tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30408758843738530892024-02-06T22:02:39.523-06:00linda lee studioAdventures in jewelry design, life, growth, and of course - writinglinda lee studiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08068060208681441923noreply@blogger.comBlogger187125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040875884373853089.post-15642552390404509542015-02-27T20:15:00.000-06:002015-02-27T20:15:34.707-06:00How to Support a Griever<div class="MsoNormal">
There is no time limit on grief. No handbook, either. No rule
book that tells you how to DO this, how to live your life, how to function, how
to be—nothing, nowhere, can articulate exactly what you are supposed to do
after you lose someone so close to you that you literally shared DNA. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The last conversation I had with my mom was an argument. She
was really pissed at me for something ridiculous, and she hung up on me as I was
mid-sentence.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tonight, that was triggered.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And it speaks to that desperation of losing someone in exactly the wrong moment: <i>Please don't leave me like this. Not like this. <b>Please...</b></i><b><o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because, what if I never speak to you again? What if I never hear
your voice again? You are important in my life, and I care about you and love
you, and what if that was the very last conversation, ever? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At least make the ending something palpable.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At least <i>try</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At least try not to be so fucking selfish that you just... disengage. Because if you’re hit by a bus before I see you again or talk to you
again, <b><i>you aren’t the one who has to live
with that</i>.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><b>I am.</b><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have had a lot of realizations lately about what it really
TAKES to be a witness, to be a true FRIEND, a true PRESENCE, to someone who has
gone through the traumatic type of loss that I have experienced.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here is what I have come to articulate:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To truly be present for someone who is grieving is a gift.
It’s a gift to you, and it’s a gift to the griever.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To truly be present, please do not EVER make the grief about
you. If you are witnessing grief, please understand that your role is to
witness. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Your role is <i>not </i>to make it about you. Your role is <i>not </i>to
turn the tables and share about the grief you are also experiencing. Because it
is completely unrelated… and therefore not helpful or supportive to the current
moment. I don't care how appropriate it seems in your mind. Unless the griever before you specifically asks you to share... just hold on to it. Your turn will come.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Your role is to be present. Fully.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And what that means is this:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<ul>
<li>Sit quietly. Receptive. Open. Willing.</li>
<li>Do not try to fix.</li>
<li>Do not try to change the subject to something more pleasant
or less hard.</li>
<li>Do not try to think of the perfect thing to say.</li>
</ul>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(There is no perfect thing to say.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ever.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I realize… being fully present with someone who is actively
grieving is incredibly, ridiculously difficult. It’s also one of the most
amazing, precious, and appreciated gifts you can give to a griever.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I realize… it’s uncomfortable. Maybe even painful. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s <i>hard</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You hate seeing this person in pain. You hate that you can’t
do anything about it. You hate that you have no idea what to say. You hate that
whatever you say is probably going to be wrong and poorly received.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s okay.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You don’t have to say a word.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In fact, that is often the greatest gift of all: silence.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Witnessing, allowing, being—connected, open, and vulnerable.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Intimate, real, and true.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And, yes—<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Silent.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Being fully present for someone who is experiencing intense
grief is incredibly humbling. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But it not only incites humility, it <i><b>requires</b></i> it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>You <i>must</i> yield to
the grief. <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is precious and beautiful, all on its own. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And the person grieving before you is the container that
needs emptying. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Allow that pouring out. Create sacred space for it. Honor it.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And realize that no words you say will ever truly capture
it, ease it, or tame it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Grief, is, after all, ever-changing, like the ocean.
Powerful, overtaking, and suffocating in one moment—light, playful, and free in the next moment.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It makes no sense.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The most important thing you can do is to <i>allow </i>those swift
changes, allow those peaks and valleys and shifts. Allow the waves to roll,
allow the undertow to pull you down. It’s going to, anyway, and putting up a
fight is not only pointless—it’s exhausting.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And, oh yeah, by the way:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Do not take any of it personally.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ever.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is never (ever!) about <i>you</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I promise.<o:p></o:p></div>
linda lee studiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08068060208681441923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040875884373853089.post-61524786933968615122015-01-20T16:33:00.002-06:002015-01-20T16:34:04.515-06:00Grief Resources<div class="MsoNormal">
Thanks to the love and support I’ve gotten, as well as nudges from beyond… I have set up a page that I liken to an anchor—a Facebook community called <a href="http://www.facebook.com/GriefResources" target="_blank">Grief Resources</a>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The purpose of the page is to provide <i>good</i> resources for those experiencing grief. I expect the page to overflow with uplifting images and quotes, good grief-related books, classes, retreats, and more.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I think it’s important to give voice to the community members, too. So periodically I will host a “blog roll” where community members can post their blogs related to grief. I can catalog them in the Notes section, too, so they won’t disappear on the ever-famous Facebook Timeline.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Between that, workshops I’m attending, and continuing to write my grief book, my emotional energy is pretty thin at the moment. Too thin for much of anything else.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that’s okay.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Please, friends. If you are grieving, or if you know of someone who is grieving—whether that grief is new or not-so-new—please check out <a href="http://www.facebook.com/GriefResources" target="_blank">Grief Resources</a>. It’s just an anchor. Just a starting point. But it can provide you with guidance.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
A light, in the pitch blackness of grief…</div>
linda lee studiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08068060208681441923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040875884373853089.post-16317657234148008692014-12-31T16:49:00.000-06:002014-12-31T16:53:48.311-06:00Farewell 2014<div class="MsoNormal">
At the end of my 2013 rope, I begged for joy in 2014. I got a lot of it. But as much as I wanted 2014 to be the year of joy... it morphed into something else entirely.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And, I have tried to write a neat and tidy synopsis of what I learned
this year, what I want to take away, what I want to carry forward into next
year. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But 2014 was messy. Really messy. Not in a bad way, just—messy.
I had ups and downs, ups <i>during</i> the
downs, downs during the ups—bursts of joy amongst the tears. Burst of tears
smack in the middle of joy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The reality of loss set in. The reality of dreams I no
longer get to have also set in. And once it set in—I couldn’t deny it any
longer. I couldn’t just change the subject and make it easier or better or more
positive. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As much as I wanted 2014 to be about joy… what it ended up
being about was <i>acceptance</i>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Accepting where I am, who I am, what has happened,
what is happening, and what each moment brings. Living in the present has its
merits, and acceptance is a big one.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2014 taught me the value of fully living in the present
moment. What sucks about living in the present is that it’s hard to go back and
ruminate over the year, because I didn’t record a lot of it, except on Facebook
or Instagram. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I spent most of the year living day to day instead of trying
to capture my thoughts about living day to day.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s unusual for me—but it isn’t bad, good, or
indifferent. It simply <i>is</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Right now it is like this: I am glad the year is over. </blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Somehow I feel unjustified in saying that, because it wasn’t
a bad year. But it’s my truth, so there you go.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I learned the value of <i>rest</i>
this year. I learned the value of letting go. I learned the value of rooting. I
learned the value of sitting quietly and doing nothing. I learned the value of
sweating buckets in hot yoga. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All that to say—I learned the value of self-care on a level I
never knew I could care for me. The reasons I practice self-care have shifted
ever-so-slightly, but what’s more impressive is that the depth to which I practice
self-care has grown deeper than I ever thought possible. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have learned to ask my body/mind/spirit/soul what it needs, what it longs
for—and whatever the answer, I heed it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most of the time, that means slowing down and doing less.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The exhaustion I still feel confounds me. I thought I wouldn’t
feel this tired anymore. I thought I would have more of my energy back. I thought…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It doesn’t matter what I thought, because everything I have
