I woke up grouchy today.
I know that I woke up grouchy because, upon opening my eyes at 7 a.m.,---7 a.m.!! The baby let me sleep past 6!!---to see the sun shining gently through the curtains, and to hear the birds (that have only recently come back for the spring) chirping in a thousand different voices outisde my window, my first thought was: %$#@#*& birds! Shut UP, birds!
Now here I sit, at the computer, trying to wake up. Devin is here with us for the next week while his mom is on vacation, and he is currently chattering away non-stop in the den while he watches Looney Toons, and taking brief breaks from said Toons to ask me very important questions to which I generally have no good answer. . . .Why DOES Bugs Bunny call everyone 'Doc'? Hell if I know. But 'Hell if I know' is not a reasonable answer to a question from an inquisitive and dear 5 year-old.
***Sidenote: As I was watching the new Looney Toons with him not too long ago, we saw an episode in which Daffy Duck was babysitting his girlfriend's baby duck. So. . .in our most wholesome cartoons now, ducks are having babies out of wedlock. . . .do ducks marry? Big questions. Either way, I'm just not sure how to feel about it.***
As is our custom in this house, Pop-Tarts have been distributed, the baby has been fed Key Lime Pie flavored yogurt (his favorite), baths have been taken, and I've even made the bed. (I have also plied the baby with Honey Nut Cheerios in order to keep him occupied long enough for me to write this. Here's hoping he doesn't tire of them anytime soon.) He is, at the moment, quite an abominable mess. And I am, at the moment, quite okay with that.
So Michael is at work, I'm quite sure there is coffee somewhere in my near future, and I'm just sitting here trying to decide what to do with my day. . .
I'm sure all the usual things will happen: Naps will be taken, lunches will be made, clothes will be folded, and I have already made promises of playing Devin's Madagascar video game with him. I have a new magazine that came in the mail a few days ago that I have yet to page through, and several new library books that I haven't gotten to yet. One fiction, that I have been GREATLY looking forward to reading (but am simply not in the mood to at the moment), and several instructional books on everything from knitting to crotcheting to repurposing old sweaters into new and incredibly clever and useful gifts. All things that I have no idea how to do, but I like to browse through them and imagine the possibilities all the same. Oh, and there has been talk (inside my head) of possibly trying my hand at making apple fritters today.
And for some reason, despite all these things, my mind today will just not let me rest. . . .Do you ever feel like you just need a break from your brain? (I know you do. I can't be the only one.)
I am very much aware (VERY MUCH aware) of what a great luxury it is to be able to have this life that I am currently living.
I think I always just thought that everything 'normal'---a happy relationship, children, a happy home---just came easily to everyone else. And I envied them. I envied the SO much. Because it seemed like I could just never quite figure it out. That magical and elusive formula that would one day make me one of The Lucky.
And now here I am: I have a home that I love. LOVE. It is cozy and lovely and the walls are painted in colors that I find soothing, and there are a million things I want to do with it and the yard.
I have a husband that I ADORE. There's no rock star, actor, model or Greek god that I have seen since the moment that I met him that I thought "I'd rather have THAT guy." He's gorgeous. He's funny. He's upstanding, and he's kind. He's my best friend. And he is absolutely EVERYTHING that I have ever wanted. Not to mention, he gave me this gorgeous little blue-eyed baby that makes every day of my life complete =)
And, just to add the cherry on top, I get to spend every day just taking care of these people that I love. I have time to read, to play, to cook. . . to do whatever I want.
And yet this morning I woke up and realized that I am still Seeking.
What am I seeking?
Well, THAT is the question that I am still trying to answer. (Much like the 'Doc' question, Hell-if-I-know is not going to cut it.)
But I guess it's just what everyone else is seeking: a greater understanding. A sense of purpose. Or, if not that, then an acceptance of your purpose. (We can't all have the lead in the play.)
I think it was Einstein that said (and I'm paraphrasing here) that there are two types of people in the world: Those to whom either everything is a miracle. . .or nothing is.
And I'm happy to say that I belong to the former, not the latter. I look at my spouse, I look at my child, I look at rainwater dripping off the leaves after a really good downpour. . .and I'm. . . overcome. Like Kevin Spacey in American Beauty---sometimes there's just so MUCH beauty in the world. I can hardly process it.
And let me tell you---it is exhausting, this state of near-constant amazement.
So this line of thought brings me again to the idea of God.
Scientists tell us (could be physicists, I don't know, so I'll just use the blanket term 'scientist') that when you break down everything into its smallest form, amid all the protons, neutrons, and electrons, the vast majority of what EVERYTHING is made up of is just. . .empty space.
Empty spaces in between everything else.
So. . .what if that 'space'. . . is God?
Then that would mean that God is IN everything. In absolutely everything. And that everyone from the Native Americans to the Na'vi were right: It is ALL sacred. Every bit of it.
So.
I'm not sure exactly where that fits into my day, but it's something to think about, I guess.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go remove several dozen Cheerios from my son's clothing and person =)
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Sad Songs Say So Much
One of the first things that attracted me to my husband was his deep and abiding love of music.
Everyone out there that happens to be currently single and looking for love, whether they know it or not, walks around with a list in their head of qualities desireable in their perfect mate. Some of these qualities are flexible and adaptable, and merely wisps of a half-formed idea, just waiting to be fleshed out at a later date, like: 'He should have dark hair,' or 'He should love to travel.' And then some of the items on our personal little Soul Mate Inventory Checklist are hard and fast and unchanging. The Deal-Breakers. The absolutely-gotta-have-it qualities that you just aren't capable of budging on. For me, the two biggest Deal-Breaker qualities were always:
1.) Awesome sense of humor
2.) Love of music
(Luckily for me, the dark-haired guy I fell so hard for had both of these qualities. In spades. =)
For quite literally as long as I can remember, I have loved music. And, if you watched as many cartoons as I did growing up, you too are acquainted with a few widely-accepted cartoon truths. The greatest of these being:
1.) If you inadvertently walk off the edge of a cliff, you will remain suspended in mid-air for several long moments before falling.
2.) Upon plummeting to the ground after walking off the edge of said cliff, you will create a little cloud of dust when you collide with the earth. And, as unlikely as it seems, you will survive.
3.) If you are ever being chased by a ravenous wolf, a furious grizzly bear, or even a dragon, the best way to react is to calmly pull a flute from your pocket and begin playing. The beasts will either fall asleep, or instantly become docile, allowing you ample time to escape.
And so it is that at a very early age, we all learn this to be true: Music calms the savage beast. And it's a good thing, too, because truly, what beast alive is more capable of savagery than man?
But when you get down to the WHY is this true. . . well, that's the part that fascinates me.
Music has the power to make us smile, make us cry, or even transport us to another time. And why is that? Why do we like certain sounds placed together? Why is it that when we love a piece of music, we respond so instinctively to it? Why do certain chords, certain notes, certain tones, repeated in succession with a melody have the power to affect us so deeply, time and time again? It is a uniquely human bit of magic that we've been experimenting with, and expressing ourselves with, for thousands of years. And to me it is still every bit as mysterious and magical as it seemed when I was 8 years old and listening to my first radio, and pondering over the fact that some songs just made me happy =) And I decided right then that no matter what else I did with my life, music would always have to be a part of it.
Aside from love, pure-deep-unwavering-and-true love, I believe that music is the closest we come to touching the divinity that lies within us all. And not only does music allow us to experience that divinity, that exceedingly good and pure face of ourselves, I think it allows us to ignite it. To expand upon a certain form of grace until it is bigger than ourselves. It is a form of prayer, to ourselves and to others, that we can't help but share. A meditation between our soul and the world, and an expression of what we find.
It is, if you look at it deeply enough and with a proper sense of wonder, one of the purest forms of religion imagineable. Unscarred and whole. And with the power to redeem and elevate us all. And in my life---It is sacred. So I knew that the person meant for me would feel the same way, and that together we would make a home where, every bit as necessary as laughter or forgiveness, music lived and was loved.
(And I'm happy to report that I believe we've accomplished this =)
And while it's true that, as an art form, music is simply a means of human expression and, as such, there is no 'wrong' expression. . . I would still like to state my dissatisfaction with sad songs.
(You might have gathered by this point in my little tirade that I take music rather seriously. You might also assume that I feel fairly stongly about the subject of 'sad' songs. . . .You would be correct on both counts.)
My husband has a friend who is a professional musician, and he has one of the most gorgeous, lilting, stop-you-in-your-tracks voices that I have ever heard. Honestly---it is angelic and amazing. And every once in a while Michael will find a video of him singing a new song and share it with me. . . and I have gotten to the point where I almost can't stand to listen to him sing, because every time I do he makes me want to jump off a building.
