride, tears of happiness and legitimate excitement for the journey that she is about to embark on. There are so many “firsts” just around the corner for her. And she deserves all of the goodness that is to come. She has worked hard to get here.

That letter left me reflecting on my own teenage journey and the complexities that plagued it: Jenny’s death, several suicides, my car accident, reckless choices, stupid boyfriends, the partying and the pain. The peer pressure was suffocating and yet I yearned for adult independence. My support at home was minimal but what I had, I often pushed away in anger. Grappling to make adult decisions with a brain that still had one foot in childhood, I stumbled more than I walked. My friends held the highest significance in my life and consumed my time and yet somehow, I always felt alone. The empty promises, the wrong calls, the blatant mistakes, the imbalance of knowledge and ability …. the angst of adolescence, that sits like a thin line of snow on a steel rail. Precariously perched, under the warm rays of sun, it will melt. With the untimely swipe of a hand, it will crumble. And with colder conditions, it will harden and freeze. Rarely is it allowed to just be.

While our lives are very different and our struggles are not the same, it seems that whoever you are, adolescence always seems to come with hard lessons, high emotions and inevitably, some tragedy. While it was in my teens that I learned all too well, the smell of death; it was also where I learned the taste of love. While I took unwise risks and made some poor choices, I also came out of my shell and began to make a name for myself. While I rebelled and was unkind at times, it’s where I separated my self from the things and the people who were holding me back and began living my life as my own. While I suffered, I grew.

I am acutely aware of my insatiable desire to protect my children, both in the physical and emotional realm. And the journey that lies ahead of us, is a frightening one. I want so desperately to save her from heartache. And I want to keep her safe. I want her to have the strength that I have, without the pain. I want her to have the wisdom, without the consequences. I want her to soar without ever falling. I want her story to be a good one, with a happy ending, like mine, but without the tragedy.

But I also know that it isn’t my story to write … and that there’s no such thing as achievement without struggle. Nor are there ever any guarantees.

I hope that the ‘growing up fast’ that I had to do, pays off as I mother this teen. I’ll continue to teach her the lessons I learned hard and share with her my pearls of wisdom. I hope that the smiles are many and the tears are few. And when the day comes that I have to hold her like my father did me, I hope that I have the strength to be her steel when she isn’t. For her heartache will certainly shatter mine.

I hope that we survive adolescence.

And when we do, I hope that she looks back and through my strength, she sees my fragility and she thanks me for building another warrior – with a frame made of steel and a heart that melts like snow.

 

 

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An unexpected love affair

My husband and I recently celebrated our 10th wedding anniversary with a cruise to the Southern Caribbean. Being avid road-trippers, this was a first for us and we selected a route and itinerary that took us to as many places as possible in seven days. Our goal was to use the cruise ship more as our mode of transportation than the highlight of our trip. By booking a cruise that departed from Puerto Rico instead of the States, we managed to get six islands into those seven days, including PR. And I was so excited to get to know each and every one of these islands. I researched each one and planned activities for each. Culture is important to me and I wanted to know the people and their food as much as I did their landscape.

Being that it’s February and winters here can be rough, we arranged to fly into Puerto Rico a few days early so as to avoid any conflicts with the cruise departure from potential flight delays due to weather. We also booked our flight-out the day after the ship returned so as to have one last honeymoon night after the cruise. For three nights before the cruise, we stayed in a beautiful boutique hotel in Old San Juan on Calle de la Fortaleza, right in the middle of everything. Then we cruised the Southern Caribbean and visited five more islands. Upon returning to PR, we spent our last night in a bohemian-style bed and breakfast in the Condado/Isla Verde area, more out-of-the-way, in an up-and-coming art district and close to the beach.

Of the six islands we visited, we discovered that more than food and landscape, language or income level, it was the people that gave each island its true character and spirit. Beautiful beaches meant very little when the people were not welcoming. And with that, Grenada and Barbados were true gems! Whilst poor islands, the people there were so friendly and joyful, that we felt instantly welcomed. We loved both of these islands tremendously and would love to go back.

And yet, it was with Puerto Rico that we had a very unexpected love affair.

One could argue that because we spent the most time there, our opinions of PR might be skewed from our opinions of the other islands. But the truth is, we were enraptured within our first hour there. Despite all the beauties that the other islands had to offer, it was Puerto Rico who really captured our hearts.

In Old San Juan, the air and the architecture were infused with a calming energy I can’t describe. Like Valparaiso Chile, the brightly-colored stacked homes have an unexplainable way of stealing the hearts of many, including myself. And I always find Cuban architecture to be my most favored. The narrow cobblestone streets spoke to my soul the way they do in Savannah and Saint Augustine and I could feel the presence of hundreds of years of culture saturated in their uneven stones. The views from Castillo de San Cristobal, spanning over city and sea, literally took my breath away. And the sound of the deep blue water sending waves crashing into the black boulders surrounding the old city walls smoothed away any sense of tension in my body. It is a beautiful city and instantly it communed with my soul and welcomed me.

Cute Mom and Pop restaurants flanked every street corner and wonderful food was everywhere we turned. From white tablecloth to small diners, they had it all. But our favorite was to sit at the street-side tables where locals screamed out the happy hour specials to passers-by. There, we’d sip our mojitos, (by-far the best we’ve ever had) and soak in the city.

The history of the city/country fascinated us too. We walked the length of the old city walls and visited the original gates and forts that once protected the island from outside intruders. A city fountain, full of statuesque symbols that represent the country, included two goddesses that are said to both protect the island and welcome visitors by sea (a welcome surprise for this heathen in an otherwise very Catholic country). The family is  the center of the culture. And when I discovered that a frog, of all things, was a national symbol, it was a match made in heaven. I love frogs!

But despite all of that … the symbols, the food, the architecture and the landscape … again it was the people who really touched our hearts. Every person that we encountered in a store front, restaurant/bar, walking down the street or selling their goods out of a basket, was kind. They went out of their way to communicate, to explain, to accommodate us, and to welcome us as visitors to their island.

It’s been almost six months since Hurricane Maria ravaged their country. Despite the fact that we knew several of the attractions we had planned on visiting were still closed, it was with purposeful intent that my husband and I maintained our vacation plans. Lights, water and safety were all that we needed to give us the green light to not only visit but to support them through our tourism; and we sought out worthy, small businesses to patronize. We didn’t want to be part of the masses who pulled out and left the country hurting even more than they already were. So we went with the intention of enjoying ourselves and helping out the little man at the same time. We did this for all the islands we visited on that trip.

We weren’t expecting any kudos for that. It only seemed common decency to us. We aren’t wealthy and we weren’t going as missionaries. We merely went there as vacationers, spending the modest amount of money we had on food, drinks and a few souvenirs.

And then the craziest thing started happening. Complete strangers would approach us in the streets to thank us for coming to Puerto Rico and to assure us that they will continue to rebuild. We were instantly humbled.

They told us their stories. One woman we passed in the street, was walking three dogs. And when we stopped to greet them, she explained that they were all rescue dogs that she pulled off the streets after the storms. Three wagging tails that she did her part to save and now calls her “children”. Other people told us stories of people with private planes that air-lifted sick kids out to the United States to get treatment. And they expressed their gratitude to the U.S. companies for coming to help. They spoke of the months without water and without power, how the community came together to clean-up, and they described the sound of the storm when it passed over their houses. A true nightmare, to be trapped on an island, with no way off, when mother nature surges through in historic fury. Their stories were both heart wrenching and terrifying.

