Chicken

Why do you read this?   What is it that makes you read my words?  What makes you read what anyone writes?  Is there a compulsion to feel some kind of connection to that author?  Are you craving a companion in your mania?  Do you read to escape mundane thoughts that keep you from feeling something bigger?  Are you hoping someone else has been able to articulate your feelings?  Do the words of another somehow transcend you away from solitude?

As a child, I read so many books.  Being a child of religion and spirituality, I read the bible and other scripture.  Hours of my youth were spent curled in a ball somewhere just reading something.  There has always been a sense of self-achievement when reading.  My absolute first love was found in text.  I escaped so many things through stories.  As my reading matured, I recognized the deeper passion for reading and what it provided.  Reading was the first way I learned how to connect with people.

Fiction is my preferred area of leisure reading.  I realized something today.  A writer exposes themselves in every syllable of their stories.  Though, the situations they draft aren’t exact replicas of their own experiences, they’re written from a space of awareness.  A timeless statement guiding any budding author is:  write what you know.  I married that guidance to every book I’ve ever written and suddenly, I feel an intimate relationship with each person who has been brave enough to write a book I’ve read.

I have expressed many times the value of keeping a journal.  There have been countless conversations I’ve had with friends about the benefit I’ve been able to cash in on when it comes to documenting my life.  Without fail, everyone says the same thing.  “I am afraid to write down what I’m truly feeling.”  Is it terrifying to express yourself?  Why?  Writing in a journal is for you.  You are not publishing through Random House all the inner most thoughts you’ve had.  It’s for you.  So, I wonder why people are afraid to expose themselves to … themselves?

“What if someone reads it?”  Excellent question.  What if they do?  Evaluate what you’re hiding.  I’m not going to lie.  I have gone back and read my journals many times over the years and have been shocked at how graphic some of my detail has been of my accounts.  At the end of my life, I leave behind memories.  I leave behind impacts.  I hope that I live a life so full of authenticity that a journal will be nothing more than a testament to the person those who read them knew.

One of my favorite quotes came from someone so random.  Ricky Martin said, “I want to be transparent to my children.”  That’s pretty damn brave.  It made me step back and think about what level of transparency I was willing to expose to my children.  As I pondered that, I realized, I was already fairly transparent.  My daughter has probably been able to see more of my levels than my boys, thus far.  Which makes sense, they’re babies.  My daughter is now an adult.  But, I live life unfiltered.  There are areas of appropriateness I certainly attempt to be more conscientious.  For example, I don’t talk about the frustrations I have as a co-parent in front of them.

In this very moment, if something were to happen to me and I were unable to secure my stack of books outlining every gory detail of my life, I am not afraid of what gets read.  Honestly, I hope that I get to sit around in my spirit form and watch the person reading them.  I want to see the tears.  I want to see the shock.  I want to see every genuine reaction to how I describe my perspective of what it took to become me.  I hope at the conclusion of reading my words, that individual nods their head in understanding and have the gaps filled in to round out a full comprehension of who they believed me to be.

Oh my goodness have I failed in so many trials.  Sometimes I have failed with grace.  Often with scuffed knees and broken bones.  I journal those failures so I can see what I did.  Find common denominators and educate myself.  It’s a tool I use to calibrate.  Going through the past perspectives I’ve had, I literally see the tones shift as they mature and gain wisdom.  I absolutely want my children to read that.  I want them to see their mother as a human.  She failed.  She grew.  She did her best.  She was challenged and hurt. 

What do you have to fear when considering being understood?  It’s inaccurate to believe those who write something profound and inspiring just pulled it out of their ass.  Those words came from a space, experience, trial, triumph, or an epiphany born from a culmination of all those things.  A piece of fiction, a blog, a screenplay, an epic novel, or the more obvious autobiography are examples of a journal.  Today, I realized that intensely.  It has changed the way I’m going to read from now on. 

We gain from the exchange of perspectives.  Don’t be selfish with your education.  Teach.  Share.  I would love the opportunity to teach how to journal.    