Again, as a disclaimer, I will say that yes--sad songs do have their purpose, and I am not entirely against them in theory. However. You simply cannot make that ALL you write, and here is why:
It's too easy.
Speaking as someone who has been writing down (for the purpose of venting) her most self-absorbed, hateful, and whiny thoughts into journals since about the age of 8, I just have to say that writing sad stuff is just too easy. It doesn't really take that much effort. It makes me think of the inscription on the locket that Pollyanna wore around her neck (and I am paraphrasing here): If you look for the evil in man, you will surely find it.
We're all only as good as what we choose to focus our energies and our attention on. So why choose for that to be misery?
At various points in my life, I have experienced seasons of great sadness. Acute grief. And I will admit that in some of those seasons, I chose to wallow in it. And, being me, I wrote about it constantly. And do you know what I discovered?
It is not sustainable.
The grief, the sorrow, the hopelessness. . . you can wallow in it for a while, if you so choose. But after a certain period of time, your soul just grows weary of weariness. Like a tender little flower arching its back to get closer to the sun, I believe we as people naturally ache for sunshine too. And after a while, no matter how sad you were, or how completely hopeless a situation was. . . there is something inside us that starts straining toward the sunshine again.
And I find that VERY comforting. =)
So I don't want to focus on the sad songs any more than I want to watch that Sarah MacLaughlin commercial with all the poor little sad puppies. More than that, I don't want the writers of the sad songs to focus on them either. . . The world has enough sorrow as it is. You want a challenge? Write something happy. Write something that inspires. Write something that gives people hope. THAT'S difficult.
And, in my opinion, divine.
Everyone out there that happens to be currently single and looking for love, whether they know it or not, walks around with a list in their head of qualities desireable in their perfect mate. Some of these qualities are flexible and adaptable, and merely wisps of a half-formed idea, just waiting to be fleshed out at a later date, like: 'He should have dark hair,' or 'He should love to travel.' And then some of the items on our personal little Soul Mate Inventory Checklist are hard and fast and unchanging. The Deal-Breakers. The absolutely-gotta-have-it qualities that you just aren't capable of budging on. For me, the two biggest Deal-Breaker qualities were always:
1.) Awesome sense of humor
2.) Love of music
(Luckily for me, the dark-haired guy I fell so hard for had both of these qualities. In spades. =)
For quite literally as long as I can remember, I have loved music. And, if you watched as many cartoons as I did growing up, you too are acquainted with a few widely-accepted cartoon truths. The greatest of these being:
1.) If you inadvertently walk off the edge of a cliff, you will remain suspended in mid-air for several long moments before falling.
2.) Upon plummeting to the ground after walking off the edge of said cliff, you will create a little cloud of dust when you collide with the earth. And, as unlikely as it seems, you will survive.
3.) If you are ever being chased by a ravenous wolf, a furious grizzly bear, or even a dragon, the best way to react is to calmly pull a flute from your pocket and begin playing. The beasts will either fall asleep, or instantly become docile, allowing you ample time to escape.
And so it is that at a very early age, we all learn this to be true: Music calms the savage beast. And it's a good thing, too, because truly, what beast alive is more capable of savagery than man?
But when you get down to the WHY is this true. . . well, that's the part that fascinates me.
Music has the power to make us smile, make us cry, or even transport us to another time. And why is that? Why do we like certain sounds placed together? Why is it that when we love a piece of music, we respond so instinctively to it? Why do certain chords, certain notes, certain tones, repeated in succession with a melody have the power to affect us so deeply, time and time again? It is a uniquely human bit of magic that we've been experimenting with, and expressing ourselves with, for thousands of years. And to me it is still every bit as mysterious and magical as it seemed when I was 8 years old and listening to my first radio, and pondering over the fact that some songs just made me happy =) And I decided right then that no matter what else I did with my life, music would always have to be a part of it.
Aside from love, pure-deep-unwavering-and-true love, I believe that music is the closest we come to touching the divinity that lies within us all. And not only does music allow us to experience that divinity, that exceedingly good and pure face of ourselves, I think it allows us to ignite it. To expand upon a certain form of grace until it is bigger than ourselves. It is a form of prayer, to ourselves and to others, that we can't help but share. A meditation between our soul and the world, and an expression of what we find.
It is, if you look at it deeply enough and with a proper sense of wonder, one of the purest forms of religion imagineable. Unscarred and whole. And with the power to redeem and elevate us all. And in my life---It is sacred. So I knew that the person meant for me would feel the same way, and that together we would make a home where, every bit as necessary as laughter or forgiveness, music lived and was loved.
(And I'm happy to report that I believe we've accomplished this =)
And while it's true that, as an art form, music is simply a means of human expression and, as such, there is no 'wrong' expression. . . I would still like to state my dissatisfaction with sad songs.
(You might have gathered by this point in my little tirade that I take music rather seriously. You might also assume that I feel fairly stongly about the subject of 'sad' songs. . . .You would be correct on both counts.)
My husband has a friend who is a professional musician, and he has one of the most gorgeous, lilting, stop-you-in-your-tracks voices that I have ever heard. Honestly---it is angelic and amazing. And every once in a while Michael will find a video of him singing a new song and share it with me. . . and I have gotten to the point where I almost can't stand to listen to him sing, because every time I do he makes me want to jump off a building.
Again, as a disclaimer, I will say that yes--sad songs do have their purpose, and I am not entirely against them in theory. However. You simply cannot make that ALL you write, and here is why:
It's too easy.
Speaking as someone who has been writing down (for the purpose of venting) her most self-absorbed, hateful, and whiny thoughts into journals since about the age of 8, I just have to say that writing sad stuff is just too easy. It doesn't really take that much effort. It makes me think of the inscription on the locket that Pollyanna wore around her neck (and I am paraphrasing here): If you look for the evil in man, you will surely find it.
We're all only as good as what we choose to focus our energies and our attention on. So why choose for that to be misery?
At various points in my life, I have experienced seasons of great sadness. Acute grief. And I will admit that in some of those seasons, I chose to wallow in it. And, being me, I wrote about it constantly. And do you know what I discovered?
It is not sustainable.
The grief, the sorrow, the hopelessness. . . you can wallow in it for a while, if you so choose. But after a certain period of time, your soul just grows weary of weariness. Like a tender little flower arching its back to get closer to the sun, I believe we as people naturally ache for sunshine too. And after a while, no matter how sad you were, or how completely hopeless a situation was. . . there is something inside us that starts straining toward the sunshine again.
And I find that VERY comforting. =)
So I don't want to focus on the sad songs any more than I want to watch that Sarah MacLaughlin commercial with all the poor little sad puppies. More than that, I don't want the writers of the sad songs to focus on them either. . . The world has enough sorrow as it is. You want a challenge? Write something happy. Write something that inspires. Write something that gives people hope. THAT'S difficult.
And, in my opinion, divine.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Reaching My Equilibrium
When I was younger, I suffered from delusions of grandeur. (If I still do, please don't let me know. I'd like to keep it a secret from myself. I have enough on my plate at the moment.)
I didn't think that I *was* all that grand, mind you. If you know me, you know me because you have been patient enough and diligent enough to work past a wall of (almost schoolgirl-grade) shyness that has plagued me my entire life. I have formed a habit of being introverted, and though I am still trying valiantly to take strides toward correcting this behavior, I am too old now to think that I will ever completely outgrow it. So, with a fairly firm grasp of my oceans of limitations, I can say with confidence that I never thought I was all that grand.
I just thought that I was GOING to be.
The greatest problem with this belief, of course, was that I never had any idea in what capacity it was that I was going to BE grand. I just always seemed to have a very firmly held, and deeply rooted, conviction that I was GOING to do 'great things'. (I have never been one to hold onto unreasonable, and quite sparkly, amounts of confidence for no good reason. The reason for this conviction of mine eludes me to this day.)
As a child, though, for some reason I seemed to think that *just around the corner* would lie some inevitable discovery of some God-given and GENIUS amount of talent that I had in some particular arena. (I am still waiting on this discovery. I think I have been more than patient.)
I discovered fairly early, however, that the arena was NOT to be an actual 'arena.' Because it seemed that I was utter crap at all sports. School softball games inspired in me mini panic attacks when it was my turn to bat. (I remember thinking even then that the sport itself was ridiculous. Hitting a flying ball with a bat?? And that proves. . . what? Is important in . . . what way?? Yet for all my pooh-poohing of the sport, and sharp focusing of my will, I could still never seem to make the bat connect with that damned ball.)
I could draw fair enough. I enjoyed it. I wasn't going to win any ribbons though.