They described what it was like to survive a category five hurricane.

What they never did though … was complain.

And more than even that, despite their tragic stories, they remained joyful. As a people who had lost so much, they were still happy! And they were working so hard to continue to clean-up. Nearly six months- and the trucks were still picking up loads of rubble and debris, the electric companies were still repairing downed lines, and some businesses and natural landmarks will be forever changed by the damage; but they merely said “We’re going to be okay! We’re going to rebuild. Thank you for coming here!” And they’d laugh and they’d shake your hand and they’d ask where you were coming from and they’d welcome you like a long-lost friend.

I remember watching some news footage, days after the storm, and how the people of PR came out into the streets to dance. With no lights, no water and some with no homes, they banged on steel drums and shook homemade instruments and they danced. A true example of learning to dance in the rain. I experienced that mirth while I was there. Music always seemed to fill the streets, no mater the time or day. Smiles found themselves on every face you came to meet and laughter and a love for humanity seemed to surround us .

On our last day, after returning from the ship, we were excited to experience another part of the island – along the beach of Condado and Isla Verde. We were impressed to discover that the neighborhood we were staying in, had always been a poor one but had recently been developing into an up-and-coming art district; and small businesses and restaurants were filling in where old dilapidated structures once stood. The Cuban architecture and cobblestone was replaced by wider streets and graffiti art; but the people were just the same. Still coming up to us and thanking us for coming, still sharing their stories and finding reasons to laugh.

There, we again walked the streets and enjoyed the food, but we also experienced the beach. It wasn’t the most visually striking beach we’d seen in our twelve days of adventuring, but again it was the people who brought the beauty. It was a Sunday afternoon and all the locals were down on the sand with picnic baskets and beer – men playing a ball game, lovers snuggling on their blankets, young people enjoying one another’s company … not because it was a holiday. It wasn’t even summer, but just because.

And that night … away from the city center, amidst the tropical foliage outside our room, the most magical sound came when the Coqui frogs began to sing. And with that, I knew … this was a love affair that would have to continue. A love affair with a tropical climate, delicious food, rum and coffee, beautiful architecture, history and above all, beautiful, happy, people.

Like the poor man who will search the beach after the storm, for wood to rebuild his home, I too, will search the world for places that rebuild my soul. I am glad I found Puerto Rico.

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“Judgment” …. a once Christian’s perspective

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According to Webster's dictionary, judgment is the "process of forming an opinion or evaluation by discerning and comparing” or “a proposition stating something believed or asserted”.

In my words, judgment is an analysis of a situation or the comparison of one thing to another which leads to the conclusion that one thing is preferable or superior to the other. We make judgments on the movies we watch, the places we go and the food we eat. We compare travel spots, restaurants and activities. We think about and then rethink the moves we’ve made and try to reach some kind of conclusion as to whether or not these moves were the best ones. When we judge a place or a material object, we create a sort of mental ranking for the future. We do this to ensure that the next time we are faced with a similar choice, we stand better odds at choosing the more favorable option.

People are not objects. Our nature is far more complex than taste and texture and visual appearance. And just as a person should not be defined by their outwardly appearance, they should not be defined by a single action or circumstance either. It is important that we understand favorable and unfavorable actions, lest we have a society of ambiguity and absolute relativism. One might also refer to this as, "right versus wrong." And unfavorable actions need not be condoned. But when we judge another person, when we categorize them based on an action or a thought, we are allowing our minds to formulate an opinion of another person’s worth.  The consequences of a lack of worth are far more devastating than identifying a dangerous habit or an undesirable characteristic. And that judgment is as toxic to the one who is placing it, as it is to the one being judged. The way I see it, judging another person is like watering a feeling that is planted in the innermost place of one’s core that tells one that they are better than someone else. People who continue to judge others are feeding the spoil within themselves and that spoil spreads to others.

While the act of casting judgment on others is toxic, in order to help identify and combat it, I find it helpful to understand why certain people have an affinity for it. And in my observation of people, I find that the practice of judging other people is often perpetuated by an inability to see another’s perspective or to understand another’s place or point of view. It is usually egotistical. And sometimes, it even lacks logic or reason. In other words, some people judge others because they simply don't understand them. Due to their life circumstance or position, they just don't have the experience or the context to begin to understand how someone could do something or end-up where they are. And so, having no understanding of what that person's life was like, they cast a judgment on that person for not being strong enough or smart enough to escape their fate. It's a sad situation that happens every day when certain people pass by the homeless or the prostitutes, the drunks or the drug addicts. Most people shake their head … few people wonder how they got there.

One of my favorite Bible stories is here in John 8:
1 but Jesus went to the Mount of Olives. 2 At dawn he appeared again in the temple courts, where all the people gathered around him, and he sat down to teach them. 3 The teachers of the law and the Pharisees brought in a woman caught in adultery. They made her stand before the group 4 and said to Jesus, “Teacher, this woman was caught in the act of adultery. 5 In the Law Moses commanded us to stone such women. Now what do you say?” 6 They were using this question as a trap, in order to have a basis for accusing him. But Jesus bent down and started to write on the ground with his finger. 7 When they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, “Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.” 8 Again he stooped down and wrote on the ground.

While some people find it impossible to understand certain circumstances or life choices; others, I've found, lean towards judgment because they're too close to those experiences and those experiences have led to hurt. Many times, when a person has had a negative experience with a certain individual, they will make a blanket statement or carry an exaggerated response to all persons who display the same character flaw or who fall within the category that this person has created . For instance, a child of an abusive alcoholic may develop a hatred for all alcoholics or a person who has been cheated on by a partner may refuse to have any dealings with other persons who too have committed infidelity, and thereby they judge them and cast them into a category of people who hold little worth. Sadly, when we are hurting, we are often so consumed in our grief that we fail to see our own faults much less the worth of the person who hurt us.

Mathew 7:1-5
1 “Do not judge, or you too will be judged. 2 For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you. 3 “Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye? 4 How can you say to your brother, ‘Let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when all the time there is a plank in your own eye? 5 You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye

While PTSD is a real thing and psychological cause and effect are valid happenings, there are treatments for these things. Holding on to these biases based on trauma are not healthy coping mechanisms. Categorizing people is a basic behavior that has evolved as we have. The same way a gazelle has evolved to identify the slow movements of a lion in the high grasses of Africa, humans too have evolved to identify undesirable human characteristics and to remove ourselves from them; particularly, after the actions of those characteristics have hurt us. This is a life saving technique and I in no-way suggest that you should seek-out or a-line yourself with people who display dangerous behaviors and characteristics. But I caution you to place a sense of worth on them. Because when we do, the collective opinion of others in society leads to the ostracization of certain members. We are a high level species. The highest in fact, that we know of. We are no longer striving for basic animal instinct … instead we are seeking a higher level of human thought and interaction. No one benefits from out-casting and labeling. The world isn't black and white. People don't belong in this category or that. We are humans and we are fluid. There is goodness and there is darkness in all of us.