learned about grief is that it’s different than what you think it is or what
you think it’s supposed to be. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that’s okay. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The end of this year has been quiet—very quiet. And for
that, I am thankful. Quiet equates to slow and deliberate—two key pieces to my
puzzle of transformation. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can see and feel myself transforming.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I know with a certain degree of solidarity that this
transformation is my best yet. I am on the cusp of something big, special, and mind-blowingly awesome.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes. Amazing things are coming! I wear that belief like a
new tattoo. And I smile as the wise words of Carol Lee, who I met this year,
ring true in my heart right now.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I asked her, “How do I practice trust?”<br />
She said, “You don’t. You just ‘be.’ Be the observer, and
the trust will come.” </blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Indeed…<o:p></o:p></div>
linda lee studiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08068060208681441923noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040875884373853089.post-67129802802652691282014-10-26T21:41:00.000-05:002014-12-27T17:01:36.411-06:00Right Now It Is Like This<div class="MsoNormal">
I first heard that phrase just over a year ago, and it
started a whole new phase of evolution in my life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I heard it from <a href="http://www.luciahoran.com/" target="_blank">Lucia Horan</a> as she taught a <a href="http://www.5rhythms.com/" target="_blank">5rhythms</a>
workshop in Dallas. She mentioned who coined the phrase, but I don’t remember. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I first heard this phrase, it resonated in a way that <i>“It is what it is”</i> can’t and never
could. That’s because <i>“It is what it is”</i>
has no movement. It implies inertia. Dead weight. Something to complain about.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But <i>“Right now it is
like this”</i> has movement. It is grounding. It acknowledges that this moment
right here—the present—is all that exists. Perhaps it’s not exactly what I
want. Perhaps I feel emotions I don’t like or don’t want to accept.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But those feelings, those emotions, are temporary. They will
pass. This phrase helps me accept it—because when I say <i>“Right now,”</i> that means I could (and probably will) feel
differently in just a few minutes. That means I can change my perception,
change my attitude, and, just like that—shift. Move. Gain forward momentum.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And, the second part, <i>“It
is like this,”</i> reminds me to name my feelings. Name the situation. Describe
it and what it feels like, so that the next time it comes around, I’ll
recognize it faster—which also means I’ll recognize that I can move through it,
too. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And in variably, I do—and quickly. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In other words, <i>“Right
now it is like this”</i> is <i>empowering</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2WLPfgK498LZDwPbi9JKAVAUTWrxCwudzqIEqtG-QikEp8cRbxQXZT3ai8m7GBLWco16BuxaqIEc_rQ6o1NjyRFLAIs2IRmC2O6KJa8sD2QqAOqxIRZymY3s01KE25dNWGovwVPy56L8/s1600/20141022_180356.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2WLPfgK498LZDwPbi9JKAVAUTWrxCwudzqIEqtG-QikEp8cRbxQXZT3ai8m7GBLWco16BuxaqIEc_rQ6o1NjyRFLAIs2IRmC2O6KJa8sD2QqAOqxIRZymY3s01KE25dNWGovwVPy56L8/s1600/20141022_180356.jpg" height="392" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The tattoo isn't blurry... that's from my camera phone not knowing exactly where to focus. :)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And now I have to share the story about actually getting
this phrase tattooed on my arm. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I knew who I wanted to do the lettering. I’d stalked <a href="http://instagram.com/zombietattoojoe" target="_blank">his Instagram</a> for a while, and although I love his lettering, it’s not really “my
style” as far as something I would want permanently on my body. But I still
felt he was the right guy to do it—so, I went with it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was frustrated that day because I was in the middle of the
push-pull of trying to open my heart to the man I was dating, yet I kept pulling back (now I know why... *ahem)… I felt out of
control, and I was struggling to trust myself (and him). And, he called me out
on it—and there I was, in Denton, at the tattoo shop… my heart pounding because
I wasn’t sure what would happen with the guy, but I also wanted to make sure this
tattoo turned out just right, too.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(Even now as I read over that last paragraph, I’m smiling at
my own control issues. I am a “recovering” control freak. Sometimes I fall off
the wagon, though…)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I met with Joe (<a href="http://www.zombietattoojoe.com/" target="_blank">Zombie Joe, aka Joe Chavez</a>) and told him
what I wanted—in excruciating detail. He came back up front with a drawing, and
I didn’t like it. I made some suggestions of what to change, and he went back
to draw it again. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When he came back out, it looked somewhat better, but I still
didn’t like it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He went back to the drawing board a third time and emerged to
the front of the shop with a few more drawings.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I still wasn’t happy with the drawing, and I became
increasingly frustrated.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I could tell Joe was frustrated, too.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At that point, he had a little “come to Jesus” talk with me.
He told me that he was an artist who had won awards all over the world for his
lettering. “This is what I <b><i>do</i></b>,” he said. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He asked me to just… let him do his thing. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I immediately understood where he was coming from. I agreed.
He popped up off the couch—clearly re-energized—and disappeared into the back.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He came back up front a few minutes later with a sly grin on
his face. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When he showed me the drawing, I immediately loved it and
felt overcome. Tears came to my eyes as I nodded yes and said, “I love it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Really?” He said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Later, I thanked him for talking sense into me and I pointed
out the irony of the whole thing—with how much I struggled with trying to control
the tattoo, when “Right now it is like this” actually helps me differentiate
between my emotions and feelings (which I cannot control) vs. how I respond to
them and what I do with them (which is within my control). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(And yeah, we had a good laugh about that.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I look at this gorgeous, one-of-a-kind scripting on my
arm, I can’t help but smile. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Right now, it is like this.<o:p></o:p></div>
linda lee studiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08068060208681441923noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040875884373853089.post-29232259975841802522014-10-16T22:10:00.000-05:002014-10-16T22:10:13.555-05:0025 Classes<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMusgEoaGa9UT02SSozz5DPDWo1ll1D4w06IXWvK34HP9m6sUYVIFeOadZ56qlDxSynFRFPjlF7MBugvwJ7tZ2zrmrLbFmY39gpVrRb6S1FokSLW1rIZH4Du2mPGgQGene8xPn517KXoE/s1600/IMG_20141016_210248.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMusgEoaGa9UT02SSozz5DPDWo1ll1D4w06IXWvK34HP9m6sUYVIFeOadZ56qlDxSynFRFPjlF7MBugvwJ7tZ2zrmrLbFmY39gpVrRb6S1FokSLW1rIZH4Du2mPGgQGene8xPn517KXoE/s1600/IMG_20141016_210248.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunstone Yoga gives wristbands for achievement. (10 & 25 classes)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
25 classes. It might not seem like much, but that's 25 hours of hot yoga. It is just the beginning, really.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
But this beginning is profound.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some days are still hard. Really hard. Usually that happens
when I am low on resources—dehydrated, too hungry, not enough sleep. And sometimes,
it’s just random. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I get through every single class, and that still feels
like an accomplishment, although I must admit that the time goes by so fast, it
blows me away.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And at the end of that hour, I am exhausted, sweaty, stinky,
and serene. Not a terrible combination, if you ask me…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, what has changed? What has shifted in me?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m up to going to classes at least 4-5 times a week. It was
remarkably easy to get there, even though I was really skeptical at first. I haven’t
posted to Facebook for accountability because I actually haven’t needed it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I am solely accountable
to myself. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Holy shit!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This might just be the first endeavor in my entire life
where I haven’t needed to be accountable to anyone but me. That’s huge! And I didn’t
actually realize it until just now, as it hit me that I’d stopped posting yoga
updates to Facebook.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wow.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As far as other changes, there are the outwardly obvious
things—my posture has vastly improved. My skin looks amazing and glowy and
happy. My clothes are all fitting looser because I have lost inches. And over
the past 5 weeks, even though I’m not actively trying to lose weight (because
on yoga days I tend to eat like a horse, or so it feels like, and I love to
eat, and I eat whatever I want so long as it’s got ingredients I can pronounce
and identify and feel good about eating)… I have indeed lost 5 pounds. And of
course, I am more flexible, I’m getting stronger, and my balance is better
(most days). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And it’s really cool when I can hold poses longer than I used
to, or better, or both. It’s fascinating to see and feel my own progression and
growth and change. I am enjoying this process very, very much.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the real, soul-deep benefits are much harder to
articulate.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve noticed that I’m making yoga a priority, <i>no matter what</i>. It’s not so much the
yoga as it is making taking care of me the real priority. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ll give you an example.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This past Monday, I knew I was going to go to my dad’s house
in the evening. I normally try to catch the 8pm class on Mondays, but after 9pm
would be way too late to head up to my dad’s house. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Instead of skipping class, I got up an hour earlier, went in
to work earlier, left work earlier, and caught the 5pm class instead. I was
done by 6pm and on my way up to my dad’s not too long after that.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In other words, <i>I rearranged
my entire day</i> to make sure I could still get to yoga but also get to my dad’s.