I've ALWAYS adored music, and so I thought that music MUST BE my arena. So I played the flute in high school. Learned to play the piano, too. Loved them both. Passionately. But alas. . . I was not a musical genius. (I was seriously beginning to feel like Michael Caine's character in Dirty Rotten Scoundrels.)
I even had a passing thought that I would be an actress. Yes, I could see it. I would set the world on fire with my portrayals on both stage and screen. My singing would be legendary, my performances would be the highest art, and I would walk around feeling very self-important and often refer to 'my craft.'
. . .have I mentioned that I was painfully shy?
Yeah. Scratch acting.
So life keeps rolling along, and I was no closer to finding the area that would be just right for me.
Then one day I had the bright idea: Maybe I'm just supposed to HELP. Maybe that's ALL.
And, as was my way at the time, I was convinced that THE way to 'help' was to join the Peace Corps.
. . .Did you know that the Corps actually prefers it if you HAVE a skill??
Well shit. I didn't even know a second language. (Unless the good people of Tanzania or Tibet have any interest in learning Pig Latin. I am fluent.)
At this point in my life, I finally began to accept that I wasn't going to write the Great American Novel, or craft a painting that would move grown men to tears. And so I began to analyze exactly WHY I felt the need to be 'grand.'
And the answer is: I don't know.
I don't know why. I just always felt like I had to. Like I WOULD. It wasn't something that others forced on me. Nope. Completely self-imposed. Maybe I felt like I needed to justify the space I was taking up on this planet? Who knows. (I was kind of a weird kid.)
But the wonderful thing, the magical thing, the STUPENDOUS THING about this whole little goose-chase---is what I discovered today:
Maybe I don't have to.
Maybe I can be here at home. On a Saturday, with my son.
Maybe I can make banana bread, and clean the house.
Maybe I can feed the cats, and read a book, and change a diaper, and bitch about the high price of whatever.
And maybe that's ALL okay.
Because what I am learning is that *I* told myself that I had to do something grandiose and phenomenal. Nobody else. I did.
And now. . . I'm telling myself that it's okay.
Don't get me wrong: I'm still going to try my hand at painting. I still have time to pick up another instrument. At some point I may discover that I have a green thumb (though not bloody likely). And as long as my hands keep working, I'm sure I'll write from time to time.
But for now, I'm telling myself to take a deep breath. And appreciate the fact that I have every amazing and important thing that I have EVER truly wanted. I'm telling myself to hug and kiss my husband when he gets home, and realize that the home we've created together is FULL of laughter and love. I'm telling myself to remember what the top of Nolan's head smelled like when he was a baby. I'm telling myself to sit back and let it happen and just NOT CARE about the end result. Because I APPRECIATE everything I have. More than I know how to say. And maybe being a loving wife, and a good mother, and an AMAZING interpretive dancer. . . maybe that's more than I could've ever asked for. And maybe that's enough.
So for once in my life---I'm going to take my own advice.
And maybe what I'll make will turn out to be art anyway. =)
I didn't think that I *was* all that grand, mind you. If you know me, you know me because you have been patient enough and diligent enough to work past a wall of (almost schoolgirl-grade) shyness that has plagued me my entire life. I have formed a habit of being introverted, and though I am still trying valiantly to take strides toward correcting this behavior, I am too old now to think that I will ever completely outgrow it. So, with a fairly firm grasp of my oceans of limitations, I can say with confidence that I never thought I was all that grand.
I just thought that I was GOING to be.
The greatest problem with this belief, of course, was that I never had any idea in what capacity it was that I was going to BE grand. I just always seemed to have a very firmly held, and deeply rooted, conviction that I was GOING to do 'great things'. (I have never been one to hold onto unreasonable, and quite sparkly, amounts of confidence for no good reason. The reason for this conviction of mine eludes me to this day.)
As a child, though, for some reason I seemed to think that *just around the corner* would lie some inevitable discovery of some God-given and GENIUS amount of talent that I had in some particular arena. (I am still waiting on this discovery. I think I have been more than patient.)
I discovered fairly early, however, that the arena was NOT to be an actual 'arena.' Because it seemed that I was utter crap at all sports. School softball games inspired in me mini panic attacks when it was my turn to bat. (I remember thinking even then that the sport itself was ridiculous. Hitting a flying ball with a bat?? And that proves. . . what? Is important in . . . what way?? Yet for all my pooh-poohing of the sport, and sharp focusing of my will, I could still never seem to make the bat connect with that damned ball.)
I could draw fair enough. I enjoyed it. I wasn't going to win any ribbons though.
I've ALWAYS adored music, and so I thought that music MUST BE my arena. So I played the flute in high school. Learned to play the piano, too. Loved them both. Passionately. But alas. . . I was not a musical genius. (I was seriously beginning to feel like Michael Caine's character in Dirty Rotten Scoundrels.)
I even had a passing thought that I would be an actress. Yes, I could see it. I would set the world on fire with my portrayals on both stage and screen. My singing would be legendary, my performances would be the highest art, and I would walk around feeling very self-important and often refer to 'my craft.'
. . .have I mentioned that I was painfully shy?
Yeah. Scratch acting.
So life keeps rolling along, and I was no closer to finding the area that would be just right for me.
Then one day I had the bright idea: Maybe I'm just supposed to HELP. Maybe that's ALL.
And, as was my way at the time, I was convinced that THE way to 'help' was to join the Peace Corps.
. . .Did you know that the Corps actually prefers it if you HAVE a skill??
Well shit. I didn't even know a second language. (Unless the good people of Tanzania or Tibet have any interest in learning Pig Latin. I am fluent.)
At this point in my life, I finally began to accept that I wasn't going to write the Great American Novel, or craft a painting that would move grown men to tears. And so I began to analyze exactly WHY I felt the need to be 'grand.'
And the answer is: I don't know.
I don't know why. I just always felt like I had to. Like I WOULD. It wasn't something that others forced on me. Nope. Completely self-imposed. Maybe I felt like I needed to justify the space I was taking up on this planet? Who knows. (I was kind of a weird kid.)
But the wonderful thing, the magical thing, the STUPENDOUS THING about this whole little goose-chase---is what I discovered today:
Maybe I don't have to.
Maybe I can be here at home. On a Saturday, with my son.
Maybe I can make banana bread, and clean the house.
Maybe I can feed the cats, and read a book, and change a diaper, and bitch about the high price of whatever.
And maybe that's ALL okay.
Because what I am learning is that *I* told myself that I had to do something grandiose and phenomenal. Nobody else. I did.
And now. . . I'm telling myself that it's okay.
Don't get me wrong: I'm still going to try my hand at painting. I still have time to pick up another instrument. At some point I may discover that I have a green thumb (though not bloody likely). And as long as my hands keep working, I'm sure I'll write from time to time.
But for now, I'm telling myself to take a deep breath. And appreciate the fact that I have every amazing and important thing that I have EVER truly wanted. I'm telling myself to hug and kiss my husband when he gets home, and realize that the home we've created together is FULL of laughter and love. I'm telling myself to remember what the top of Nolan's head smelled like when he was a baby. I'm telling myself to sit back and let it happen and just NOT CARE about the end result. Because I APPRECIATE everything I have. More than I know how to say. And maybe being a loving wife, and a good mother, and an AMAZING interpretive dancer. . . maybe that's more than I could've ever asked for. And maybe that's enough.
So for once in my life---I'm going to take my own advice.
And maybe what I'll make will turn out to be art anyway. =)
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
At the Risk of Alienating All My Family and Friends. . .
These are some things I believe about Life and Death, and lots of questons I still have.
When I was about 5 years old, I realized that I was going to die.
I remember it perfectly. (I wasn't sick or anything.) I was lying in bed with my then-baby brother, in a little apartment in Rocky Ridge. I was just going to sleep for the night when the realization hit me: I was going to die one day. It terrified me, and I started crying. My mom came into my room to see what was wrong, and all I can remember was crying and saying that I didn't want to die. She hugged me and kissed me, and calmed me down enough so that I could go to sleep, but all she could actually give me was: "That's not for a long time."
And I remember lying there and thinking that that answer wasn't nearly good enough.
Looking back, I realize that that night was the first of countless nights spent staring at my ceiling and agonizing over things that I have no power to change.
We went to church a lot growing up, and I heard all the stories that the churches tell: If you're good, and ask Jesus into your heart, when you die you'll go to Heaven and be with everyone you love again, and eat cornbread (or . . .whatever Heavenly delicacy you desire). If you're not, you go to Hell, and it's just awful. I wanted to do everything I could to avoid the Hell part, so I thought about and worried over these things on a daily basis. I decided I would change my life, and just be 'good' from then on. (Though as I write this with the clarity of the years, I wonder what a child my age could've ever done to worry so greatly about being sent to Hell. . . THESE are the thoughts that trouble me as an adult.)