To be able to see both the darkness and the light, we must learn to separate a person's actions from their "self". We must learn to see past their blaringly obvious flaw and look for the quiet goodness that they too possess. You can protect yourself from the dangerous behaviors of a person and still acknowledge that person's goodness and worth. You can distance yourself from your abuser and still recall their redemptive qualities.

Real life example:

Using reason, logical cause and effect and personal observation, one could reasonably conclude that extra marital affairs are detrimental to monogamous relationships as well as to society as a whole. If we as a society, could not place trust in our promises to one another, the structure of our society would suffer. The family unit is a huge part of the foundation that builds our communities. Affairs hold the potential to cause emotional pain as well as hold physical, financial and psychological implications. We can all agree that infidelity is an unfavorable action.

But we can separate the action from the person and conclude that while the affair itself is a dangerous and unwise choice, the person who is having the affair still holds purpose and worth. In other words, instead of categorizing them as a “cheater” or a “whore” and dismissing them as no longer having worth, that person can still be your friend. Their actions need not be condoned. You should in no way "cover" for them or encourage their behavior. But friends who make risky and unwise choices need counseling and good examples set, they don't need to be ostracized. What does hatred and isolation teach anyone?

Another subject of judgment that I find particularly popular is drug abuse. There is a nation-wide epidemic happening right now and the use of Narcan to revive addicts who overdose is a controversal discussion. Drug abuse is habitual and carries known risks of damage to the body. It is statistically shown to be affiliated with behaviors that cause the breakdown of family units as well the breakdown of one’s body. You’d be hard pressed to find any evidence to suggest that anything other than marijuana (and possibly MDMA) for certain health conditions has any benefit to the average person. We can make a judgment that drug use and abuse without a medical indication, is a risky, unwise choice.

And yet, by understanding the power of addiction, sympathizing that most teenagers experiment and it's those who carry the gene for addiction that find it so hard to stop, and knowing that no one dreams of becoming the monster of addiction, we can still find love for the addict. That person is not their addiction. Their addiction might change the way they behave and those behaviors might affect our relationship with them; but we don’t have to make a judgment about who they are. And we don't get to determine their worth. Nor should we join them or enable them. Instead we should use that energy to try to understand their struggle, help them if we can, and then thank the universe that we didn't inherit those genes or that we didn't go to that party the night the experimentation began. We must look at the faces of addiction and see them as the babes they once were. We must remember to love like a mother.

 "If you judge people you have no time to love them."-Mother Theresa 

"Love is the absence of Judgment."-Dalai Lama

Some of the most wonderful people I know have stepped out of their marriages, have excessive spending habits, display hoarding behaviors, struggle to control their fears and anger and suffer from substance abuse. Most of the population doesn't even know that these people have made these errors or struggle with these tendencies. They are good parents. They are good employees. And they are good people. They are flawed and they have made mistakes. And they don't need to be crucified for them. Nor do they need excuses to be made for them. They need help. I won't allow these people to bring me down with them. I won't get caught up in their poor choices or enable their behavior. But I will be their friend.

"I only look to the good qualities of men. Not being faultless myself, I won't presume to probe into the faults of others."-Ghandi

I am mouthy and at times, obtrusive. I am a fervent defender of the under-dog and fight for causes sometimes to my own detriment. I struggle with anxiety and that often manifests in control issues. My experiences with poverty, dysfunction and abuse as a child have led to my ability to empathize with these conditions; but I battle my own biases against those who live privileged and entitled lives. Organized religion is a struggle for me. And some of the people who have hurt me are a real hurdle that I need to overcome. But I am working to amend those. I make it a daily effort not to place judgment on any individual; but if you ask anyone close to me who they dread bringing someone home to – I'm usually the hardest to sell. Sometimes I look to myself and wonder how I've been so lucky in my marriage and friends and family. Sure, I'm a hard worker and for the most part, kind and funny; but I am flawed. My friends and family love me anyway. So it is my pilgrimage to love others too, no matter how flawed they are. And I encourage you to do the same. The world is too crowded and complicated to spend our time walking around pointing our fingers. If we did that, we'd all end up with a broken digits and swollen eyes. With splinted hands and blurred vision, how could we possibly work to make the world a better place?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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A day in the Life of a Rape Victim

trigger warning

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Embarrassed, horrified and afraid, she feels around in the dark for her clothes. Dressing herself and gathering her things, she is aware of her nakedness in this strange room and her confusion is met by horrifying reality. “What just happened?” “Why did I come here?” “I gotta get out.” “I need to go home.” “Somebody help me!” “What just happened?”

Stunned, she can’t believe it happened to her. Every other night she was soo careful. “Dumb, dumb, dumb … how could I be so dumb?” “He seemed so cool.” “I can’t believe this happened to me.” The place she went to for fun, suddenly became a horror-house she found herself running from. She wants to go home.

At home, she wants to shower but she knows that she can’t. Alone she cries on her pillow. And she falls asleep in exhaustion.

Morning light strikes and for a moment, it’s just a regular morning … and then … she sees her clothes on the floor, and the whole horrifying night comes flashing back. She’s got some phone calls to make. Today is going to be a very long day.

She stumbles out to the living room where her father walks-in with his coffee and paper, “What time did you get in last night? And what did I tell you about….”

“Dad, sit down.”

She can’t find the words. She knows this is going to destroy him. Still she knows what he taught her. She knows what she has to do. But her mouth can’t form the sentence and her mind can’t believe that this is happening.

So he starts guessing … It only took him two guesses. He’s the father of two girls and he’s known the statistics for too long.  “Were you assaulted?”

All she can do is nod her head and cry.

The girl who was “grown”, the girl who “had it all together”, the girl who had “done so well”, held her father and sobbed.

And when she stopped, he said, “You know what we have to do, right? You know we have to report this.” “I know”, she said. She was already exhausted and yet the day hadn’t even begun.

After a phone call and a knock at the door, two uniformed officers step inside. And in her living room, in front of her father she is questioned and divulges the horrifying details of the night before. They ask for her clothes-and not just her under-garments … her favorite pair of jeans, heels and the top she used her hard-earned money to buy- all to be destroyed in the process of collecting evidence. It looks like her body wasn’t the only thing he stole from her last night. Her favorite outfit, her father’s heart, her trust in men, her soul, were all on the list of casualties.

With the evidence in a bag and the officers beside her, she left her home in a police cruiser, wondering if the neighbors were watching.

The cruiser pulled up in front of the police station and the officers invite her inside a building she never thought she’d be in, “For further questioning and to provide a written statement”. In an empty room, she’s given a pad of paper and asked to record not just the details of her assault but every detail of the night … what she did, what she said, who was there … what she was drinking and how much … Did she flirt with him in any way?… Did she do anything at all that could be interpreted as an invitation? At a cold table, in a strange room, alone, she recalls and puts into words, every last detail of her assault, again.

“I’m done”, she said, as she lays down her pen, hoping she covered it all – hoping she didn’t leave anything out – hoping she didn’t mess it up -hoping she didn’t screw-up her own case.

And then the officers start explaining that if any part of the report is found to be un-true, she could be charged with “false reporting” or “obstruction of justice” punishable by up to a year in prison. Confused, she thought they were on her side. Afraid, she thinks again about the words she wrote,”Did I get it all right?” Stunned, she asks herself, “Is this really happening?” She signs on the line, testifying to her truth, wishing it were all a lie.