I fulfilled both priorities and felt great about it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The more profound piece of that, though, is that <i>missing my yoga wasn’t even an option that
came to mind</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Which means that I have turned it into a habit to take care
of me and prioritize my own health and well-being. It’s <i>not even an option</i> anymore for me to be sedentary, because that is
so far from what I want that it doesn’t even enter my mind anymore.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even now, that realization brings tears to my eyes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I anticipated, hot yoga is changing my life. I feel
calmer and more in control during the day. I am sleeping harder and better. I’m
not waking up at random times of the night anymore. I am able to fall asleep
immediately once I’m in bed—and that is a gift, considering falling asleep fast
(or sometimes at all) eluded me after my mom’s death.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh yeah!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There's one other thing. A really big thing, too.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I’ve stopped drinking coffee.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes. You read that right… this life-long coffee lover
(coffee obsessor, more like) has actually stopped drinking coffee altogether.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before—I drank about 20 ounces of coffee. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s a lot of caffeine, y’all. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So now it’s one or two cups of tea (or perhaps a chai latte
using almond milk), and if I drink any tea in the afternoon or evening (and I often
do), it’s herbal and caffeine free. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I honestly couldn’t feel better about it than I do. I feel
great! I love the smell of coffee, and I do still enjoy the taste (provided
there’s enough cream and sugar), but even after a couple of sips, I can
recognize that my system just doesn’t like it anymore. In fact, my system all
but completely rejects coffee, now that I’ve stopped consuming it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These changes in me are profound. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And there are more (good! happy!) changes, too—not having
anything to do with yoga. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
But you’ll have to wait for another post…<span id="goog_602177404"></span><span id="goog_602177405"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
linda lee studiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08068060208681441923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040875884373853089.post-50247292066433272702014-08-25T17:29:00.001-05:002014-08-25T17:29:51.451-05:00Shifting Focus<div class="MsoNormal">
The dating scene is quiet. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On purpose.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve stopped dating for now. It was taking entirely too much
energy from me, and it’s not like it was really getting me anywhere—except feeling
discouraged, disgruntled, and disheartened.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have "almost" posted about it here, many times. But there's already so much negativity in the world, and trying to craft a thoughtful post or two on dating when I'm really just full of piss & vinegar about the whole thing is, well... a bit futile.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the (wayyy!) upside, that means my time has become totally my own again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m focusing on two things: writing and fitness. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The writing part is a no-brainer. I have books to write and
classes to teach, and I’m working on both. In fact, I might just take a quick
moment here to shout out to our wonderful Wholehearted Writing group. You can like
<a href="http://www.facebook.com/WholeheartedWriting" target="_blank">the Facebook page</a>—where I post photos and other inspiration that helps you keep
writing (or at least thinking about it).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You can also <a href="http://www.meetup.com/Wholehearted-Writing/" target="_blank">find us on meetup.com</a>! Our membership has grown
to over 100, and we regularly have writers attend our Wednesday evening
meetings (twice a month). I’ve set up <a href="http://www.meetup.com/Wholehearted-Writing/events/192187212/" target="_blank">a workshop in September</a> (based on <i>The Gifts of Imperfection</i> by Brene Brown),
and I’ve just set up <a href="http://www.meetup.com/Wholehearted-Writing/events/203038212/" target="_blank">another one for October</a> (based on <i>The Four Agreements</i> by Don Miguel Ruiz; this is a great book that <a href="http://lindaleestudio.blogspot.com/search/label/the%20four%20agreements" target="_blank">I’ve blogged about before</a>).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I’m still working on a book about grief. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And a book about writing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The second part of my current focus is fitness. But I’ll
write more about that some other time…<o:p></o:p></div>
linda lee studiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08068060208681441923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040875884373853089.post-62292243758411367022014-08-24T20:15:00.000-05:002014-08-24T20:15:57.659-05:00Love Completely Without Complete Understanding<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“We are willing to help, Lord, but what, if anything, is
needed? Help,” he said, “is giving part of yourself to somebody who comes to
accept it willingly and needs it badly. So it is, that we can seldom help
anybody. Either we don’t know what part to give or maybe we don’t like to give
any part of ourselves. Then, more often than not, the part that is needed is
not wanted. And even more often, we do not have the part that is needed. It is
like the auto-supply shop over town where they always, say, ‘Sorry, we are just
out of that part.’”</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had a conversation with a friend recently wherein I felt
absolutely helpless to help him. He reminded me of Paul Maclean in the story, <i>A River Runs Through It</i>, by Norman
Maclean. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In that story, Paul is the younger of two brothers. He is
wild and untethered—free as a bird, popular, and a very big fish in a very
small pond.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Except… he isn’t wild and free. He is tethered to the depth
of his own pain, to his sense of unworthiness and his tendency towards heeding
the call of spirits, gambling, and showing the world just how tough he really
was. He was feisty and stubborn, to say the least. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Norman is the square older brother who follows the rules. He’s
the writer—the one who tells stories on paper, the one who goes away to
college, the one who seems… quieter. Not as shiny. More sensible, and therefore
more boring.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have always felt a deep connection to the story. To the
lyrical turn of phrase in Maclean’s writing, to the sentiment behind loving
family without fully understanding them, to feeling constantly misunderstood
and under-estimated. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I watched the movie version of this story today, in hopes of finding a
deeper understanding of what my friend is currently going through, or possibly
a different way to connect with him that might be more helpful. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Instead, I found myself in a pile of tears as I realized
another layer of understanding of my own family, my own sister, and my own
appointed role in it all.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It hit me that Wendy was much like Paul. She defied the
rules of our parents with a ferocity and unapologetic glee that I rarely see
depicted in books or on screen. And I, of course, am like Norman...<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In one scene of the movie, Paul, Norman, their mother, and
their father (a preacher, played by Tom Skerritt) are sitting around the dinner
table. They all turn to Paul and ask him to tell a story. Instantly, my mind
flashed back to the tales Wendy used to tell—dramas about her kids, her man,
her work. Or maybe something about the fire chief, a fire the community rushed
to put out, or maybe another story about another animal that had found her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I watched through blurry vision from my tears as Paul
stammered, searching his memory for a story to tell. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Quietly, Norman says, “I’ve got a story.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Three pairs of eyes turn to him, and he softly says that he’d
been offered a professorship at the University of Chicago. A moment of deep
pride shown on his face as for once—Norman took the spotlight in his own
family.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The camera pans to Paul (played by Brad Pitt). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The look of pain and unworthiness in his eyes is incongruent
with the loving smile that has crept across his face: a genuine mix of
disappointment in himself and pride for his brother’s hard work and good
fortune.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know that look.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know it all too well.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But there is another layer to this story. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Towards the end of the movie, Paul, Norman, and their father
go fly fishing. Norman and the preacher sit high on the banks, tired from
catching their own trout, as they watch Paul scope out the river and finally
spot a fish he wants to try and capture.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They watch in silent awe as Paul artfully sweeps the fishing
line out across the water. It lands inches away from the fish, and it latches
on—taking Paul for quite the ride down the sharp rocks and rushing waters of
the Big Blackfoot River. That fish is so big, so strong, that it’s all Paul can
do to simply hold on to the line as he’s whisked downstream. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eventually, the water calms, and Paul comes up for air. He captures
the fish, reels it in, and proudly holds onto it as Norman and their father
look on with amazement.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Norman narrates, “At that moment, I knew, surely and
clearly, that I was witnessing perfection. My brother stood before us, not on
the bank of the Big Blackfoot River, but suspended above the earth, free from
all its laws, like a work of art. And I knew just as surely, just as clearly,
that life is not a work of art and that the moment could not last.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Soon after that perfect moment, Paul was killed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Do you think I could have helped him?” he asked.<br />“Do you think I could have helped him?” I answered.<br />We stood waiting in deference to each other. How can a
question be answered that asks a lifetime of questions?</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(I have asked myself that question about my sister. I know my dad has, too.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was fortunate to witness my sister's perfection.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I saw the way she fell head over heels in love with
motherhood. Not with her older children, but in her later years, when she had
Kasey. I’d never seen such awe, such patience, and such flowing love in my
sister as I did when Kasey came into our lives. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My sister’s perfection was a bright shining beacon in that
brief time. She had darkness. She had pain. But Kasey opened her heart in a way
she’d never been open before, and when that happened, I knew I was witnessing
magic. And that magical love spilled over onto her other children, as she realized, perhaps for the first time, that these beings had shaped her, changed her, and defined her in the best possible ways.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve been missing Wendy a lot lately. I realized earlier
this weekend that I can’t quite remember the exact color of her eyes, and what
they looked like. I can see them in pictures, of course—but when I close my
eyes and picture her face… the details have started to fade.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I miss my family. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I often feel like I’m supposed to live this huge life to
make up for my mom’s and sister’s lives being clipped so short. As if I <i>owe</i> them, or my family, or myself, or
some other entity, or all of the above, because I’m still here. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know that isn’t logical.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But grief never is…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“It is those we live with and love and should know who elude
us.”<br /><br />“…you can love completely without complete understanding.”</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
linda lee studiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08068060208681441923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040875884373853089.post-15662390479199002552014-02-18T21:30:00.000-06:002014-02-18T21:52:21.333-06:00A Visit from Mr. Bee<div class="MsoNormal">
As I approached my car this morning, I reached to open the
front door, and then, as usual—I reached to open the back door so I could put
my lunch bag in the back seat.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Except, I spotted a honeybee hanging out on the back door,
perched near the handle.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stood for a moment, gazing at him. He was just… <i>resting</i>. I leaned in a little closer to
make sure I was seeing an actual honeybee, and his stillness struck me. He turned
a little, as if to look back at me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Huh</i>, I thought to
myself. <i>I wonder why he’s here?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, hello Mr. Bee. I don’t want to disturb you, but I am
going to be driving here in a minute.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I slid into my driver’s seat and closed the door. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mr. Bee was still perched in the same spot.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I put my car in gear and very slowly, I pulled forward out
of my parking spot. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I smiled and watched as Mr. Bee flew off, and I thought it
was odd. And yet—his presence on my car felt purposeful. It felt like he greeted
me with intention, whether it was to remind me of the promise of spring, to bid me good morning, to wish me a good
day, to bring me a good omen, or simply to say hello from my mom.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mr. Bee made me think, though—of how afraid I used to be of honeybees.