I digress.
So when I was about 8 years old I did what the preacher said, and prayed a prayer and asked Jesus to come into my heart.
I expected something to change. I expected to feel different.
I didn't.
I was sure that I had done something wrong. So I meditated on it, I tried not to think hateful thoughts, or envy people, or covet that Hello Kitty purse that a friend of mine had just gotten, or be anything but 'good.' And I prayed the Jesus-come-into-my-heart prayer every night for about a month.
All the while convinced (and deeply worried) that I was doing something wrong.
So then I heard the preacher say that we had to ask God to forgive every sin we committed, because otherwise he would not forgive us. I decided I would do that. So every night when I went to bed, I prayed. And I mentally went through my entire day, starting with when I woke up, and asked for forgiveness for every single sin. Even ones that I wasn't so sure were sins, but wanted to be safe. (Just in case.)
And every night I fell asleep before I made it to the end of my list.
Which meant that I had sins lingering out there that I couldn't remember, and that were going to go unforgiven.
I don't think I even have to say that this caused me a great deal of anxiety.
Fast-forward to my teen years, and I went to church all the time. My parents were active in the church, my friends were there, and I went. But about the time I was 15 or 16, I had more and more questions about what was being taught. And I didn't feel like my questions were being answered. More truthfully, I once again wondered what was wrong with me that *I* appeared to be the only one questioning what everyone else seemed to simply accept as Gospel truth.
My faith wasn't strong enough.
I struggled with it, and years went on.
Then when I was 24 years old, I lost my husband. Well, I didn't actually 'lose' him---he died. I had loved him deeply, and one day he was just. . . gone. I couldn't function for the longest time, and after I did come back to myself again, I found I was. . . different. Because he had been young, too, and the fact that someone so young, and so important, could just be GONE didn't jive at all with what I had spent my entire life believing. I believed everyone was here for a purpose, and you didn't leave until it was fulfilled. And I had decided that he hadn't fulfilled his purpose yet. So. . .
. . .what was I supposed to do with THAT?
But for a while I had no choice BUT to believe in a mythical Heaven, because I was certain he was waiting for me there. Still, it was at this point that I began studying the religions of the world in earnest.
And what I found, though many could and would argue the semantics with me. . .is that they are more or less all basically the same. Be kind, don't harm others, be thankful for what you have, and love, love, love every chance you get.
And I remember feeling a little let down. Because as surprising as it is to admit, I guess I was waiting for some magical book to give me all the answers about life.
And that's just not going to happen. (Feel free to insert your Bible argument here. I've read the Bible. I know what it says. I have questions and problems with a LOT of it. But in the deepest part of my being, I believe in what Jesus taught. I believe in what he stood for. I have found it to be true and good, and it is in that way that I strive to live my life. And that's the best you're going to get from me.)
But to get back around to my original line of thought: Am I still afraid of death?
Yes. Yes I am. Very much so. I'm human. And in being so, the thought of never seeing the ones I love again just destroys me.
But for some inexplicable reason, I have more or less come to terms with it.
I should hope so. I lived with the shadow of death hanging over my head for more years than I can count. Quite literally. It is the reason that, to this day, I refuse to let my husband leave the house without telling him that I love him. If something were to happen. . . I want that to be the last thing I ever said to him.
Do I believe in Heaven? Yes and no. I have a real problem believing in the storied (to me 'mythical') version of Heaven. I wish that I could believe in it. I really do. But it's just not in me.
But I believe in God. Not in His 'Big Policeman in the Sky' role that he took on in my youth, but in a much more gracious and abstract way.
I believe in the Universe around me. I believe that it operates according to certain laws. I believe that this Universe wastes nothing, and that matter can neither be created nor destroyed by us as humans. I believe that there is something in every one of us that is malleable, and corruptable, and infintely 'good'. And I believe that it will survive in some capacity long after this body has turned to dust.
I believe that every body loses a certain amount of weight after we die, and that it is pure energy that causes our brain to function, and our heart to beat, and our synapses to fire. I believe that pure energy swims all around the cosmos, dancing in ways that I can't even comprehend. I believe that Life would be nothing without a little mystery.
I believe that Love is the greatest magic that we can know as human beings, and I don't believe that it simply evaporates when we are no more.
I believe that all these things, all these thoughts and experiences, are what we think of as a Soul.
And I happen to believe that Souls are forever.
Beyond that, and in what capacity are they forever? I haven't the foggiest.
If you feel the need to preach to me, I will warn you now that I will ignore you. But I welcome discussions. My problem with those that preach to me is that they believe that they have all the answers. And people with all the answers. . . stop looking.
So this is what I believe, and I could be wrong about most or all of it.
But I will never stop looking.
And to end, I'll share my favorite quote from my favorite Beatle:
"Everything else can wait. But the search for God cannot wait." ----George Harrison
When I was about 5 years old, I realized that I was going to die.
I remember it perfectly. (I wasn't sick or anything.) I was lying in bed with my then-baby brother, in a little apartment in Rocky Ridge. I was just going to sleep for the night when the realization hit me: I was going to die one day. It terrified me, and I started crying. My mom came into my room to see what was wrong, and all I can remember was crying and saying that I didn't want to die. She hugged me and kissed me, and calmed me down enough so that I could go to sleep, but all she could actually give me was: "That's not for a long time."
And I remember lying there and thinking that that answer wasn't nearly good enough.
Looking back, I realize that that night was the first of countless nights spent staring at my ceiling and agonizing over things that I have no power to change.
We went to church a lot growing up, and I heard all the stories that the churches tell: If you're good, and ask Jesus into your heart, when you die you'll go to Heaven and be with everyone you love again, and eat cornbread (or . . .whatever Heavenly delicacy you desire). If you're not, you go to Hell, and it's just awful. I wanted to do everything I could to avoid the Hell part, so I thought about and worried over these things on a daily basis. I decided I would change my life, and just be 'good' from then on. (Though as I write this with the clarity of the years, I wonder what a child my age could've ever done to worry so greatly about being sent to Hell. . . THESE are the thoughts that trouble me as an adult.)
I digress.
So when I was about 8 years old I did what the preacher said, and prayed a prayer and asked Jesus to come into my heart.
I expected something to change. I expected to feel different.
I didn't.
I was sure that I had done something wrong. So I meditated on it, I tried not to think hateful thoughts, or envy people, or covet that Hello Kitty purse that a friend of mine had just gotten, or be anything but 'good.' And I prayed the Jesus-come-into-my-heart prayer every night for about a month.
All the while convinced (and deeply worried) that I was doing something wrong.
So then I heard the preacher say that we had to ask God to forgive every sin we committed, because otherwise he would not forgive us. I decided I would do that. So every night when I went to bed, I prayed. And I mentally went through my entire day, starting with when I woke up, and asked for forgiveness for every single sin. Even ones that I wasn't so sure were sins, but wanted to be safe. (Just in case.)
And every night I fell asleep before I made it to the end of my list.
Which meant that I had sins lingering out there that I couldn't remember, and that were going to go unforgiven.
I don't think I even have to say that this caused me a great deal of anxiety.
Fast-forward to my teen years, and I went to church all the time. My parents were active in the church, my friends were there, and I went. But about the time I was 15 or 16, I had more and more questions about what was being taught. And I didn't feel like my questions were being answered. More truthfully, I once again wondered what was wrong with me that *I* appeared to be the only one questioning what everyone else seemed to simply accept as Gospel truth.
My faith wasn't strong enough.
I struggled with it, and years went on.
Then when I was 24 years old, I lost my husband. Well, I didn't actually 'lose' him---he died. I had loved him deeply, and one day he was just. . . gone. I couldn't function for the longest time, and after I did come back to myself again, I found I was. . . different. Because he had been young, too, and the fact that someone so young, and so important, could just be GONE didn't jive at all with what I had spent my entire life believing. I believed everyone was here for a purpose, and you didn't leave until it was fulfilled. And I had decided that he hadn't fulfilled his purpose yet. So. . .
. . .what was I supposed to do with THAT?
But for a while I had no choice BUT to believe in a mythical Heaven, because I was certain he was waiting for me there. Still, it was at this point that I began studying the religions of the world in earnest.
And what I found, though many could and would argue the semantics with me. . .is that they are more or less all basically the same. Be kind, don't harm others, be thankful for what you have, and love, love, love every chance you get.
And I remember feeling a little let down. Because as surprising as it is to admit, I guess I was waiting for some magical book to give me all the answers about life.