One of the officers explains that they will be taking her to the rape center so that they can collect the evidence they need for the case. She nods and follows him out to another police car.

During the ride, alone in the back seat, the cop begins to comment on what she didn’t do right. – “You really shouldn’t go to someone’s house that you only just met.” ” You’re too young to be dating that guy.” “Why were you the only girl at the party?” “What were you thinking?” Silently she rides, staring out the window, fighting the tears that are begging to escape from her eyes, wanting to disappear.

He stops at a strange hospital, walks her inside, talks to the staff and leaves. Again she is alone.

A nurse with a kind voice and an easy demeanor is the most welcome sight of the day. With miraculous efficiency, she records the girl’s version of the story without question and simultaneously gathers evidence. Again, the girl finds herself naked, but this time she knows someone is helping her, not hurting her. But still she feels like her body is hardly her own – pictures are taken, DNA collected, a full body exam is performed- swabs, combs and a speculum. A stranger records every last detail of her most private parts and she lies there wishing she had never gone there last night.

When she leaves, they hand her a teddy bear and a packet, with a prescription for antibiotics and the morning after pill, just in case. And she waits on the curb for her ride to come.

The diarrhea and the bleeding will soon come, a side-effect of her medications and she can’t wait to finally take a shower.

That is nearly the end of her first day as a rape victim. She only has the rest of her life to go.

Next will come the phone calls from friends. The questions from her boss as to why she wasn’t at work. The explanation to more family members. She still has to tell her Mom. Then the meetings with lawyers and the role-playing she’ll be asked to do to prepare for the attack the defense team is going to launch against her character.

More appointments. More days off work. More questions. More explanations.

Some people who were there that night will refuse to get involved and “friends” will avoid her now in the name of male loyalty and supposed “he said, she said”.

People will talk. People will wonder. People will judge.

The “pretty” and “fun” girl is now stained. And just like she felt, sitting at the police station table, riding in the police cruiser, standing in the rape center, lying on the exam table, she will feel alone. Her body will feel like a filthy contaminate and she will want to separate it from herself. Pulling on her hips, she’ll wish she could throw-away that part of her that he took. She’ll wish that this nightmare would end. She’ll hope for justice but expect nothing-because that’s what her lawyers advised her to expect. “It’s his first offense”, “Because of how much you had to drink”, “Because the guy you were dating…”

 

If you’re wondering where this story came from, I’m not going to tell you, it doesn’t matter. I assure you I didn’t make it up and that it is fairly representative of a typical sexual assault report. If you’re questioning if every rape story looks like this, you’re missing the point. If you’re pining for more details, you’re sick.

According to statistics, fewer than 10% of sexual assaults in the U.S are reported. Of those reported, between 14% and 18% of all sexual assaults and 37% of rape cases are actually prosecuted. Of the rape cases prosecuted, only 18% result in a conviction. That means an estimated 3.4% of all rape cases lead to a conviction.

Despite the recent movement to address and stop the apparent cultural norm of violence against women, it seems that some, still have a hard time accepting the truth. There are websites and even female spokespeople who make it a point to attempt to “de-bunk” studies on sexual assault, claiming that they aren’t valid because the participants in the study were anonymous and therefore the cases were not confirmed. You can’t confirm what’s reported with anonymity. And I challenge you to find me one sexual assault victim, much less a thousand, who want their name attached to a study. The stigma that is attached to a sexual assault victim is a heavy one – “She has baggage”, “She’s a whore”, “She just wants attention.”

I believe the best way to tackle any stigma is through education and a shared perspective. So, if you can’t understand why someone wouldn’t report, if you have difficulty believing a victim’s story or wonder why they dropped the charges … before you write them off as “making it up”, consider for a minute what they had to go through just to file a report. For many victims, the act of reporting, alone, is a huge act of bravery and risk – as many are threatened with their safety, job and reputation. And the repercussions effect not only them but their family and friends as well. Consider the very real possibility that she’s telling the truth and that with her assault and the process of reporting comes a whole slew of repeated trauma.

Don’t contribute to her trauma. Help her. Believe her.

This is only one of the “me too”s that popped up on your Facebook feed. There are thousands more. As a female, a college instructor and a nurse in the field of obstetrics, I assure you, the 1:4 statistics are accurate. And no, it’s not all women getting pulled into back-alleys. It’s girls at parties who drunkenly mumble “No, stop!” while he pulls off her pants anyway. It’s a strange hand up her skirt in a crowded club. It’s a date that she didn’t want to “put-out” on and he thinks she gave him mixed signals. It’s rationalizing that because she was dancing provocatively or kissing multiple people or wearing a certain outfit that “she wanted it”, despite her saying “No.” It’s one guy thinking she’s too drunk to remember in the morning and his friends turning their back and pretending not to notice.

We, along with many other cultures in the world have bred a society in which violence against women is tolerated and shaming those women is common-day practice. It must stop. Fear, stigma, judgment, social ostracization and the heartache and trauma that goes along with sexual assault and prosecuting against it is poisoning our culture.

We are better than that.

Teach your boys respect and self-control. Teach your girls to have a voice.

Change begins with you.

 

The girl in this story was a statistical minority in that she reported quickly and followed through. Thanks to her bravery, she gained a conviction and removed one more offender from society.

 

For more info on reporting sexual assault and the reference for the stats I sited here, go to: https://opsvaw.as.uky.edu/sites/default/files/07_Rape_Prosecution.pdf

 

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“I didn’t want it to be me.”

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“I didn’t want it to be me.”

Sitting on the bottom step … cold, hard cement under her torn jeans and a busy world around her that seemed to be standing still … she held her head in her hands.

The pretty girl with the perfect spirals of hair that fell delicately in front of her deep brown eyes … almost hiding them and the tears that they have poured over her beautiful face. Her perfect smile, chased away. Her musical laughter, muted like a busted music box. The plans for her perfect life, shattered, like a fist through a mirror. Her beautiful heart bleeding.

Her perfectly pink lips trembled and she whispered, “I didn’t want it to be me.”

A small school girl, she would hop and squirm in her seat. Her small hand waving frantically in the air, she’d beg, “Oh oh oh….pick me! Pick me!” So anxious and eager she was back then, earnest for a chance to give the answer, for a chance to try…

Not today … not this time.

This time she would’ve put her hand down. She would’ve hidden under her desk, slunk to the back of the room. She would’ve run … out of the classroom, out of the building … out of the world to escape this. She would’ve paid any money, rubbed any stone, whispered any spell, prayed any prayer … not to be picked this time.

She knows these things happen. She knows no one deserves it. She knows she couldn’t have stopped it. And yet here she sits, with her head in hands and cries, “I didn’t want it to be me.”

Delicately perched on the step, an empty eggshell ready to crack- like a fractured fairytale, only there’s no happy ending. Breathing is her greatest task. And as she cries and breathes … the tears become fewer and the breathing, deeper.

The empty egg-shell is not so empty after all. Inside, it holds the steel frame of a woman who doesn’t know her strength. But as she breathes, slowly, she begins to notice the supports within her.

Still she cries, “I didn’t want it to be me.”

The longer she sits, the more she becomes aware of the steel bars that compose her core, her inner strength. And she tries to stand.

Her knees shaking, her body trembling, she takes a step … and then another … and then another.