I am allergic to their sting, and I’ve been stung a few times. And each time,
the reaction is exponentially worse.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1M_iJkdcBgVWLGA8P0bdBm39pwxe1gH0GwLgbD_XvoUPQoCBDoqOaSUrQ_PfXrOFjdym5F9Nop3B2ZNzoxgpUbMlThYvzpS4pU9LO_pC79cLQ-Jm-heEOtAvs3Z6tpEjJQlp8QvTKzwA/s1600/1920204_10152293021673628_598936860_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1M_iJkdcBgVWLGA8P0bdBm39pwxe1gH0GwLgbD_XvoUPQoCBDoqOaSUrQ_PfXrOFjdym5F9Nop3B2ZNzoxgpUbMlThYvzpS4pU9LO_pC79cLQ-Jm-heEOtAvs3Z6tpEjJQlp8QvTKzwA/s1600/1920204_10152293021673628_598936860_n.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a>I made peace with honeybees in September 2010, when I traveled
to <st1:state w:st="on">Maine</st1:state> at
the onset of my divorce. While there, I pulled over to step through an old
cemetery. I still can’t explain why, it was just something I needed to do. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was teeming with honeybees, buzzing by my head, close to
the ground, and everywhere in-between. Their flight was slow and methodical,
their patterns making them appear to be floating, rather than flying. Clearly,
they were on a mission to gather nectar.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I said a prayer to the bees then. I asked that they leave me
alone. I said I was going to trust them not to sting me. I let them know that I
meant them no harm or threat. I told them that I needed to be there, and that I
didn’t understand why, but I asked that they let me be, so that I could grieve.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then, I watched in wonder as the bees slowly moved away
from me and on to other parts of the cemetery where I wasn’t walking.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have had a soft, gentle space in my heart and a healthy
respect for bees since that day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, when I come across one or more honeybees, I approach
with a sense of wonder, respect, and curiosity. I always speak to them. They
are intricate and beautiful creatures, and we very much need them on this
planet.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I think of how I used to approach them—with fear,
irritation, and judgments—I wonder how many interactions I have tainted in my
life because of the attitude I used to have. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And, I wonder how this ties to my approach to other beings,
including humans… I wonder if Mr. Bee’s visit this morning was just to remind
me of what’s important today (and every day). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Breathe.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just be me… and be present in the moment... and the rest
will come.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Breathe.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thank you, Mr. Bee, for your timely reminder… even now, as I
finally type this blog, tears stream down my face. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps Mr. Bee’s real reminder wasn’t meant to hit me until
just now. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps Mr. Bee’s presence was a message straight from God—oh,
how delicate and flimsy my faith has been lately. But in this moment, all I can
think is:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All is well.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All is well.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>All is well…</i></div>
linda lee studiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08068060208681441923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040875884373853089.post-76304466742406966402013-12-31T16:11:00.001-06:002013-12-31T16:18:00.196-06:002013: A Year I'll Never Forget<div class="MsoNormal">
Just how resilient is the human soul? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I suppose you only discover that answer when you are pushed
past the brink of all you thought you could handle, about to catapult over the edge of
the Grand Canyon, hanging on by a thread, your heart throbbing in your stomach, feeling yourself about to fall—<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Only, you don’t fall.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You somehow find footing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You somehow find a solid place.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes it’s God. Sometimes it’s the people who come to
you in your time of need. Sometimes it’s the spirits of those who have past. Sometimes
it’s something from so deep within that there are no words, there is only
action.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes it’s all of the above.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then, you realize that your legs aren’t broken… and that
you can stand on them. And if you aren’t ready to stand—you can sit.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am looking forward to writing “2014” starting tomorrow. I will
never forget this year—how could I? But I poignantly and purposefully remember
what I have learned, the gifts I have received, and <a href="https://medium.com/p/294c49560d6a" target="_blank">what I am capable of now that I wasn’t capable of one year ago</a>:<o:p></o:p></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Learning how to sit still with grief and to allow it to wash
over me at times that anyone would consider to be inconvenient—that is a gift I
got from 2013.<br />
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Yes—I have these grief-driven blips of time where I feel all
emotional growth and maturity just vanishes—and I’ll say stupid things or have
episodes of feeling incredibly needy and downright panicky—but then I come up
for air…<br />
And I return to me.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Learning what it feels like to <i>return to me</i>, and to practice it—a priceless gift from 2013.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Learning how to stand up for myself, even when it’s hard—that’s
another gift I received.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Learning exactly how strong I am, and exactly how resilient
my soul is—another gift.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Learning what radical acceptance feels like—of my body, of
my soul, of my state of mind, of my attitude, of my life and world and emotions
and everything—yes, yes, <i>yes</i>… a very
precious gift.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Learning that I’ve chosen worthwhile people to be in my
life, because those people came to me in my most desperate times of need
instead of running away from me—a huge gift, indeed.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Learning just how brave I am, how absolutely fearless I have
become, and how the fears I have remaining do not rule my world—they are just a
part of me, woven into the fabric of my soul. I acknowledge… I accept… and I keep
moving forward…</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Learning how deeply and how fully I love—just thinking about
it overwhelms me. Before 2013, I had not realized my capacity for love.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I love with my whole heart. I love with every fiber, every
cell, every atom my soul occupies.<br />
And that includes loving me, too.<br />
I love myself.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I [finally] trust myself.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The grace I have received in 2013 is something I can never
thank God enough for.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I have learned how to forgive myself.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I have learned that I am basically a happy and optimistic
person, and even though I have been through the worst hell of my life this year…
returning to me means returning to a general state of positivity and happiness.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I am grateful for this life.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I am braver than I thought.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I can do conflict—and I can actually do it well, and with
solidarity.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I am a dancer. And sometimes, dancing helps me express what words cannot.</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes. It was—<i>unquestionably</i>—the
most difficult year of my life. I never expected any period of time to be as
hard as the last 365+ days have been. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But… <o:p></o:p></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b><i><span style="font-size: large;">2013 showed me who I really am.</span></i></b></blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My word for the year was <b><i>love</i></b>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t have to think very hard about my 2014 word.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the fall, I experienced a special class with powerful
women. In that class, we identified our top 5 values (from a list of about
185).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s harder than you might expect.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And your values drive—or <i>should</i>
drive—every behavior, every habit, every interaction, every relationship—every piece
and part of your life.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, it’s meaningful to get it right.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I narrowed my list down to 13, and then I really got stuck. It
turned out to be an eye-opening experience, because I realized that <i>believing</i> my values were really that
broad actually caused me to lose focus on what is <i>actually</i> most sacred to me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My list of 13 did not include one that’s actually in my top
5.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are probably many reasons why (that I could explain <i>ad nauseum</i>)—but here are my 5:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<ol>
<li>Love</li>
<li>Gratefulness</li>
<li>Serenity</li>
<li>Joy</li>
<li>Freedom</li>
</ol>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As for the one that wasn’t in my original “top 13”?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Joy.</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(Seriously?!)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
(Yes. For real.)<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No more!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am choosing—from the deepest vibrations within me—one very
special word for 2014. Because 2014 is going to rock. It is going to be full of
happiness, peace, and most importantly—<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Joy. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have learned to let in moments of joy, even when I was
sobbing seconds before. I have felt deeply joyful moments when an instant
before, I felt intense grief.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I understand joy. I get it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But to actually <i>welcome</i>
joy into my life, to <i>invite</i> it—<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s different.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b><i><span style="font-size: large;">Joy…</span></i></b></blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am rolling out the red carpet for you in 2014.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Come on in.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
You are welcome here!<o:p></o:p></div>
linda lee studiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08068060208681441923noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040875884373853089.post-37316507196830587422013-12-25T08:23:00.000-06:002013-12-25T08:23:00.035-06:00My Christmas Wish<div class="MsoNormal">
So, I was at the salon on Saturday, and while I had my head
leaned back in the sink, the fantastic assistant (she really IS fantastic, and
her name is Amanda) asked me if I was excited about Christmas. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It's an innocent enough question... except in my case, and except
for this particular year. I was honest but polite. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I said that I would be glad when it's over—and that I was
ready for 2014. I quietly said that 2013 was the hardest year of my life. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The woman next to me piped up and started rattling off
tragedies she's been through and how next year was going to be a banner year