And that's just not going to happen. (Feel free to insert your Bible argument here. I've read the Bible. I know what it says. I have questions and problems with a LOT of it. But in the deepest part of my being, I believe in what Jesus taught. I believe in what he stood for. I have found it to be true and good, and it is in that way that I strive to live my life. And that's the best you're going to get from me.)
But to get back around to my original line of thought: Am I still afraid of death?
Yes. Yes I am. Very much so. I'm human. And in being so, the thought of never seeing the ones I love again just destroys me.
But for some inexplicable reason, I have more or less come to terms with it.
I should hope so. I lived with the shadow of death hanging over my head for more years than I can count. Quite literally. It is the reason that, to this day, I refuse to let my husband leave the house without telling him that I love him. If something were to happen. . . I want that to be the last thing I ever said to him.
Do I believe in Heaven? Yes and no. I have a real problem believing in the storied (to me 'mythical') version of Heaven. I wish that I could believe in it. I really do. But it's just not in me.
But I believe in God. Not in His 'Big Policeman in the Sky' role that he took on in my youth, but in a much more gracious and abstract way.
I believe in the Universe around me. I believe that it operates according to certain laws. I believe that this Universe wastes nothing, and that matter can neither be created nor destroyed by us as humans. I believe that there is something in every one of us that is malleable, and corruptable, and infintely 'good'. And I believe that it will survive in some capacity long after this body has turned to dust.
I believe that every body loses a certain amount of weight after we die, and that it is pure energy that causes our brain to function, and our heart to beat, and our synapses to fire. I believe that pure energy swims all around the cosmos, dancing in ways that I can't even comprehend. I believe that Life would be nothing without a little mystery.
I believe that Love is the greatest magic that we can know as human beings, and I don't believe that it simply evaporates when we are no more.
I believe that all these things, all these thoughts and experiences, are what we think of as a Soul.
And I happen to believe that Souls are forever.
Beyond that, and in what capacity are they forever? I haven't the foggiest.
If you feel the need to preach to me, I will warn you now that I will ignore you. But I welcome discussions. My problem with those that preach to me is that they believe that they have all the answers. And people with all the answers. . . stop looking.
So this is what I believe, and I could be wrong about most or all of it.
But I will never stop looking.
And to end, I'll share my favorite quote from my favorite Beatle:
"Everything else can wait. But the search for God cannot wait." ----George Harrison
Friday, January 13, 2012
In Praise of my Grandmothers
Anyone that knows me REALLY well knows that I am prone to nightmares. Whether this is due to my admittedly overactive imagination, my taste in reading materials, a love of spicy foods, or simply some misfiring synapses---I'm not at liberty to say. All I know is that it happens. A lot. And as my dreams are incredibly vivid and life-like --I've always envied those people who claim to be able to 'realize' they are dreaming. I 50% envy them, and 50% think they're full of crap, but I digress-- sometimes they can be really bad. 'Leave-A-Bad-Taste-In-My-Brain-All-Day' bad. So when I woke, wide-eyed and with tears streaming down my face at 3 a.m. this morning, no one was more surprised than I to discover that it was NOT the result of a nightmare.
I had been thinking about happy things.
I had been thinking about my Granny =)
At 35 years old, I know that it is no small blessing to be able to say that BOTH of my grandmothers saw me reach adulthood. (Note that that I did not say 'maturity' =) "Knowledge comes but wisdom lingers." --Tennyson?? Can't remember. Moving on.) While my grandfather I only remember from photographs, and other people's recollections of him, (though, for some reason, I always felt as if I really had 'known' him) and my Pawpaw, though I knew him well, and into adulthood,
(This is my Pawpaw on the left, after a fishing trip with my Daddy.)
. . . I still feel cheated for these years spent without hearing his singular chuckle. But my grandmothers. . . My grandmothers were strong and hearty, always loving, always there, and, as far as I knew, up to virtually any task imaginable.
It's strange to think about now, but my Mawmaw and my Granny--though like night and day on SO many levels--grew up, married, and spent their entire lives in the same town, living only several miles apart. They were friends, and more than that, they loved each other. I always took great comfort in that as a child. When people that you love DON'T love each other. . .it's confusing. But when they DO---it's like a confirmation on your ability to judge what is true. A confirmation in the way of "I know. She's pretty great, right?" But in the true form of MY grandmothers, they could love each other while still being (secretly, and in their own ways) hilarious.
Example: My Mawmaw was younger than my Granny by almost a year, if memory serves. And yet almost every time I ever saw them together, she would cleverly find some excuse to remind my Granny of this fact. Smiling and politely feigning ignorance the entire time, of course. And when Granny got in the car to leave she'd be muttering under her breath, "She knows EXACTLY how old I am." But she always said it with a grin. . .
Mawmaw was jewel-toned dresses, an abundance of rings, and perfume that almost stole your breath when you hugged her. Granny was cotton and linen, the smell of clothes dried on the line, soft skin and a sparkling laugh, and a glass of sweet tea always waiting on you. Weekends spent at Mawmaw's were guaranteed to include watching Remington Steele, Hee-Haw and Golden Girls, and getting to paint my nails if I asked really nicely. (I am still amazed to this day that I did not destroy ALL her furniture with nail polish. It is a skill I have not improved on over time.) Saturday mornings were spent on the living room floor watching cartoons and eating Pop-tarts bought specifically for me, and on Sundays I was always welcome (but expected to behave) on their pew at church.
At Granny's for the weekend, we would always run to the kitchen cupboard---which is where she stored empty paper towel rolls, wrapping paper tubes, and masking tape just for us to play with. In the summertime we were free to run and play outside for as long as the sun was up, knowing that a sandwich and a glass of Hawaiian Punch at lunchtime was as inevitable as getting checked for ticks when we came in for the night. And you just knew that you'd wake up the next morning to the smell of homemade biscuits cooking. . . . Even up into years when I was probably too old to be asking, if you requested it, she'd sing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star to you while you fell asleep.
They went to different churches, but they both went every time the doors were open. (Granny still took food to the 'old people' in her church until she was well into her 70's.) In the kitchen, they were both veritable Southern Sorceresses, making pound cakes and lemon squares that I will probably never taste the likes of again. They both dyed their hair quite religiously, proving that a small amount of vanity is not a bad thing. Granny worked outside the home up until she reached retirement, and Mawmaw worked inside the home. . . .I don't remember either one ever discussing it with me, but simply by the act of LIVING it, they seemed to make either option okay.
And without being preachy, and despite major personality differences, they each taught me the same things: Work hard. Take care of people. Don't be lazy--it's disrespectful. And ALWAYS be thankful for what you've got. Because there's ALWAYS someone else who wishes they had just that much.
. . .so this is what I found myself thinking about at 3 a.m. this morning. . . My Mawmaw passed several years ago, but my Granny is still here. Though dementia and Alzheimer's dictate how 'here' she is more often than not.
It's a scary thing to watch progress, though I know it has to be even harder for my mom and my uncles. But mostly it just scares me for her. A couple Christmases ago, while the family sat down to eat a WONderful Christmas dinner, she announced to the room as a whole that "OUR Danielle is DEAD!" . . .I was very much alive, and standing right behind her. And I didn't even want to correct her, because all I could think was what a frightening feeling that must be for her. And I couldn't help wondering if, in the confusion of her disease, she had already mourned for people that weren't gone yet?
But what do I know? Maybe it's another instance of those peculiar graces: We get to keep her with us a while longer, and she doesn't have to dwell on all the loved ones that have gone on before her.
So I'm not dwelling on the negative. Granny got to meet my son! The one I thought I'd never have =) Though I DO hate that Michael never got to know her when she was running at full-capacity. . .she was so FUNNY! (Like her telling the story of The Great Squirrel-Family Massacre with a smile on her face over Christmas dinner. The story included a laughter-filled retelling of how a half-crazed squirrel got into her house and tracked blood all OVER her walls and curtains, before she killed it and beheaded its babies. She told it all very matter-of-factly, and with a smile in her eyes. *I* was rolling with laughter, of course. She was a sweet, DEAR woman---but Granny didn't play. =) And I know that I am immeasurably blessed that I got to HAVE both of these women in my life.
And they loved me, no question. And curled up in their homes, falling asleep to the sound of crickets. . .I don't know that anything again will ever feel that safe. . .that perfectly *safe*.
I guess it's a blessing beyond words when someone has made such an impact on your life that, when you try to imagine what your life would've been like had they never been in it, you just. . . CAN'T.
And in our bedroom, my husband sleeps. Under a turtle-quilt that my Mawmaw made for my Daddy, who was good enough to give it to me.
And not 3 feet away, in my son's pack n'play, is the blue-and-white quilt my Granny made for me when I was a baby.