And then for the first time, she lifts her gaze to the street in front of her- full of people, full of obstacles, full danger and judgement…

The journey ahead is frightening and overwhelming, but she knows that she can do this. She can walk this walk and fight this fight. Inside of her she can feel the strength of the many warriors, women who came before her … and she knows that she isn’t just a survivor, she’s a conqueror.

Shadows begin to move and let way to slivers of light. Though she knows some shadows will always remain.

Her legs, once too weak to stand, get stronger with every step. Her head, once fallen, raises higher with each stride. Her eyes, once too filled with tears to see are now filled with focus and direction. And her heart … as strong as it beats and as full as it is … her heart still bleeds …

because she whispers, “I really, really, didn’t want it to be me.”

Still she takes another step.

 

 

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Life is a Circus … A Life Inspired and Lessons Learned from the Magician, Johnny Fox

I was a kid when I first saw his act  – A wry, smart-mouthed magician with a knack for sleight of hand and sword swallowing (amongst other freakish sideshow skills) and the uncanny ability to do it with such ease he’d tell the audience “anyone can learn to do it”. He’d explain exactly what he was doing … and yet still manage to surprise his onlookers. The little red ball would turn to an orange and the orange to a glass of wine. He’d swallow a bigger sword than you thought was humanly possible and stuff a balloon down his throat and then pop it with a smaller blade – leaving the audience in stitches as his throat echoed the squeaking balloon’s deflation inside his body. He was handsome and funny and infectious and he called himself “Johnny Fox”. “Johnny Fox”, he’d say “is my stage name. My real name is John Fox.” And it was.

It worked out that I married a man who loved the faire as much as I did. And so as we built our life together and our family, the Maryland Renaissance Festival became an autumn-time staple for our family, a continuation from my childhood. And Johnny Fox stood at the heart of it. For years my son wanted “to grow up to be Johnny Fox” and he was constantly asking for new magic kits and wands … and forever disappointing himself that he wasn’t as good as Johnny. And even though we could practically recite half his jokes by heart and the outcomes of many of his tricks became predictable as the years passed… we couldn’t not see him. Because his jokes just never got old, his skill never got sloppy and his act never stopped amazing and entertaining us. Every year, when we’d walk through the gates of the festival with our entertainment schedule in hand and I’d say “Ok guys, who do you want to see?” Someone would always say, “Well you know we HAVE to see Johnny Fox!”

And so when the year came that I checked the entertainment schedule in advance and I saw that Johnny wasn’t on it, I panicked. He had been performing there forever! Nearly, forty years in fact. He was the longest running performer at the festival and we weren’t the only family who had come to love his entertainment for generations. Quickly scanning the site, I discovered that Johnny had been having some health problems and his performances were uncertain. We attended the festival regardless and were thrilled when we discovered that he’d still be performing. It wasn’t his usual three or four shows a day, there was only one that day; but it was the “must-do” for the day.

So when the time approached, we purchased “sweet nuts” from his signature booth and arrived early to get good seats. With beer and nuts in hand, my husband and I sat on the blue wooden benches like we had every fall. And the kids ran down the hill to the front, to sit at the Royal Stage’s edge (now the Royal Fox Stage) – just as they always had; because they already knew that when Johnny’s act started, the first thing he’d do was invite the kids down. They didn’t seem to realize that they were getting too big to use that accommodation anymore, but I didn’t stop them. For years, my son would gaze up at the magician like a god. And my daughter would soak in every second … until he grabbed the sword. Then she’d divert her eyes and squirm like the little girl that she was … only not so little now. As for my husband and I, every year we’d think this would be the year we would catch him in his sleight of hand. We never did.

As we sat on the benches, waiting for the show to start, I wondered and worried about what would have kept Johnny from posting certain performances.

And then Johnny appeared.

And the nurse inside of me knew exactly why his performances were uncertain. One look at him and I knew that he was dying. The look of end stage cancer is a look any seasoned medical professional can spot. The crowd cheered and welcomed him with a standing ovation and tears welled in my eyes. Oh, the difference a year can make. Standing on the same stage that I’d seen him perform for decades, his strong, fit body suddenly looked so frail. His clothes hung off of him and his cheek bones jutted under his thin, pale skin. I knew in that second that the great magician’s body was betraying him in the greatest of ways. And yet, stretched across his face was the biggest smile one could produce and his eyes were on fire.

Without missing a beat, he jumped right into his same jokes, the same ridiculously good sleight of hand and the same good-humored freak acts. With the same smooth confidence he held in his shoulders and the same mischievous sparkle in his eyes, he carried his audience from laughter to jaw drop, in a comfortable and entertaining act that was always second to none. And despite his obvious health concerns, he still ended the show with a sword swallow. I was astounded that he had the strength and energy to do what he did. He was a performer that we’d come to expect year after year and this time, while I watched, along with my laughter and smiles, my heart felt heavy because I knew that this was Johnny’s last show for us. And I soaked in every delicious second of it. He ended the show as he always did, by saying, “It is a privilege to make people laugh for a living…”

After the show, he confirmed to the audience that this past spring he had been given a grim diagnosis and had been undergoing alternative treatment. “They told me I only had a few weeks to live,” he said, “And I told them, you don’t know who you’re talking to.” He didn’t call his journey with cancer a “battle” though, he called it a “dance”. He spoke about his love for life and people and his drive to “keep getting better”. If death was on his mind, you never would’ve known it by his words or his performance. He called the Maryland Renn Fest his “home” and thanked everyone for making it that. He informed us of a Facebook page that he had opened for people to follow him on, “Friends of Johnny Fox”. And while he needed to clear the stage for the next act, he’d be in the back to take photos and sign autographs.

The kids and I were at the front of the line. He sat on a stool while a line formed behind us. I could see how tired he was and yet he was still so full of life. Before even acknowledging the adult that was trying to talk to him, he spotted my son and held out an autograph for him and shot him a sweet, inviting smile. And after we snapped our picture with the legend, I bent down and planted a kiss on his cheek, which he welcomed with a “muah”. “I just wanted to tell you that we love you,” I said.” You have brought us back to the festival year after year and have brought us so much joy. You taught my children to believe in magic. Thank you!” “I’m just dancing”, he said with a smile and I walked away just as the tears started to roll.

When I left the festival, I sent my request to “Friends of Johnny Fox” and from that day on I followed his page. With every updated picture and post that was made of him, it became clearer to me that he was getting sicker, and yet, he was always doing something fabulous! He was attending concerts (we share a favorite artist-Bob Dylan), putting his feet in the ocean, soaking in a hot tub with friends. As a health care professional, I know first hand what end-of-life looks like. Some people deny it and some people accept it. Many people submit to it and some people fight it. Johnny rocked it! He really did dance, right up until the very end.

And when the inevitable post came through that Johnny had drawn his last breath, I hung my head. “He died with a smile on his face and was surrounded by friends”- who gave him his final standing ovation-the post explained. When I turned to tell my family, my voice shook and I cried. I’m a nurse – I know death. This man wasn’t my family or even a friend. He was a festival performer. “I’m crying over a sword swallower”, I told my husband as I laughed through the tears. “Yeah but it was Johnny Fox”, he said. ” And he was just such a cool guy.” My children cried too.