for me. She said that life "resets" every 7 years or so. Neither Amanda
nor I had ever heard that... so we asked her to elaborate. She said that every
7 years, the cycle of life resets. She cataloged her own life and found it to
be true. She said that if one year was especially hard, the next year was
destined to be great. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As she bubbled over with her chattering, trying to guess at
the hard year I'd had (she listed off things like car accidents, surgeries,
kids gone missing, job loss, etc.), tears streamed down my face in rapid
succession.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Amanda silently placed a towel on my chest and smiled. I
kept crying, and I didn’t bother wiping the tears away at this point. There was
no point—it was a constant stream.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally, I spit it out. That I had lost my mom and sister.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The woman next to me didn’t miss a beat. She said she was so
sorry, that she couldn’t relate exactly (thank you for SOMEONE saying that… for
real), but that she could only try to imagine how painful and difficult it is. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She sat up and smiled at me. She didn’t back down from my
rawness, from my openness. And she said she would add me to her prayers, and
God bless me, and that 2014 was going to be my year.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As she walked away, she turned around, smiled, and said, “It
really will! You’ll see!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And with a flit and a flutter, off she went. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hope she is right.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I need a <i>really good</i>
year.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
That, my friends, is my Christmas wish.</div>
linda lee studiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08068060208681441923noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040875884373853089.post-42606022027950049612013-12-23T18:27:00.001-06:002013-12-23T18:27:17.986-06:00A Moment of Honesty<div class="MsoNormal">
I am sad. I want to go to Christmas services, but I know I will
sob, and I just want someone to hold me as I cry. And I am tired of people
looking at me with pity or confusion or some mixture of the two...or worse,
those who just don't get it and <i>don't
even try</i>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My grief feels like a burden. A burden I'm trying to shield others from... because as silly as it sounds, a part of me does feel like because it's been a year since my mom died... I should be "over it." </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I have so much to say, but none of it wants to come out. Or
it comes out how it appears in this blog post—disjointed, scattered, wrought
with intensity but not really making much sense.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I feel weak and small and like I can't breathe. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My family will not be together this Christmas. My dad is in <st1:place w:st="on">Georgia</st1:place>,
my nieces and nephew are doing their own thing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am alone, although my best friend and I will have a nice
dinner Christmas evening.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Truthfully, my family can never be together in the same way
ever again, no matter what, and I don’t have any fancy words for it, it just sucks
so badly and feels so heavy that I can barely breathe.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I should not be the oldest woman in my family. Not yet...I'm
too young. I don't know how to do this... grief is such an evil beast
sometimes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have made a complete ass out of myself lately—I’ve made so
many mistakes, said so many ridiculous things, and felt borderline out of
control with my emotions...so much, so raw... to the point that a little piece
of me wants to shut down.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another part of me still doesn’t understand how I am the one
living, when no one depends on me, and I think of Kasey—and Leigha, Aaron, and
Alexis—and I wonder at the absolute unfairness of it all, how hard this is for
someone as “strong” as I am to handle, but how are the kids really hanging in
there? How are they actually handling this? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I look around and see sisterly love all around me… and I am
blessed to have sisterly love in my own life, too. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But it’s like a part of me has died—forever—because my only
sister is gone from this earth. I can see her facial expressions and hear her
words and her tone of voice when Leigha talks, especially to her kids—but I ache
to hear <i>Wendy’s</i> voice again. I ache
to share childhood stories again. I can’t call her, text her, or Facebook
message her ever again. This is not a new reality, but it sure as hell feels
new… still…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As Christmas approaches so fast… I can’t help but think of
all the hours spent putting up Christmas decorations—the careful placement of
tiny pixies and other assorted Christmas knick-knacks, the deliberate placement
of lights on the tree, the smell of apple cider in the crock pot, the fussing
Mama used to do, ordering Daddy around as if he should be able to read her mind
at this point—those memories have taken me over a lot lately, and there’s
nothing I want more than to be back in the house I grew up in—as chaotic and
angry as it sometimes was—because the carpet I traced patterns in was there—the
linoleum I made into roadways for my matchbox cars was there—the creaking
floorboards were there, and I knew that house so well that I could walk all
through it, avoiding every creaking board, quiet as a mouse. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(I sometimes tested that theory after everyone had gone to
bed, when I would lie awake, disturbed by some nightmare, and I felt the need
to walk through the house, or make my way out to the den to watch TV with the
sound turned down so low, I could barely hear it, as I sat totally still,
listening for the stirrings of Mama so I could rush to turn it off, undetected.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The point is—my whole existence began in that house. That
house was my first point of reference, and—as every cell in my body and every
breath of my soul seeks reassurance, guidance, and comfort—my psyche takes me
back to the Pandora’s Box of 535 Northill Drive.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I spent roughly the first half of my life in that house. And
all of the emotions and memories and arguments and laughter and meals and the
life we lived was contained within those walls. I still go back there in my
dreams, and almost every single night lately, I’ve been in that house, dreaming…
my mind grasping at things that can no longer be… even in my sleep, my
restless, tossing turning sleep…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like the way Wendy got so mad when I spied on her and her
latest boyfriend as they sat in the living room, with the louver doors closed. I
peered through the slats and wedged the doors open as little as possible just
to get a glimpse of what might be happening. I mostly did it because I knew it
drove Wendy absolutely insane. I wasn’t even sure what I was looking for, or
what I hoped to catch—I was so much younger… I just knew it made her crazy, and
that was enough for me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And walking around the vintage and antique stores yesterday just
before I left Austin was a special kind of nostalgic torture, too, because I saw
so many things—things I never would have imagined seeing in a shop like that—that
we used to have. Vases I had to dust, over and over again… Season’s Greetings
cocktail glasses, the embroidered floral scene with strange coloring and the
drabbest taupe-y brown fabric background—including the thin wooden frame—so many
things… light fixtures, dishes, furniture—that we either had, had something similar
to it, or that somehow catapulted me back to that house… 535 Northill Drive…
and that period of time… as if it were yesterday.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I could feel Mama all around, and I could feel Wendy, too. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At one point, I had to get the hell out of there. It was
really just too much.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Bittersweet:<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Life is full of these moments, where the flipside of joy is
a deep ocean of pain, where tears of laughter and happiness are even louder and
more poignant because underneath that big laugh lies a cavernous well of
memories and loss… </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I am here, and I don’t know why… I don’t understand the
blessings that I have received.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I am receiving them… </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And, I am open. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
As painful as it is right now, I am open.</div>
linda lee studiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08068060208681441923noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040875884373853089.post-48189348948086176912013-11-27T12:41:00.000-06:002013-11-27T12:41:50.313-06:00On Grief & Gratitude<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we
have into enough, and more. It turns denial into acceptance, chaos to order,
confusion to clarity. It can turn a meal into a feast, a house into a home, a
stranger into a friend. Gratitude makes sense of our past, brings peace for
today, and creates a vision for tomorrow.” – Melody Beattie</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hoped to have some kind of grand thing to say as I continue
to gain perspective on the last year.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Family members are still hurting—and acting out in that
hurt.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am still hurting.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We are all still hurting.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The thing I never expected, though…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My deep, intense grief has changed me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have always envied people who are naturally and graciously
grateful for what and who they have. I always wanted to feel that in an
authentic, genuine way. I even started keeping a gratitude practice (<a href="http://melodybeattie.org/" target="_blank">a la Melody Beattie</a>). It felt good, and I processed a lot of anger doing that list. But
something was missing…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And when my mom died, that elusive piece finally fell into
place.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I suddenly realized how deeply grateful I was for my
Pathways journey, so that I had the courage to reconcile with my mom. Together,
we built a relationship that was stronger than all of our previous years
combined. I will forever cherish the last two years I had with her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I realized how much my mom actually <i>did</i> for me—how much she sacrificed, how much she gave of herself, how
deeply she cared for me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I realized how many people actually care about me (and by
extension, my family). People came out of nowhere to help, offer words of
kindness and love, and to just sit quietly and hold me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(There is nothing better you can do for a grieving person
than to sit quietly and offer a hand or hug.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I realized how selfish I had been when others lost a parent
or sibling. It was because of my own fear—I didn’t want to face that impending
reality in my own life, and addressing it in someone else’s life made me
vulnerable. I have asked for forgiveness for not understanding, for not
reaching out when part of me wanted to, for being too afraid of my own thoughts
and feelings when I could have stepped into something more important than me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have allowed myself to fall completely open. I have been
raw. I have allowed others to hold me while I cried so hard I couldn’t breathe.