And they are everywhere around me.
And I just miss them both so much.
I had been thinking about happy things.
I had been thinking about my Granny =)
At 35 years old, I know that it is no small blessing to be able to say that BOTH of my grandmothers saw me reach adulthood. (Note that that I did not say 'maturity' =) "Knowledge comes but wisdom lingers." --Tennyson?? Can't remember. Moving on.) While my grandfather I only remember from photographs, and other people's recollections of him, (though, for some reason, I always felt as if I really had 'known' him) and my Pawpaw, though I knew him well, and into adulthood,
. . . I still feel cheated for these years spent without hearing his singular chuckle. But my grandmothers. . . My grandmothers were strong and hearty, always loving, always there, and, as far as I knew, up to virtually any task imaginable.
It's strange to think about now, but my Mawmaw and my Granny--though like night and day on SO many levels--grew up, married, and spent their entire lives in the same town, living only several miles apart. They were friends, and more than that, they loved each other. I always took great comfort in that as a child. When people that you love DON'T love each other. . .it's confusing. But when they DO---it's like a confirmation on your ability to judge what is true. A confirmation in the way of "I know. She's pretty great, right?" But in the true form of MY grandmothers, they could love each other while still being (secretly, and in their own ways) hilarious.
Example: My Mawmaw was younger than my Granny by almost a year, if memory serves. And yet almost every time I ever saw them together, she would cleverly find some excuse to remind my Granny of this fact. Smiling and politely feigning ignorance the entire time, of course. And when Granny got in the car to leave she'd be muttering under her breath, "She knows EXACTLY how old I am." But she always said it with a grin. . .
Mawmaw was jewel-toned dresses, an abundance of rings, and perfume that almost stole your breath when you hugged her. Granny was cotton and linen, the smell of clothes dried on the line, soft skin and a sparkling laugh, and a glass of sweet tea always waiting on you. Weekends spent at Mawmaw's were guaranteed to include watching Remington Steele, Hee-Haw and Golden Girls, and getting to paint my nails if I asked really nicely. (I am still amazed to this day that I did not destroy ALL her furniture with nail polish. It is a skill I have not improved on over time.) Saturday mornings were spent on the living room floor watching cartoons and eating Pop-tarts bought specifically for me, and on Sundays I was always welcome (but expected to behave) on their pew at church.
At Granny's for the weekend, we would always run to the kitchen cupboard---which is where she stored empty paper towel rolls, wrapping paper tubes, and masking tape just for us to play with. In the summertime we were free to run and play outside for as long as the sun was up, knowing that a sandwich and a glass of Hawaiian Punch at lunchtime was as inevitable as getting checked for ticks when we came in for the night. And you just knew that you'd wake up the next morning to the smell of homemade biscuits cooking. . . . Even up into years when I was probably too old to be asking, if you requested it, she'd sing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star to you while you fell asleep.
They went to different churches, but they both went every time the doors were open. (Granny still took food to the 'old people' in her church until she was well into her 70's.) In the kitchen, they were both veritable Southern Sorceresses, making pound cakes and lemon squares that I will probably never taste the likes of again. They both dyed their hair quite religiously, proving that a small amount of vanity is not a bad thing. Granny worked outside the home up until she reached retirement, and Mawmaw worked inside the home. . . .I don't remember either one ever discussing it with me, but simply by the act of LIVING it, they seemed to make either option okay.
And without being preachy, and despite major personality differences, they each taught me the same things: Work hard. Take care of people. Don't be lazy--it's disrespectful. And ALWAYS be thankful for what you've got. Because there's ALWAYS someone else who wishes they had just that much.
. . .so this is what I found myself thinking about at 3 a.m. this morning. . . My Mawmaw passed several years ago, but my Granny is still here. Though dementia and Alzheimer's dictate how 'here' she is more often than not.
It's a scary thing to watch progress, though I know it has to be even harder for my mom and my uncles. But mostly it just scares me for her. A couple Christmases ago, while the family sat down to eat a WONderful Christmas dinner, she announced to the room as a whole that "OUR Danielle is DEAD!" . . .I was very much alive, and standing right behind her. And I didn't even want to correct her, because all I could think was what a frightening feeling that must be for her. And I couldn't help wondering if, in the confusion of her disease, she had already mourned for people that weren't gone yet?
But what do I know? Maybe it's another instance of those peculiar graces: We get to keep her with us a while longer, and she doesn't have to dwell on all the loved ones that have gone on before her.
So I'm not dwelling on the negative. Granny got to meet my son! The one I thought I'd never have =) Though I DO hate that Michael never got to know her when she was running at full-capacity. . .she was so FUNNY! (Like her telling the story of The Great Squirrel-Family Massacre with a smile on her face over Christmas dinner. The story included a laughter-filled retelling of how a half-crazed squirrel got into her house and tracked blood all OVER her walls and curtains, before she killed it and beheaded its babies. She told it all very matter-of-factly, and with a smile in her eyes. *I* was rolling with laughter, of course. She was a sweet, DEAR woman---but Granny didn't play. =) And I know that I am immeasurably blessed that I got to HAVE both of these women in my life.
And they loved me, no question. And curled up in their homes, falling asleep to the sound of crickets. . .I don't know that anything again will ever feel that safe. . .that perfectly *safe*.
I guess it's a blessing beyond words when someone has made such an impact on your life that, when you try to imagine what your life would've been like had they never been in it, you just. . . CAN'T.
And in our bedroom, my husband sleeps. Under a turtle-quilt that my Mawmaw made for my Daddy, who was good enough to give it to me.
And not 3 feet away, in my son's pack n'play, is the blue-and-white quilt my Granny made for me when I was a baby.
And they are everywhere around me.
And I just miss them both so much.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
As a matter of fact, YES I HAVE
So I was thinking this morning about something that has gotten under my skin for some years now, and that I finally feel as though I am able to comment on, and it is this:
People who say: "Oh, you've never known love until you've had a child."
o.0
If YOU have ever said this to someone, I am going to ask that you stop reading this now. Or, at the very least, please don't take this personally. Because I have a few things to say regarding this statement.
First and foremost, yes. As a matter of fact, YES I HAVE.
I have loved deeply, and fully, and to the depth of my being. I have loved without condition, and without any thought of consequence to myself. I have loved with reckless abandon, with purity, and with a completeness that is staggering. And I did all of this before I ever had a child.
This is NOT to say that I don't love my child---you wanna fight? 'Cause those are fightin' words. . .
No. I love Nolan with my whole heart and soul, and I would gladly jump into a fiery pit for him without a nanosecond of hesitation. All I am saying is that this kind of love is NOT something new to me.
And I'm quite sure that I can't be the only person who feels this way.
(Honestly, I am not sure why people say this. Unless maybe it is sort of like the "bless your heart" sentiment, in that you say it when you don't really know what to say. But somehow, I think not.)
Before I had Nolan, people would say this to me: my doctor, a stranger at the grocery store, random people here and there. And now that I take the baby with me when I go out, people say it still. Some version of "You've never really loved until you've had children". . .and it makes me SO MAD!! How do they know how deeply I've loved?! Who are they to assume that I've never known a love like that?? And, in addition, this phrase also said to me that I was missing out on something. That I wasn't experiencing the fullness and joy that life had to offer me simply because I had not had children. (Which would mean that 34 years of my life had essentially just been rendered meaningless and wasted. . .)
And that is just wrong.
While it IS true that I now cannot IMAGINE my life without this little baby in it, I simply cannot say that the love I feel for him is something new.
Because I love my husband just as much.
Not in *exactly* the same way, mind you. . . with Nolan, I know that no matter what happens I will always be his mother. Nothing can change that. And there is a certain kind of contentment that comes from that knowledge. But aside from that aspect, it almost perfectly mirrors the way I love all the important people in my life.
For example: My brothers. When I was 5, my younger brother was born. And I just adored him. Loved him completely. And at about that time, I started having nightmares about him. (My brain has tried to kill me many times. Luckily for me--I've outsmarted it so far.) I would dream that we were in a shopping mall or some other public place, and he was kidnapped. I can remember it now as clearly as if it actually happened. . . I ran outside the mall, chasing the kidnappers, and just reached their car as they were pulling away. I was frantic. I was desperate. I even remember what kind of car they were driving: a white Volvo. I know that because Volvo's have distinct door handles, and that's what I was reaching for as they drove off. I woke up crying. I couldn't have been more than 9 years old. And I was having stress dreams. . . .Now that I think about it, that's a little neurotic. . .
But it's the same way with my step-brother. . .to this day I still have stress dreams about him. He's gone, he's dead, someone's hurting him---you name it, I've dreamt it.