Shakespeare

The Shakespearean play that I’m clearly the lead in, has delivered yet another epic script this year.  To be fair to my character’s position, the tone was set very early as to how this act would play out.  The foreshadowing was written with such bluntness, a person would have to be oblivious to not catch the notes of what was ahead.  However, kinda knowing and really knowing aren’t the same.  Ignoring and paying attention have their respective consequences.  I will spend no time whining about some of the hurt experienced this year.  Some lessons are still being learned and require the wounds.  No joke, my past lives had to of been brutal learning these repeat offenses.  I only hope this trip I’ve been on has finally figured it out and can move onto the next level toward nirvana.

Beginning this year knowing I was staring at the end of something wasn’t pleasant to admit.  It pissed me off.  It hurt.  I refused to accept it.  I battled with comprehending something bigger than my capacity.  Being who I am, I don’t do well when I don’t have clear definitions of things.  Regardless of the context.  I thrive on knowledge.  Even tough knowledge.  I need concrete information to process.  The more passive the information is expressed, the more frustrated and combative I can become.  I fight.  I fight to understand.  I fight to be understood.  *Tone set for the year.

Motherhood is a significant part of who I am.  I’m not a typical mom.  I don’t filter much in front of my children.  Apologizing for the way I mother is probably an act that won’t happen.  Perfection is not what I aim for in my parenting.  The success of my mothering is defined by the shine in my children’s eyes.  I have so much pride in the woman my daughter is becoming.  The brightness of her soul is blinding and inspiring.  She has shown me that my approach with her wasn’t a failure.  I’ve come into a new season of my motherhood.  For years, I have seriously doubted myself.  The universe validated me this year with the incredible relationship I have with my first born.  I found understanding with her and she with me.  Words will never truly describe the value of this shift with her.

My sons are coming into knew aspects of their unique personalities.  The tenderness of my eight year old, tugs tears out of my eyes frequently.  The inquisitive nature of my four year old, heightens the impact of every detail of my behavior.  There has been a challenge establishing balance with these little men I’m raising.  Co-parenting is way tougher than anyone can prepare for.  It is that element that forces me to do my absolute best every day for them.  Teaching them is my primary focus.  I understand what they need.  I do everything I can to provide it for them.

I ask those little guys if they know how much I love them all the time.  The other day, Alex responded with, “How much?”  I looked him right in the eyes and said, “A whole crap ton!”  Both he and Ben laughed hysterically.  Their giggles are fuel for my weary heart.  Then, Ben with all sounds cherubic, proclaims with passion, “MOM!  I LOVE YOU ALL THE CRAP!”  They are my life.  Not sorry at all my kids say “crap.”

In all truth, I didn’t think an actual career would ever manifest in my life.  I had just become accustomed to flying by the seat of my pants and rolling with what came my way.  Almost four years ago, I was at home with a new baby, unemployed, and trying to figure out my ass from a hole in the wall.  Somehow, I needed to get a job that not only provided a living worth justifying being away from my babies, but didn’t make me crazy.  Desperation and dedication presented me a path that I blindly chased.  Fast forward four years, I am a project and process manager.  I’ve met financial goals.  I’ve been granted leadership that has not only recognized potential in me, but a willingness to take a chance on me.  Finally, someone understood what I can offer and provided me opportunity to prove it.

The internet has completely delivered piles of meme quotes to boost perspective this year.  Cliché phrases and words of encouragement didn’t lack applicability with precise execution.  Scary, really.  It’s like the internet knew what I needed to read all year.  I took those serendipitous phrases and stanzas and plugged them into the areas of my life that needed clarity or severing.  Because of those silly little anecdotes, I was able to find some new relationships.  Sparks of parallel experiences manifested and triggered some meaningful and magnetic dialogues that helped me feel less misunderstood.  Thank you internet for creepily getting me.

The fragility of my self-esteem continues to show signs of cracks.  I think it might be time for me to recognize it comes with being human.  I also believe it might be time to believe people when they tell me what they see and not immediately doubt.  That part of me has taken the biggest beating over the years and it’s going to take a little while, yet.  Trust me when I say, I recognize how silly all that may seem.  There is acute knowledge at the level of arrogance I portray.  That display is my strongest defense mechanism.  I don’t think I have ever been more fragile than I am in this skin I’m in today.  I understand that about myself.  I’m learning to guard more than ever.  If you see my vulnerability…know it’s kind of a big deal for me.  It’s more of a rarity for me to be as transparent as I used to be.  The smarty pants in the room will recognize the crazy contradiction of this paragraph! Ha!