His whole presence and journey had such a profound effect on myself and my family that we continued to follow his page and it wasn’t until after his death that we realized just what a legend Johnny was. We aren’t carnies or performers ourselves, we only knew the Maryland Renn Fest. And we thought Johnny Fox only belonged to us ( silly, I know!). It wasn’t until the various newspaper articles and NPR coverage surfaced that we began to learn the depth of his extraordinary ability and larger than life persona, whose influence spanned the nation. A true “sideshow virtuoso,” one article explained. All those years, we thought he was just our favorite festival act … when in actuality, he was a nation-wide legend.

We also learned more about the journey that he had been on and his drive to keep living and performing, right up until the end. His friends shared that one of the goals he had set for himself when he was diagnosed was to perform for the MD Renn fest for one more season. Friends drove him to doctors and even across the country to receive alternative treatment. He fought from Spring to Fall and there were weeks that he spent the weekdays in the hospital, but would be determined to get out in time to perform for the weekend. He was from Connecticut and performed in festivals all over the country. But somehow, Maryland Renn Fest won his heart, and we were all the luckier for it.

It was a family decision to attend his Celebration of Life ceremony. And we were so glad that we did! The man we knew only from the stage came even more to life when his friends told stories about him and his years of antics and performing. People traveled from all over the country to be there and to honor him. The stage was perfectly anointed with his props and posters and regalia. And the program his friends designed with quirky acts, comedy, eclectic people and musical minstrels was so suited to him that it was life-alteringly inspiring. They even performed a “Twenty-one sword swallow” as a salute to the great entertainer. I don’t know whether I felt more like an unworthy intruder or a privileged guest, to witness the tremendous love for a man I only knew as an audience member.

At the end of the ceremony, the host, a friend of Johnny’s and a fellow performer and magician, explained a tradition that started with the death of Houdini. The tradition was to break the magic wand of the late magician; “because a magic wand without the magician is just a stick”. And they followed the tradition with Johnny’s.

 

We don’t always know where our inspiration is going to come from. Nor do we know how the people (or performers) in our lives are going to change us. During the Celebration of Life ceremony, Johnny’s friend and fellow performer, Mark Sieve said “Johnny’s leaving us has affected all of us in ways we have yet to know.” And it already has.

I never would have dreamed that I would gain the inspiration or the lessons that I have as an audience member of a sideshow artist … I never thought I’d find myself in a room full of circus performers and be moved to tears with their tribute. I am changed because I stopped to watch and paused to learn.

Johnny’s example taught me that no amount of “bad news” or challenges can keep you from living, unless you let it. “Life is a choice to sit it out or dance.” Dancing he did, and magic he made. It’s up to me to make magic with the talents that I have.

And like a magician’s wand, things are just things and days are just days, until you use them to create something magical.

His diagnosis taught me not to let the inevitable, rush me to the ending. There’s a journey, a dance to be had. What he accomplished in those months of “dancing” was earth-moving. He taught this nurse, this skeptic, that it’s not over until it’s over.

And yet, he was a return act who reminded me that nothing lasts forever. Life is fragile and even the longest running act must come to an end. Take nothing for granted.

His quirkiness and love for the oddities in life confirmed my love for individual uniqueness. Johnny was a beloved person and character that embodied everything that was weird and unusual. He not only embraced that strangeness, he made it cool and he made it his. He was a perfect example of being yourself and utilizing your unique talents to make the world a more beautiful place.

Johnny reminded me to honor our past. His act, though it always felt fresh and new, always included tidbits of info that credited the forefathers of his art. He educated while he entertained and he honored the performers and talent that came before him. He fought to keep that dying art alive.

Johnny’s story taught me that “family” is whoever stands by your side and “home” is where your heart is. It was obvious from the speeches made, that Johnny was a well-traveled and well-loved man. He seemed to have many homes. I’m honored that Maryland was his favorite. And the turnout at his life celebration made it clear that his family was a wide and diverse one.

And that family reminded me that it’s those relationships that matter most. The people who carried Johnny to the end it seems, would have gone to the ends of the earth for him. And relationships like that, unlike magic, don’t generate from thin air. Johnny invested in people and they too invested in him. We mustn’t ever be too busy to invest in the people we love.

Despite his life threatening illness, Johnny showed up for one last season. Regardless of his fragility, he still performed and made people both laugh and squirm in enjoyment. He didn’t quit or give up. He didn’t lose himself or become bitter. He lived for every second that he was given and turned a death sentence into a beautiful dance. Might we all find the tenacity within us to do the same.

So here’s to the sword swallower who taught this nurse, this mother, this beer-holding, giggling fan … to believe in magic. Life is a Circus …bring your friends, buy the peanuts, sit in the front row, stay for the last act … it’s too damn short not to!

Thanks for sharing yours with us Johnny! Hats off to a life well performed!

 

 

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An Unexpected Snow Day

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Productive non-productivity – it’s something that those of us who have a hard time sitting still need to learn. If you are the coach potato or the gamer, this isn’t for you. If you are the person who can get lost in a book for a whole day, take long walks just to clear your head and do well relaxing and getting lost in deep thought, you don’t need this. This is for the high energy, constant doers, who run themselves ragged and don’t know when to quit. It’s for people like me.

I don’t need someone to teach me how to be more productive. (I have 3 jobs for Christ’s sake). I make photo books, plan parties, decorate cakes, type itineraries for vacations, DYI my home improvement projects and create annual family Halloween costumes. And yet, I can’t sit still through a movie if there’s clutter on the floor, I never watch TV, I don’t sleep enough, I get a haircut once a year, quality time with friends is hard for me to maintain and even my playtime with my family feels like it’s scheduled. I need to learn how to be productively un-productive. I need to be reminded to sit back and take in the natural moments of life, beyond those that I find on a beach vacation.

… And an unexpected snow day gave me the inspiration to do just that …

It was 4 am and I was working my usual night shift at the hospital. Due to low patient census, I was given the opportunity to go home early. On any other day, with only three hours left in the shift, I’d probably decline the offer, as eliminating three hours in an effort to gain time/sleep seems futile at that hour. But on this night, we had an unexpected snow storm blow in. This short but fierce storm would likely delay school openings in the morning – and two-hour delays are a nightmare for working parents. Every time it happens, it’s a juggling act to make it work with my sleep needs and my husband’s obligations to an early morning job. I hated the idea of driving home in the height of the storm. But, when I did the “sleep math” I figured-out that if I left the hospital right then, I could get just enough sleep to get the kids to school and save my husband the shenanigans of trying to get himself to work at a decent hour.

Driving home in the pitch black of the wee morning hours, I began to dread my decision. The roads were freshly iced and the only traffic on them, Mack trucks and snow plows, zoomed past me and pelted me with salt. It was a cautious drive home to say the least … but my husband was flooded by relief when he saw my face in the bed and I told him “I’ll take the kids this morning.”

An hour into my sleep I was gifted with a text from the school. The two-hour delay had been converted to a school closing. I’d be a fool to take a cancel from work and then not take advantage. So instead of my usual 4-5 hours, I greedily slept 8.