The point I'm trying to make is that this is nothing new to me. I love deeply, and much. And having a child has done nothing to change that. It has only added to the list of people that I love completely.
The best example is, of course, my husband. I love him when he is right, and I love him when he is wrong. I love him when he's wonderful, and I even love him when he pisses me off (and he often takes advantage of this fact by saying 'I love you' when I am pissed at him, because he knows that, if pressured, I will always say it back. It is simply not in my nature to miss an opportunity to say 'I love you'.). I love him all the time, no matter what. And that is because I LOVE WHO HE IS. I love the person that he is. I think that guy is GREAT. And if he makes mistakes sometimes, it is only because he is human. So I simply love him. Period. As unconditionally, as fully and completely, as I love my son.
So for everyone out there who doesn't have children yet, for everyone who doesn't WANT children, and for everyone who has ever been told "I bet you never thought you could love this much", I would like to say, from the bottom of my heart----No. As a matter of fact, Yes. I HAVE loved this much.
Mind your business.
;)
People who say: "Oh, you've never known love until you've had a child."
o.0
If YOU have ever said this to someone, I am going to ask that you stop reading this now. Or, at the very least, please don't take this personally. Because I have a few things to say regarding this statement.
First and foremost, yes. As a matter of fact, YES I HAVE.
I have loved deeply, and fully, and to the depth of my being. I have loved without condition, and without any thought of consequence to myself. I have loved with reckless abandon, with purity, and with a completeness that is staggering. And I did all of this before I ever had a child.
This is NOT to say that I don't love my child---you wanna fight? 'Cause those are fightin' words. . .
No. I love Nolan with my whole heart and soul, and I would gladly jump into a fiery pit for him without a nanosecond of hesitation. All I am saying is that this kind of love is NOT something new to me.
And I'm quite sure that I can't be the only person who feels this way.
(Honestly, I am not sure why people say this. Unless maybe it is sort of like the "bless your heart" sentiment, in that you say it when you don't really know what to say. But somehow, I think not.)
Before I had Nolan, people would say this to me: my doctor, a stranger at the grocery store, random people here and there. And now that I take the baby with me when I go out, people say it still. Some version of "You've never really loved until you've had children". . .and it makes me SO MAD!! How do they know how deeply I've loved?! Who are they to assume that I've never known a love like that?? And, in addition, this phrase also said to me that I was missing out on something. That I wasn't experiencing the fullness and joy that life had to offer me simply because I had not had children. (Which would mean that 34 years of my life had essentially just been rendered meaningless and wasted. . .)
And that is just wrong.
While it IS true that I now cannot IMAGINE my life without this little baby in it, I simply cannot say that the love I feel for him is something new.
Because I love my husband just as much.
Not in *exactly* the same way, mind you. . . with Nolan, I know that no matter what happens I will always be his mother. Nothing can change that. And there is a certain kind of contentment that comes from that knowledge. But aside from that aspect, it almost perfectly mirrors the way I love all the important people in my life.
For example: My brothers. When I was 5, my younger brother was born. And I just adored him. Loved him completely. And at about that time, I started having nightmares about him. (My brain has tried to kill me many times. Luckily for me--I've outsmarted it so far.) I would dream that we were in a shopping mall or some other public place, and he was kidnapped. I can remember it now as clearly as if it actually happened. . . I ran outside the mall, chasing the kidnappers, and just reached their car as they were pulling away. I was frantic. I was desperate. I even remember what kind of car they were driving: a white Volvo. I know that because Volvo's have distinct door handles, and that's what I was reaching for as they drove off. I woke up crying. I couldn't have been more than 9 years old. And I was having stress dreams. . . .Now that I think about it, that's a little neurotic. . .
But it's the same way with my step-brother. . .to this day I still have stress dreams about him. He's gone, he's dead, someone's hurting him---you name it, I've dreamt it.
The point I'm trying to make is that this is nothing new to me. I love deeply, and much. And having a child has done nothing to change that. It has only added to the list of people that I love completely.
The best example is, of course, my husband. I love him when he is right, and I love him when he is wrong. I love him when he's wonderful, and I even love him when he pisses me off (and he often takes advantage of this fact by saying 'I love you' when I am pissed at him, because he knows that, if pressured, I will always say it back. It is simply not in my nature to miss an opportunity to say 'I love you'.). I love him all the time, no matter what. And that is because I LOVE WHO HE IS. I love the person that he is. I think that guy is GREAT. And if he makes mistakes sometimes, it is only because he is human. So I simply love him. Period. As unconditionally, as fully and completely, as I love my son.
So for everyone out there who doesn't have children yet, for everyone who doesn't WANT children, and for everyone who has ever been told "I bet you never thought you could love this much", I would like to say, from the bottom of my heart----No. As a matter of fact, Yes. I HAVE loved this much.
Mind your business.
;)
Thursday, September 8, 2011
My Life Through Email. . .
So recently I've been thinking about how--since the dawn of the cyber-age, anyway--the major happenings in my life can be tracked through my email. (In that I can go back through and read old emails, if I so choose, NOT in a Big Brother is watching/tin-foil hat kind of way. I just want to make that clear.)
Even so, this is a big idea for me to get my head around.
From almost as far back as I can remember, I have had a journal of some sort. Or, more honestly, I've generally had 2 or 3 at any given point. Some were nothing more than a spiral notebook, kept in my car, and to be used in every emergency from a quickly scrawled grocery list to a 'We are broken down--coming back with money for meter. Please don't tow!' note left underneath the windshield wiper on the car in precisely such a situation. (Pleased to report--we weren't towed.)
Then there's always at least one 'pretty' journal. . . the powder-blue suede one with silver on the binding has held a place on my bookcase for years. As I know that (due to just how completely PRETTY it is) this is a journal that I will have for quite a long time, I keep important things in here. Journal pages from important times in my life, or perfectly unimportant times when I simply felt the need to write, passwords to different accounts online, and running lists of what would be a good idea to get so-and-so for Christmas.
It's a very important journal.
. . .And since I can never remember my password, my Neopets would *literally* die without it.
=)
And then there's the notepad with polka dots and 'Joy' written on the spine that's always kept near the kitchen, generally with a pen sitting on top of it. This is because the kitchen is usually the first place we go after waking up in the morning, and when Michael and I are on different shifts the kitchen counter is the choice spot to leave a 'Good Morning, I love you' note.
. . .Or sometimes even a 'Good Morning, I love you, I took $10 from your wallet to put gas in the car and I found another spider last night we need to spray' note.
(It's been known to happen.)
All I'm saying is that these are my credentials for being a lover of the written word, and a lover of being the WRITER of those written words. I like having journals around. I like their appearance, and I like their physical presence.
So imagine my surprise when I realized that the most thorough, and most reliable journal of my activities for the last several years was never even written, but typed. . .
(I had mixed feelings, I will admit. Much like the whole Kindle debate. In which, I'm happy to report that Logic prevailed, but the romance and beauty of an actual bookcase still remains. It was a happy compromise.)
But these emails contained the daily minutia that I didn't have the time to record in any of my notebooks, as I can type much faster than I can write.
So I started going through old emails.
And was quickly re-introduced to the fact that I *might* be a slightly warped individual. =)
But more than that, these emails were perfect journals, and helped me REMEMBER so much more! So many small events that made up our daily lives that make me so happy just to think about. . .
(Probably NOT surprisingly, the bulk of these emails have been to either my mother or my husband.)
One of the more recent, a short email (which is an anomoly for me, as you'll soon learn) about feeling Nolan kick for the first time:
Subject: IT'S ALIIIIIVE!!!!!!
=======
And then there's the email I got while at work one day, that told me we were getting our house:
Subject: - "Clear to Close"
=======
So. . .feel perfectly justified in judging me now, if you wish. But keep in mind, when we lost our internet privileges at work several months back (sidenote: something I *almost* very passionately waged a veritable Crusade about. . .and then discovered that I simply lacked the energy. . .), the only thing we were left with was cnn.com and email.
And I quickly grew weary of being knowledgeable about current events. Much too beastly. I'll continue to get my news from Comedy Central, thank-you-very-much.
My point is that even if I'm not feeling very talkative in my daily life, odds are my fingers won't know when to shut up.
And of course, in a forum such as this, I am forced to completely overlook the major category of my old emails: notes sent to my husband---wishing him a good day, bitching to him about how I had inevitably been wronged by someone in one way or another, and reminding him that we are out of toilet paper.
And peanut butter.
As strange as it is to believe, my husband and I actually *met* via email communications sent through Myspace. . . .And it just so happened that we knew a lot of the same people. . . And he was really cute. . . AND he had great taste in music. . . and. . .