I think I might understand what I’ve been doing wrong when it comes to giving my heart away.  I’ll have to get back to you on that one.  However, I’m learning faster than I have in the past.  That’s a win in my book.

I understand my mother, more.  I ache to talk to her.  My father continues to sustain me in the subtle ways only he could deliver.  I’m grateful I haven’t been blinded by life’s sucker punches to my spiritual sensitivity.  There are so many things I wish I could laugh with my mom about.  There are even more philosophical conversations I would give anything to have with my dad.

Moving into the next year, I am open minded, keenly aware of my surroundings, gripping with both hands on what I have the power to control, and hoping the good I seek in others will produce reciprocity in healthy ways.  There is constant education taking place in so many arenas.  I’ll continue to act like I know what I’m doing, but with a little more humility so I don’t miss any more queues. 

Plan Ahead

Being raised by a man with the personality of an ogre mixed with seemingly good intentions prepared me in so many ways for the world.  He used to tell me all the time that I wasn’t someone he needed to worry about.  “You’ve got it.  You don’t need me.”  I heard that so many times it actually hurt more than it gave me confidence.

Now that he isn’t here anymore to tell those words when I actually need to hear them, it has a new kind of hurt.  I sort of need to hear him tell me that in person.  What’s sort of cool, being an empathy and clairvoyant, I hear him tell me from where he is now.  In fact, I only hear him when I just need to feel sustained a little more than what I have inside me.

When he taught me how to drive, he used to tell me to plan ahead.  Anticipate the moves I knew were coming down the road.  If I knew I needed to turn, anticipate that turn and change lanes with enough time to do it safely.  Plan ahead.  It was so subtle, with such a giant metaphor for life.  Funny how those moments in our youth can change into something more substantial when placed in a more mature context.  Annoying that it took my late 30s to adapt the principle.

The planning ahead I do these days is a combination of preparing for the worst and hoping for the best.  Those curves in the road aren’t always easy to spot, but I certainly anticipate one.  I feel like I’m getting better at predicting the curves, but I try like hell to stay on a route with as few curves as I can avoid. 

I have so much to be proud of.  I have worked very hard to put a new life together.  It has not come without trial and setbacks.  I have lost some weight.  I have gained it back.  Then lost it again.  I have made advances in my professional life at honestly, a really fast pace.  I’m taking the professional curves on two wheels right now.  My family life is in a place that I have a lot of pride.  I have three kids who are happy, healthy, and loved.

The past month or so I have had a bout with anxiety that hasn’t been pleasant.  Those issues that are out of my control plague my subconscious and manifest in unpredictable panic attacks.  It’s been two full weeks without one.  That’s a win for me.  If you haven’t experienced the pain of an anxiety attack, count your blessings.  Between haunting dreams (which equals no sleep) and painful anxiety, there have been more than a few moments of sitting on the floor of my shower, drained.

It pisses me off really.  I have worked very hard to put as much order and joy into my life that I can.  To have those efforts feel almost crushed with the daunting and debilitating plight of anxiety is infuriating.  The narrow, red eyes of depression watch me through the cracked bedroom door just waiting for my weakness to be strong enough to seize a moment.  There will never be a time in my life that I am not fighting anxiety and depression.  The pride I have is in the fight I have to relent.  If I’m fighting it, I’m beating it.

There is a new home I’ve created.  It’s a warm space.  It’s an inviting space.  I am cooking again.  I am at peace here.  I have earned this serenity and I will battle any who wish to take that peace.  It’s so cool to feel like things are where they really should be.  It’s even cooler to know it’s my entire fault!

My dad smiles at me.  I know he does.  My mom doesn’t worry.  I know because she doesn’t visit.  She doesn’t feel like she needs to.  When I need her, I feel her.  The logical thought processes my dad bequeathed me are not wasted.  The emotional romantic notions my mother blessed me with aren’t lost either.  There isn’t perfection in my life.  There is much to improve upon as a person, mother, friend, and woman.  I am planning on failing but hoping I at the very least improve after I do.