I have posted here and other places. I have exposed grief for what it is, and
that has helped me process it and move through it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I will never get over losing my mom. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You never just “get over” it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But when I pause to think of how rich my life really is, I am,
without a doubt—blown away. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I would trade it all to have her back. Perhaps I could have
learned these lessons a different way.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I can’t change it… all I can do is change my own
perception.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gratitude lives in my heart. Often, my first thoughts when I
wake up are, “Oh, good.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As in, <o:p></o:p></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Oh, good, I get another day.”<br />
“Oh good, I get to do _____ today.”<br />
“Oh good, I’m up in time for _____.”<br />
“Oh good, I’ll get to see _____ today.”</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Etc.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The dark moments are still there. They aren’t quite as close
in front of my face as they were a year ago, but they’re still lurking, and they
still rise up to punch me in the face periodically.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In those moments—when <i>hope</i>
and <i>faith</i> feel like nothing more than
oddly-shaped letters written by someone else, and certainly meant for someone
else—one thing has carried me through.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gratitude.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This Thanksgiving, I am doing something whimsical and fun. Maybe
I’ll talk about it at some point, and maybe I won’t… <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And on Friday, my family is getting together. Not to celebrate…
but since this Friday marks one year since my mama’s passing, it felt like the
best thing to do. Who wants to be alone on an anniversary like that? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sure as hell don’t.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In some ways, I feel like I’ve come alive in a completely
new way because of all that I (and my family) have experienced this year. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I feel like I can never adequately or appropriately thank
everyone who has extended a helping hand over the last year. Everyone who keeps
me (and family) in their prayers—those who have mentioned it to me and those of
you who haven’t. I have felt shepherded through this year, in a way that I have
never felt shepherded through anything. And I thinks The Dude Upstairs™ knew
that I needed something extra… a lot extra… and He delivered. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As He always does.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so, on this Thanksgiving, I am grateful for right now:<o:p></o:p></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
For who I am right now<br />
For where I am right now<br />
For who I have right now<br />
For what I have right now<br />
For what I believe right now<br />
For what I hope for right now</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because right now is truly all that we have… it is the only
guarantee.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All of the moments of “right now” build up to create
moments, hours, days, and years—and the stories of our lives.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That is what truly makes <i>right
now</i> precious. Because it’s fleeting, yet if we are present and in the
moment… “fleeting” doesn’t matter, because we have experienced <i>right now</i> with every cell, ever sense,
every thought, every feeling.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We have this life so that we can live it… <i>right now</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And in my book, that’s about as amazing as it gets…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“The highest tribute to the dead is not grief, but
gratitude.” – Thorton Wilder</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
linda lee studiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08068060208681441923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040875884373853089.post-8604136310849683652013-11-20T21:16:00.001-06:002013-11-20T21:16:22.011-06:00The State of Me<div class="MsoNormal">
So, I’m back in the dating realm. It was a conscious, slow
decision this time around. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I joined eHarmony and ended up going on three very promising
dates with someone who seemed <i>very</i>…
promising…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Except he balked when I asked for—basically proof of who he
is. Because to be honest, there were some holes, and some things just weren’t
adding up. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Granted—I didn’t handle it well. I could have approached the
whole thing better than I actually did. I took accountability for the way I handled
it, explained how I wished I had handled it, and asked to move forward.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But as the old saying goes, “God is efficient,” and apparently
even though so much felt right with the guy… it was to end swiftly. Because even
though he “promised” that we would talk once he was back in town, that talk
never came.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It got me thinking that I was onto something, that he was
indeed hiding some truth that he didn’t want me to know.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
There is fire, and there is lust,<br />Some would trade it all for someone they could trust.<br />There’s a bag of silver for a box of nails<br />It’s so simple, the betrayal,<br />Though it’s known to change the world and what’s to come…<br /> – <i>Come on Home</i> by the Indigo Girls</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so it is, I am single and heading into the first holiday
season without my sister and my mom. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sat in a very full meeting earlier today and caught myself
staring at the date: <i>11/20/2013</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It hit me—like a ton of bricks—that nine days from now is
the one year anniversary of losing my mom. Instantly, my mind flashed back to
our last conversation, to the last time I saw her (which was on Thanksgiving
day last year), to the last time I smelled her scent, to the last time I felt
her arms around me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s already been too long.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I kept my composure in the meeting, which I wouldn’t have
been able to do only months before now. But now, when I’m at home alone, I am
breathless with tears, remembering her smile and her laugh and the way she always
knew just exactly what to say, especially when I needed words of encouragement.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I could use those words now, especially about dating…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nothing helps. Time doesn’t help… time is this cryptic,
mystical concept that doesn’t heal anything. The only thing that heals is
consciously focusing on healing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Speaking of healing… my dad and I avoided talking about
Thanksgiving for weeks. Finally, I told him that maybe we shouldn’t bother with
the meal on Thursday. Maybe we should get together on Friday instead… the 29<sup>th</sup>…
to just be together. That’s the one year anniversary of losing my mama… and I can’t
think of anything I would rather do than be around the people who loved her
most.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, that’s what we’re doing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But Christmas… that’s a whole other story.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not sure I want to do Christmas this year.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know yet. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For now, back to dating…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not entirely sure <i>how</i>
I remain hopeful. It would be so easy to become jaded and assume that every man
is a liar and a cheater. But I don’t believe that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am a good woman. A <i>really</i>
good woman. I have a lot to offer. A lot to give.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I would like to receive from someone who is equally
generous… </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so, I have raised my standards. I have a pretty tall
order for the “right” guy, and nothing and nobody will cause me to compromise
or settle.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s not to say that dating isn’t incredibly frustrating
(on multiple fronts… <i>*ahem*</i>). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Very.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, it’s also fun.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s fun to discover new people and broaden my own
experience. Every interaction I have helps me further refine what and who I am
looking for, and that’s positive. So positive, that perhaps I should write a
dating book when it’s all said and done! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(It has crossed my mind…)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course, dating is exhausting, too… especially when I come
across people who tout one thing so loudly, yet their actions deliver opposite
results. It pisses me off when people throw around words like “honesty” and “integrity”
without truly following through on the meanings of those words with their actions.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so… those folks get the boot. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Quickly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that’s okay.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One thing is certain: I am becoming much more efficient and
adept at combing through the dating profiles as well as eliminating those guys
who just aren’t for me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My sincere hope is that he’s out there.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Somewhere.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
And hopefully not too far away…</div>
linda lee studiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08068060208681441923noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040875884373853089.post-48358286005846426202013-11-08T16:12:00.001-06:002013-11-08T16:12:24.100-06:00Grief, and Where I Am Today<div class="MsoNormal">
Three weeks from today is the one-year anniversary of losing
my mom.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You might as well say I’ve lived nearly a year without one
of my limbs, because I feel like a part of me has been amputated. I have to
live without she who carried me in her womb for nine months… she who nearly
died soon after I was born because of a severe infection… she who went into the
work force for the first time in her life when I told her I wanted to go to
college… she who held her tongue many times when she didn’t want to… she who
spoke her mind, even when no one wanted her to… she who made a bigger imprint
on my very being than anyone else in the entire world ever could, can, or will
make.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can’t believe it’s been nearly a year. It feels like
yesterday… and years ago. It feels like, just last week, Wendy and Daddy and I were
deciding what to put on the grave marker. It feels like a few hours ago,
talking to Daddy on the phone and hearing that tone in his voice—the tone I had
never heard before, when he told me it was important to come to the hospital—<i>now</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And it was still too late…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve been through so much—we all have, really—and yet, I’m
still going. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some days are easier than others. Some days make sense. Some