When I awoke, the magic of the day began to dawn on me – a cancel from work (even if it was only three hours) AND a surprise snow day?! This day couldn’t go to waste! Youthful energy came bubbling up inside of me and the first thing I decided was that it was the perfect day for a big, hot, afternoon breakfast- eggs and sausage and the whole gamut! While family dinner is a nightly occurrence at our house, we don’t often get the opportunity to enjoy breakfast together. I love breakfast! And so do the kids. So when I called them to the table, they came eagerly. And their enthusiasm for a big breakfast combined with a surprise snow day prompted me not to grab my phone with my plate and coffee and I instead left it in the kitchen. While I sipped my coffee, I  listened to the newest drama my teenager wanted to share and the silly stories that my younger one had to contribute, unplugged. They were quite the chatterboxes and it seemed the magic of the day hadn’t been lost to them either.

After we ate, I watched my daughter slink off to the basement (to turn on the TV for sure) and my son ran to put his snow suit on. The sink was full of dirty dishes. The Christmas decorations needed to be packed up and the newly purchased bins to pack them in were sitting in the middle of the living room. There was laundry to be washed and vacuuming to be had. You see, I’m not the kind of person that needs to be motivated. I’m the kind of person who has a running list of “To-do’s”. And logically, I knew that this time, with the kids occupied, after breakfast and before dinner, with an impending 7pm return to work, could be well spent doing those household chores. But the magic of this unplanned day inspired me and instead, for once, I decided to be un-productive … productively un-productive.

So with the dirty dishes piled even higher now, I called down to my daughter, “Hey, lets paint our nails!” I sensed an unexpected happiness in her voice. It’s not easy to excite or motivate a teenager and I think my enthusiastic suggestion instead of a half-hearted inquiry, excited her. Without complaint she turned off the TV and ran to get her new nail painting kit. While my son played outside, she and I experimented with new paint colors and stencils. While we painted, I realized that I no longer had to paint her nails for her or instruct her to keep still to avoid smudging them. She was old enough to do it on her own now and yet young enough to enjoy doing it with me. Side by side, we played and we enjoyed ourselves. She even let me put the stamp of my choice on her big toe nail. And while my nails looked slightly like an elementary school child with snowflakes on every nail, the fact that I used her kit and kept it on when I went to work that night, made her feel like I valued our time, I think.

We finished up our nails just as my little snow monster came barreling through the back door. And instead of hollering for him to take his wet clothes down to the dryer and fussing about the wet floors, I simply told him “Get some warm clothes on and then we can play your Play Station”. “Huh?” he said. I repeated myself, ” I don’t know how to play. So you’re gonna have to teach me.” I hadn’t played video games since I was a teenager and certainly not since I became a mother. Never have I seen that little boy move so fast to change his clothes! By the time I got downstairs, he had the system on and the game ready to go, with two controllers. The three of us took turns with the two controllers and the kids were in absolute stitches – watching me try to hunt storm troopers with my light saber. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard my teenager laugh so hard at anything other than her friends and my little guy rarely gets the opportunity to teach anyone older than him anything. He’d only had the game system for a week, but I know he felt like a “pro” teaching his inadequate mom how to “jump”, “strike” and “run”.

And despite the fact that I had just started my New Years diet, I knew that I’d somehow be able to accommodate the calories in a cup of hot chocolate and a handful of marshmallows that day. So while we played Star Wars, we all indulged in a beverage that I rarely make for myself and it was delicious! The whole afternoon was delicious!

When my husband got home, the dishes were still piled up, Christmas still standing and the laundry was still dirty. But everyone was so happy that I don’t think he minded at all!

 

It was only a three-hour cancel. But that three hours made all the difference … because I decided to use that time to play with the people I love. I met them where they were at and played the things that they like to play. Rare are the days that they come to me with a request to play anymore. And the days that they will even be willing to comply with my requests are quickly coming to an end. I’m glad that I took this day to cash-in on that. I enjoyed their presence so much more than I would have had I decided to just be “productive”. For once, I was able to ignore the mess, to put down the phone, to stop adulting, and I just enjoyed my children for who they are, with no itinerary or checklist.

An early leave from work is a gift. A snow day is a gift. Time is a gift. Don’t waste it! If you’re like me and you have a hard time ignoring the “To do” list, if you tend to be a relentlessly productive person, I encourage you to try being un-productive for once. But not in the isolated sense of getting sucked into a TV show or playing on your phone. Try being unproductive in a productive way – the way that nurtures relationships and creates lasting memories. The way that shows that people and relationships and life is more important than a list of never-ending chores. The way that uses time the way it should be used, as fleeting and limited and precious.

When I’m old and gray, I assure you, I won’t remember the day I left the dishes in the sink or the Christmas decorations up an extra few, but maybe, if I’m lucky … I’ll remember my children’s laughter as I tried to navigate their newest technology, their marshmallow mustaches from hot chocolate on a snowy day, and their quiet diligence while they focused hard to paint their little nails. But more importantly I hope they remember that some days, despite her list of things to do, their mother took time to play. And she never took time or life for granted … especially on snow days.

 

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The Curse of Motherhood

KONICA MINOLTA DIGITAL CAMERAI have always said that… Being a mother is the greatest gift and …. the biggest curse.

Despite the fact that my first pregnancy was not planned, as far as timing goes, I knew then, and all along, that there was nothing on my list of life goals that I wanted more, than to be a mother. So despite the fact that I was 21 and in nursing school, I knew that I would find a way to “make it work”. Continuing my pregnancy was the only option. Becoming a nurse was certainly high on the list too and I didn’t give up on that one either, but motherhood held the top spot.

I know that I’m not alone when I say “My children are my greatest accomplishment and my biggest source of pride.” I know that I’m not alone when I speak of the joy that they bring to my life, every day. On my hardest days, they are the reason I get out of bed. When I’m afraid to take a chance or try something new, it’s because of their innocent good faith in me and the good example I want to set for them, that I take that leap of faith. When it feels like nothing else in the world is right, it’s their faces that give me hope. They inspire me to create memories, to craft, to explore and to have fun. They have taught me humility, patience, endurance and hope. They’ve made me believe in self-control, forgiveness and second chances.

Studying my every move, they learn how to be human from me. And so I am prompted to watch my mouth, control my anger, be polite, honest and show empathy towards others, even on days when I might otherwise forgo such acts of character. I do it so that they will learn how to be good humans, and they in turn teach me. I am without a doubt, a stronger and better person because I am a mother.

My heart and soul never knew the highest intensity of love until I held my child. They are my everything. And because they are my everything … the blessing that they are, is equally enrobed in their curse. The curse that is to love another being more than ones own self. Never again will my mind or my soul rest at perfect ease. Never again will a day go by that I am not plagued by some worry for them. Never a night shall pass that I am not delayed or awoken from sleep because their well-being is on my mind. Along with the honor of motherhood, comes the greatest of responsibility. Along with the ultimate love, comes the ultimate fear of loss.

Bodies of water that were once only visions of pleasure and relaxation are now viable sources of harm, drowning risks. Cars are no longer just modes of transportation but the leading cause of death. Medications, even Tylenol are an over-dose potential and stairs, sharp objects, high places, plastic bags, household cleaners, all hold the same threat. My children’s eyes have shown me the wonders of the world and their presence has made be forever aware of its dangers.