Well, SOME things won't be recited here =)
Primarily because I can't get INTO my Myspace account.
Because I lost the notebook that had my log-in information in it. . .
(True story.)
So.
Technology: 1
Notebooks: 0
Even so, this is a big idea for me to get my head around.
From almost as far back as I can remember, I have had a journal of some sort. Or, more honestly, I've generally had 2 or 3 at any given point. Some were nothing more than a spiral notebook, kept in my car, and to be used in every emergency from a quickly scrawled grocery list to a 'We are broken down--coming back with money for meter. Please don't tow!' note left underneath the windshield wiper on the car in precisely such a situation. (Pleased to report--we weren't towed.)
Then there's always at least one 'pretty' journal. . . the powder-blue suede one with silver on the binding has held a place on my bookcase for years. As I know that (due to just how completely PRETTY it is) this is a journal that I will have for quite a long time, I keep important things in here. Journal pages from important times in my life, or perfectly unimportant times when I simply felt the need to write, passwords to different accounts online, and running lists of what would be a good idea to get so-and-so for Christmas.
It's a very important journal.
. . .And since I can never remember my password, my Neopets would *literally* die without it.
=)
And then there's the notepad with polka dots and 'Joy' written on the spine that's always kept near the kitchen, generally with a pen sitting on top of it. This is because the kitchen is usually the first place we go after waking up in the morning, and when Michael and I are on different shifts the kitchen counter is the choice spot to leave a 'Good Morning, I love you' note.
. . .Or sometimes even a 'Good Morning, I love you, I took $10 from your wallet to put gas in the car and I found another spider last night we need to spray' note.
(It's been known to happen.)
All I'm saying is that these are my credentials for being a lover of the written word, and a lover of being the WRITER of those written words. I like having journals around. I like their appearance, and I like their physical presence.
So imagine my surprise when I realized that the most thorough, and most reliable journal of my activities for the last several years was never even written, but typed. . .
(I had mixed feelings, I will admit. Much like the whole Kindle debate. In which, I'm happy to report that Logic prevailed, but the romance and beauty of an actual bookcase still remains. It was a happy compromise.)
But these emails contained the daily minutia that I didn't have the time to record in any of my notebooks, as I can type much faster than I can write.
So I started going through old emails.
And was quickly re-introduced to the fact that I *might* be a slightly warped individual. =)
But more than that, these emails were perfect journals, and helped me REMEMBER so much more! So many small events that made up our daily lives that make me so happy just to think about. . .
(Probably NOT surprisingly, the bulk of these emails have been to either my mother or my husband.)
One of the more recent, a short email (which is an anomoly for me, as you'll soon learn) about feeling Nolan kick for the first time:
Subject: IT'S ALIIIIIVE!!!!!!
I CAN FEEL HIM MOVING!!!! IT FEELS LIKE HE’S UP PRACTICALLY IN MY RIB CAGE ON MY LEFT SIDE!!!!
This is insane!!! Like I can actually FEEL HIM!!! Feels like he’s doing flips. . . I guess he didn’t like that Subway sandwich with jalapenos that we had for lunch. . .
=======
And then there's the email I got while at work one day, that told me we were getting our house:
Subject: - "Clear to Close"
I just wanted to give you the good news…We just heard back from our underwriter..and we have a Clear-to-Close !
Thank you!
=======
Then there's the time the Star Wars exhibit came to the Huntsville Space and Rocket Center and we were taking the boys, and I was trying to find out if anyone else in the family was interested in going with us:
Subject: Evil Outings. . .
Greetings General---
As a recent instance of rebel-sabotage ( . . .VERMIN!!!) has left us incapable of generating our June Storm-Trooper Newsletter, I am sending this communication so that you will be briefed on our dark-doings and grisly goings-on. . .
Well Summer is here and every Storm Trooper on rotation is just pleased-as-punch about the announcement of our yearly Evil Outing. After MUCH heated debate, and extensive loss-of-life, our meeting ended in the decision to travel north to the ancient city of Hunt’s’Ville to view the ancient rockets there on display. Currently, plans are in the works to deliver the miniscule padawan (Codename: Eats-His-Boogers) to the Space and Rocket Center in Hunt’s’Ville on July 2, 2010. I have obtained data that suggests that tickets to this event are sold in 30-minute increments. We have obtained our passes for:
Friday, July 2nd
Night Admission
5:00 p.m.
We’re going to tour the normal Space and Rocket Center stuff that morning, and we’re doing Star Wars that night. I’m not sure how the tiny-jedi is going to fare on this all-day adventure. . . For that matter, I’m not sure how I will fare, either. (I have some very valid concerns about nap-availabilities. . .)
Any-hoo. . . this is just if ya’ll are interested. Seriously, though, if you think your child may have some inclinations toward someday ruling the galaxy, that’s REALLY the kind of thing you need to encourage when they’re young. . . =)
Hus, kisses, and Space-snuggies----
Darth Mater
=======
Or finally, the email sent to my mother in regards to Muscles, our youngest kitty (stripes on top, polka dots on his belly). Muscles just showed up at my mother's house one day as a kitten and wouldn't leave. . . until Michael, Cana, Devin and I came over for lunch one afternoon and left with him =) What follows is the email I sent her in jest regarding the adoption of Muscles:
Subject: Madam
Dear Madam:
I am sending this letter in regards to the kitten that my husband and I received from your facility during the month of September 2009. (UPC # 68C43Y519)
Frankly, ma'am, we are dissatisfied.
I'm not certain what sort of second-rate establishment you're running, ma'am, but when we left your establishment we expected to return home with a FULLY FUNCTIONAL KITTEN. (Your brochure assured us of as much.)
Sadly, upon a full inspection of the kitten-in-question, my husband and I were SHOCKED ma'am---SHOCKED!---to discover that we had been duped by an establishment of your pedigree. . . .I'm sure you're feeling very pleased with yourself. . . Took us for a couple of rubes, did you? Thought you'd get away with your little racket, and no one would be the wiser, eh? . . .
Well not on MY dime, Madam!
We are hard-working, common folk, but do not take us for simpletons!! It was a mere matter of weeks before we discovered that THIS KITTEN had been constructed using INFERIOR PARTS! Imagine our consternation when we discovered that the KITTEN that our son had been playing with was a LEMON!! To begin with, it is painfully OBVIOUS that he was constructed using parts from SEVERAL DIFFERENT KITTENS!! (Stripes AND spots?? Honestly . . .I don't know how you sleep at night.)
However, the FINAL STRAW was when my husband pointed out that this inferior kitten was PERFECTLY UNAWARE of PROPER LITTERBOX PROCEDURE!! He poops in the box, turns around, places his front paws OUTSIDE THE BOX, and THEN proceeds to 'cover up' his poo---WITH HIS FRONT LEGS SCRATCHING AIR!!! OUTSIDE THE BOX!!!!
After a discussion with my husband, I am sorry to inform you that we are FULLY prepared to take this issue ALL THE WAY TO THE TOP! To the highest branches of government!---To the Better Business Bureau!! ---TO 'CAT FANCIER'S' MAGAZINE!!
----Unless we receive a fully-functional kitten from your establishment within one week's time.
I can assure you, ma'am---We are QUITE serious. (We do not take kitten-pilfering lightly, ma'am.)
Please ship the 'refund-kitten' to the address shown on our file. (I will be shipping the 'inferior' product back to your Corporate Office as soon as he is located.)
We also need one (1) replacement 'Friendly-Frog'.
Good day to you.
=======
So. . .feel perfectly justified in judging me now, if you wish. But keep in mind, when we lost our internet privileges at work several months back (sidenote: something I *almost* very passionately waged a veritable Crusade about. . .and then discovered that I simply lacked the energy. . .), the only thing we were left with was cnn.com and email.
And I quickly grew weary of being knowledgeable about current events. Much too beastly. I'll continue to get my news from Comedy Central, thank-you-very-much.
My point is that even if I'm not feeling very talkative in my daily life, odds are my fingers won't know when to shut up.
And of course, in a forum such as this, I am forced to completely overlook the major category of my old emails: notes sent to my husband---wishing him a good day, bitching to him about how I had inevitably been wronged by someone in one way or another, and reminding him that we are out of toilet paper.
And peanut butter.
As strange as it is to believe, my husband and I actually *met* via email communications sent through Myspace. . . .And it just so happened that we knew a lot of the same people. . . And he was really cute. . . AND he had great taste in music. . . and. . .
Well, SOME things won't be recited here =)
Primarily because I can't get INTO my Myspace account.
Because I lost the notebook that had my log-in information in it. . .
(True story.)
So.
Technology: 1
Notebooks: 0
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