days don’t. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes, my mood still astounds me. The grief feelings
bubble underneath my surface as I try to carry on normal conversations,
actions, thoughts, and words throughout the day. Some days, I succeed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Other days—not so much.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And of course, if I had “only” lost my mom, that would be
enough. But then a drunk driver killed my sister, and then I found out the man I
was dating was having an affair. And all of these things have shaped me and changed me far more than I can articulate here, in one blog post.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wish I could say that I have some sort of grand
perspective. That I feel “better” about losing my mom. Or even that I understand
it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I <i>can </i>say that I am more grateful for life now than I was
before. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can say that my mind has opened up, and things I never
would have previously considered have become part of my day to day tapestry. Things
like past-life regression… visiting a medium… collecting crystals and
meditating with them… performing rituals and ritual dances… equine therapy…
grief groups… communicating with my deceased loved ones… reading about grief…
blogging about grief… EMDR therapy... managing slippery-slope emotions while trying to function
like “normal”… <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All the while, I’ve been learning how to laugh again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve been learning how to let joy back into my life without
feeling so damned guilty about still being alive.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve become open to the possibility of romantic love in my
life again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve gained more wisdom than I ever wanted.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve learned more than I ever thought I would.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve lost weight.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve started learning what it <i>actually</i> looks and feels like, on a day to day basis, to take care
of myself physically, emotionally, mentally, spiritually… <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But if I could trade it all to bring back my mom…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I would.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Life doesn’t work that way, though. And so, I am here, feeling
grateful for the privilege of waking up every day, and I am trying to make the
best of it—even through the tears… even through the confusion and heartache and
sadness… <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Through it all, I am here. Still standing. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Still believing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And, <i>somehow</i>—<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Still having faith.<o:p></o:p></div>
linda lee studiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08068060208681441923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040875884373853089.post-55381313457183487442013-10-13T12:41:00.000-05:002013-10-13T12:42:43.407-05:00Thoughts on a Sunday Morning<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s been a quiet morning and a slow morning. I’ve come to
realize how sacred my weekend time is to me—that I don’t need to get out and
do, do, <i>do</i> all the time—it actually
means much more to me to be still—to relax, to do nothing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The art of doing nothing—ah yes, indeed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My life has slowed down considerably since my mom’s death. I
find that trying to “pack it all in” does little more than exhaust me and wear
me out. I have limited energy, and I want to devote that energy to things and
people and endeavors that truly matter and that are in line with my values.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As part of an assignment for a class I’m taking, I’ve been
noodling with different phrases and words that can help bring me back into
focus when I’ve lost it. And since I’ve done a lot of work around taking care
of my body lately, I wanted to come up with a specific phrase around that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I woke up yesterday with a specific word in my head, and I related
it to taking care of my body. That word was “abide.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I knew, loosely, what it meant. But looking it up was
actually powerful, because I found new meanings for it. The word goes deeper
than what most people assume. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Google’s definition for abide is: <i>“to accept or act in
accordance with.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I found <a href="http://www.angelfire.com/band2/bluerosesandhxcbands/abide.htm" target="_blank">a webpage</a> with three additional and powerful
deeper meanings, and I wanted to share:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“When we abide in something, we are loyal to it even unto
death.”<br />
<o:p> </o:p>“To abide means to continue doing whatever is being done
even when it is hard and the urge to quit is almost too much.”<br />
<o:p> </o:p>“…to cling to something and have faith in it, even when it
seems to have failed.”</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I read that last one, I wept. How many times have I given
up on my body, because it failed me? Or because I failed it? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How many times have I given up on myself, because I failed? How
many times have I given up on something—anything—because that was the quickest
way out? Because the urge to quit was intense, and it won?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My whole self is made up of a very important team: my body,
my heart, my mind, and my soul. I need all of my team members to be on the same
page. So that means paying attention—asking and listening—in the quiet
stillness of my most private moments.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
God is part of my team, too—and the quietest moments are
usually when I hear Him speak directly to me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We have conversations then.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We laugh and cry together, and I am reminded that I am His precious
child, and what I perceive as failure or shortcomings—He perceives as learning.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Learning, that is, to be more like Him…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so, in my learning to take care of myself the way that
He wants, I came up with a phrase that resonates deeply with me:</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
My body tells me what it needs, and I abide.</blockquote>
linda lee studiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08068060208681441923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040875884373853089.post-23717864176133399892013-10-04T11:23:00.002-05:002013-10-04T11:30:20.980-05:00A Sip of Freedom<div class="MsoNormal">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Dance, when you're broken open. Dance, if you've torn the
bandage off. Dance in the middle of the fighting. Dance in your blood. Dance
when you're perfectly free.”<br />
― Rumi</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Back in January, I went to my favorite yoga class. It was
the first time I’d practiced yoga since my mom’s passing on November 29, 2012.
The signs of depression were sinking in, and I had all but stopped moving my
body—no yoga, no dancing, no exercise.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In that class, I had traumatic flashbacks of seeing my mom’s
body in the hospital. And then I kept thinking, over and over again, about how
her body could never do the things that mine can do—the things I was attempting
right then, during class.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not sure I could ever fully explain what happened in
that hour and a half, or why that experience was so deeply traumatizing—but my
grief was overwhelming. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
From that point forward, the thought of practicing yoga
again made me shiver. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I just wasn’t ready.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A month or two ago, my friend <a href="http://www.liztucker.com/" target="_blank">Liz Tucker</a> came to town and
held a <a href="http://lindaleestudio.blogspot.com/search/label/movement%20montage" target="_blank">bhavana in motion</a> class at <a href="http://movestudio.com/" target="_blank">Move Studio</a>. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yoga was part of the class.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I knew that, and I felt that if I was going to step back on
the mat, I wanted to do it in a safe place, with a trusted teacher and friend
to help guide me through it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For about the first 10 minutes that I stood on the mat, I
wept. Tears flooded my face and the mat below me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I got through it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But that isn’t what this story is about—I just wanted to
give you some context, so you could grasp how much progress I’ve made in the
last few months.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I journaled this last night after exercising and practicing
yoga:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m sitting here on my purple yoga mat, crying. I’m not
entirely certain why—except that the other day I realized I needed and wanted
some time in <a href="http://yogaheals.wordpress.com/2010/02/11/stretch-like-a-pigeon/" target="_blank">pigeon pose</a>, and so, that’s where I finally went. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then the tears came, as I realized it wasn’t <i>hard</i> like it used to be, it was just a
really nice stretch, a lovely pose, one of yielding and release and surrender
and femininity. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then, I lost it—realizing how far I’ve come in three
years, <a href="http://lindaleestudio.blogspot.com/2011/01/yoga-transformational-revelation.html" target="_blank">since I first attempted yoga</a>—and pigeon pose—<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
realizing just how much my body has yielded—<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to my whims, wants, needs, desires, addictions, sadness,
depression, grief—<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My body has witnessed it all.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am thankful…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Deeply thankful for being 38, and <i>I get to choose</i> how the women in y family are remembered. I honor
them by dancing because they cannot dance. I honor them by practicing yoga
because they cannot—and they never did. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I honor them by living as fully as I can—as exponentially as
I can.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“I rise from all my sorrow, I let the sun shine on my face,<br />
All alone in comfort, it’s my solitude I embrace.”<br />
– from the song
‘Quicksand’ by Natalie Walker/Thievery Corporation</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I felt that tonight, as I moved on my makeshift dance floor
with a fire and fervor inside of me as I realized—I am one body, dancing for
three women who never danced—my grandmother, my mom, and my sister. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I dance the dance they never danced. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I dance my own dance, too.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My dance is the thread that binds together the lifetimes of
women in my tribe who are no longer on this earth in physical form. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I practice yoga awkwardly. I am wobbly and odd, but
interspersed are moments of purity—<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