Objects, animals, weather, life circumstances, all hold frightening possibilities in the eyes and minds of mothers everywhere. But it’s people and biology that scare me the most. People who were “Ok” before, no longer meet the standards I hold to entrust them with my children. The bar for responsibility and goodness has risen to the highest degree. Small nuances in behavior that I would have previously dismissed, are now “red flags”. Sleep-overs are terrifying. Human trafficking is real. Predators lie in every neighborhood. And smart phones and the internet are the scariest technology to date, because people are the biggest monsters of all. Any harm/threat to my children is the ultimate betrayal and hell hath no fury than that of a mother whose babe has been hurt. And so any person whom I allow into my children’s lives must earn my trust.

Although I have reasonable control over the persons in my children’s lives, it’s biology that holds the potential for the most frightening degree of influence. While people can be denied or removed, our DNA is established at conception. The same helix of chromosomes that gave my son his striking blue eyes and infectious laughter and my daughter her beautiful caramel skin and spunky spirit, also holds spirals of daunting risks. Attached to us from the inside, influencing and infecting us from our core, we can’t deny or remove them. Drawing us into behavioral tendencies and illnesses that betray our every wish and desire, it’s biology that robs us of the control that we think we have.

But knowing our history and observing changes in behavior is how we regain that control. A family history of cancer, disease, mental illness or addiction isn’t a “Get out of jail free card” and it isn’t a death sentence. It’s not an excuse nor a condemnation. It is knowledge. It’s a heads up. It’s a reason to watch close and act fast. We don’t have to be crippled by it, instead, we can choose to be empowered.

In a life filled with challenges, motherhood is by far-the biggest challenge I’ve ever encountered. Every day I am both proud and disappointed, encouraged and afraid, hopeful and weary. I have cried tears of both joy and pain. I have been saved by good souls who have helped me learn how to mother and have given me a place to vent and a place of respite. And yet I have been hurt by others and betrayed by my own genetics. But neither of these will be a reason for me to lay down in surrender. I will fight to the death for the two hearts I hold dearest and I will relish in their every presence. I will give them every ounce of my self and my energy and my potential. And then, my hope for myself, is that regardless of the outcome of the journey we call “Motherhood”, I will allow myself to be freed from burden and guilt. I hope that I will meet my end knowing that I gave motherhood everything that I had and that victory was still mine.

The curse of motherhood might be a curse that I carry to my last days, but it’s a curse that is wrapped in blessings. There is no antidote but there are moments of ease. Raising children is the greatest adventure in the world. It is filled with new experiences, reasons to laugh and smile, hope on difficult days and lessons that only children can teach you. Every adventure has its rewards and its challenges. To behold the spectacular views of the summit, one must invest hard work, blood, sweat and tears. To rest, one must first persevere through the climb. To hold the blessings that a mother is given, one must also accept the curse. I am honored to be called one of the blessed … and I am sobered to be one of the cursed.

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To Santa … or not … my perspective on the Man in Red

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Many have the conversations been, from Christians and non-believing parents a-like…. To Santa or not? Is promoting Santa, promoting the over-the-top consumerism that seems to plague every holiday in the US? Are we disrespecting the Christian reason for the holiday? Are we dumbing our kids down or creating a culture of distrust by perpetuating such a ridiculous idea of a man who lives in the North pole and flies around the world in a sleigh?

Before you hang-up your hat on Santa … consider these few points…

First off … our holiday traditions surrounding Christmas came from several sources, only one of them being the Christian celebration of the Savior’s birth. Google the Pagan Festival of Lights and the Winter Solstice for an informative read. There are several “reasons for the season.”

But that’s not what this post is about. This post is about Santa. And why I believe teaching our children about the Man in Red isn’t all bad.

The consumerism associated with Santa is a self-perpetuating problem and it’s not one that belongs to Santa. No one said Santa had to buy out the store. No one said Santa needed to keep up with the Joneses. Santa is a story about a mythical person whose entire existence revolves around gifting the people of the world. One could argue that Santa is in actuality a perfect symbol of generosity and has nothing to do with greed and consumerism-we did that to ourselves!

There’s also no reason why both Santa and baby Jesus can’t happily co-exist, either. Most people associate Santa with St.Nicholas- a saint! My parents did a great job balancing the two traditions. We attended our Christmas church service every Christmas Eve, After church we sang “Happy Birthday” and placed baby Jesus in the manger. We thanked God for sending Jesus to save us. The following morning, the presents were a sort of birthday celebration you could say … delivered by Santa 🙂

But for me, Santa is less about what he delivers and what belief system he might challenge. For me, Santa represents fantasy. And fantasy I believe is an essential component to long-term happiness in life. Fantasy is what gives us hope. Fantasy is what allows us to think of the “What ifs”. It allows us to dream. Fantasy is the antidote for cynicism. Very few great feats were gained through cynicism. And while science and math made our technological advances come to life, it was fantasy that allowed us to consider them a possibility.

I believe that while a solid dose of cynicism comes tied to the package of adulthood, the seeds for fantasy can only be planted in childhood. If a child is not allowed/encouraged to fantasize … if everything in their life is taken at face value and is scientifically and factually based, I think they are deprived of their inherit ability to consider all the possibilities and to dream. And I don’t believe that later, as adults, they can gain that skill in the same fashion. However, if we are exposed to fantasy as a child, while we shed much of it as we become adults, we still have the capability to go back to our child-like thoughts and consider the possibility of the impossible. So just like we all pretended that the floor was lava and the picnic table out back was a pirate ship, allowing ourselves to indulge in the story of Santa, allows us to escape reality for a short time and it teaches us how to pretend. Pretending not only encourages us to think outside the box but it can also be a source of happiness and comfort when our minds need a break from the rigors of life’s stressors.  Sometimes, I think we adults could use a little more of that … in the right ways of course.

So what happens when the kids figure us out? That’s frequently the argument used to dissuade the Santa practice … That our children will distrust us. That we will either become perpetual liars or story telling fools in our children’s eyes.

Well I can tell you what happened in our house when my oldest came to me to tell that the gig was up. I didn’t do anything to promote this discovery but I also didn’t argue with her. It felt foolish to keep pretending something that she had obviously figured out. I let her talk and then I simply responded “But isn’t it fun to pretend- You know Disney World isn’t real and yet we don’t entertain that thought when we are there. Most of the time when you’re playing with your friends, you’re role-playing. It’s fun to pretend! It’s fun to walk through the gates of the Magic Kingdom and pretend that it’s a real town. It’s fun to imagine yourself in another role, in another place. Sometimes it allows you to consider something that you’ve never considered before.”

I instructed her not to spoil the fun for her little brother and I answered all of her questions on “But how did you…?” in regards to the heist we had so cleverly pulled off for her first eleven years. And she actually voiced her appreciation for our efforts and all of the gifts that we let “Santa” get the credit for. I think it was a lesson in the selflessness of parenting for her.

And when she came back to me later and said “Christmas just isn’t the same this year. It just isn’t as exciting.” I told her again, “You can still pretend. I know it’s not the same … getting older is like that. But instead of sitting there and telling yourself just how ridiculous the whole story is … put the science and the math in your pocket for just one night … and imagine once again – the North pole, the elves, the cookies and milk, a town that is always happy and full of good intentions and …. just pretend. Life is only as magical as you let it be.”

I hope your holidays are magical no matter how old you are or how you chose to celebrate them! Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays from Life, Liberty and a little bit of Libations!