of tranquility—<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
of grace—<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
of beauty—<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRXS9NUr0lcX4Eo-uvtjfXKR6jNx5jDHmxp-tLmEnLQMtdmPsvVjOkgLj_gpSXIpSCFRgyXNtCdOCGFU-lC13ifXWj-iIw5qZgB5bfqNSWZQXCYliI4udvda1nCVCJyGfyNYSsv62y430/s1600/540344_497617277000287_1330776508_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRXS9NUr0lcX4Eo-uvtjfXKR6jNx5jDHmxp-tLmEnLQMtdmPsvVjOkgLj_gpSXIpSCFRgyXNtCdOCGFU-lC13ifXWj-iIw5qZgB5bfqNSWZQXCYliI4udvda1nCVCJyGfyNYSsv62y430/s320/540344_497617277000287_1330776508_n.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a>A beauty I cannot express in words, and tonight, it
expressed itself in tears during pigeon pose, and I flashed back to my traumatic
yoga experience from January, and I honored the depth of grief I felt in those
very long moments, realizing I was already (and finally) grieving many lifetimes
worth of loss, sorrow, and despair.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And more tears came as I realized the freedom I am beginning
to feel—<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Freedom from chains that bound me to the past, freedom from
the guilt I have always felt under the surface, freedom from a prison I will
never adequately describe here.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This life of mine is a gift, and the best—the <i>very best</i> gift I can give to the women
of my tribe, including me, including my family—here and gone—is to <i>live it</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Live it fully and out loud… <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Live it authentically and imperfectly and messily. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am here for some unknown number of days. It is a gift I am
only just beginning to truly unwrap and discover. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is a gift I finally feel worthy of receiving.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mom and my dad and God and the universe and all that is
divine within and without—gave me this—<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
this gift of life.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And it is up to me to truly <i>live it</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thank you. Thank you for this blessing… thank you for this
body, for this moment, for the dance, for the practice.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thank you for this beautiful moment—where serenity coincides
with joy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
And thank you, most of all, for love.<o:p></o:p></div>
linda lee studiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08068060208681441923noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040875884373853089.post-64724348579657039072013-08-29T09:22:00.000-05:002013-08-29T09:22:14.610-05:00A Prayer of Sorts<div class="MsoNormal">
Grief has a way of humbling me in ways that still surprise
me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Any sort of ego is out the door. And on some days, it’s all I can do to
maintain my confidence and self-worth. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When you’ve been through as much as I’ve
been through in the last 9 months—and truthfully, the last three years—sometimes
just getting up and getting dressed and getting to work is all I can manage. And
then I am faced with a whole day of tasks, responsibilities, conversations, and
accountabilities that have nothing to do with my grief. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the grief is always there. It’s bubbling under the
surface, and what matters is how I manage that on a day to day basis. Some days,
I manage it very well. Other days—not so much. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some days, it’s this Grand Canyon-sized chasm that often
leaves me feeling utterly foolish, childish, and out of control. Tears rush
down my cheeks, and I can’t stop them. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the facts do not change. My mom is still dead. My sister
is still dead. The man I thought was the love of my life betrayed me in a way I
have never before been betrayed—and that relationship is understandably dead.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I—I am still here.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On some days, that confuses me. I see so many possibilities,
and I have a hard time translating those possibilities into focused action. It’s
a weakness I’ve always had, but it’s exacerbated by grief.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today, I ask for the Divine to step in and guide my life. Guide
my mind, my soul, my heart, and my body to Your light. I cannot do this alone. I
need Your help. I need Your guidance and love. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Amen.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Amen.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Amen.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thank you.<o:p></o:p></div>
linda lee studiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08068060208681441923noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040875884373853089.post-7298181066239163302013-08-15T10:14:00.000-05:002013-08-15T10:32:38.858-05:00I Cannot Be Broken<div class="MsoNormal">
All of the things I've experienced have built the ground
upon which I stand at this time.<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSFz230UUyNJio8QYxOJmJVpb5IHl2HnuXF1B5lCvZCVh6wEldYJLEaeStS8daD6Od3mw70APBp1qW7UWqd7Qw5FMEKlABCqaMU7c7zohRI15zl4s4kn4KZfRBoHkYj6cfR2Dnv4WP81c/s1600/1012697_546584498741846_507058206_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSFz230UUyNJio8QYxOJmJVpb5IHl2HnuXF1B5lCvZCVh6wEldYJLEaeStS8daD6Od3mw70APBp1qW7UWqd7Qw5FMEKlABCqaMU7c7zohRI15zl4s4kn4KZfRBoHkYj6cfR2Dnv4WP81c/s400/1012697_546584498741846_507058206_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am deeply rooted, like an old pecan tree—my roots spanning
wide and plunging far beneath the surface towards the core of the earth. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My branches have been broken by trauma, my leaves beaten by
the wind and rain of difficulty and strife, my bark stripped by the unrelenting
skies of life—leaving me standing here before you, naked—exposed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How mightily my roots have grown—stronger. My bark has returned,
and new branches are growing. At the tips of those branches, tiny leaves are
sprouting in the shape of hope.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With my roots so firmly planted in the ground, I have become
more flexible—almost fluid.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I cannot be broken.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My arms sway in the wind. My hair whips wildly around my
head. I feel the deep-bone chill of cold and the blistering heat of the sun. My
skin takes in only what it needs—the rest falls away.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The stronger my roots,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The stronger my soul.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The chaos around me continues.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Inside is silence. Inside is calm.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I cannot be broken.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is here—in this earth, in this moment—where my home lies.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here—within me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here—in my heart.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have existed many times, and I will exist many more times.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And yet, I have never before been more present than I am in
this moment.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I turn and look at the landscape behind me, and I grieve for
all I have lost. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And, I stand in shock—in awe, marveling at the beauty that
is my life, the fullness with which I love, and the faith carrying me through
darkness I never knew the human spirit could endure.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am here. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am now. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am.<o:p></o:p></div>
linda lee studiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08068060208681441923noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040875884373853089.post-76412498384116449282013-08-07T17:38:00.001-05:002013-08-07T17:41:25.060-05:00Grief is Temporary<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Time and time again, when I take people through the
process of healing and feeling the feelings that are terrifying to them –
afterwards, they feel lighter, they feel clearer and they have a sense of peace
about themselves.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
We all have pain. And there’s no amount of chanting, yoga or
green juice that can take away that pain – it must be felt. Not dwelled on for
a lifetime, but felt for the appropriate amount of time. It is scary, but on
the other side is bliss." ~ Mastin Kipp</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I acknowledge that I have done a lot of grief processing
here on my blog. And I have witnessed it making some people pretty
uncomfortable, to the point of feeling the laser pointer of sharp judgments
being flung my direction.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Who does that say more about, though? The fact that I am
rather messy in my grief, which I find normal, because <b><i>grief is messy</i></b>—but I’m
also honestly not saying anything that I regret (and, still not regretting it,
even after going back over and rereading multiple posts)… or does it say more
about she who judges? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not sure, and it doesn’t matter.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What does matter is recognizing the <i>impermanence of feelings</i>. I recognize the roller coaster of
emotions taking me up as I think I’ve got something figured out—and the scary
downhill plunge once I realize I have nothing figured out, after all… and then,
the intense processing I do when I’m in the throes of valleys, twists, and
turns, as I’m tossed about in this learning adventure called life.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s all okay. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Grief is disarming. If I weren’t already an “emotionally
healthy” person, it might just do me in, cause me to alienate all of my
friends, and fold up on a little ball of depression. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Forevermore. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, lucky me—I am fairly emotionally healthy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So instead, I’ve spilled my grief out all over the place. I’ve
felt remarkably immature and lost in some moments, and undeniably strong and
grounded in other moments. Most who have witnessed my grief (my therapist, my
family, my friends) have said that I am handling things remarkably well.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t feel that way.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, I also know that I tend to be hard on myself. I tend to
not give myself enough credit—for anything. To be honest, I feel like I’m just
sorta getting by. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some days, I feel strong and good and happy. Some days, I can
experience joy, I laugh hard, and I smile a lot. Other days, I feel sad and
miserable. I miss my mom and my sister, and I wish I could talk to both of them
about dating and men and the way I feel. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My “typical” day since my mom’s passing encompasses all of
the above and more.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think it’s safe to say that every day, I experience a much
larger gamut <i>and</i> depth of emotions
than someone who isn’t in a state of grief. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My typical day can start out with me bawling in the shower,
shedding a few tears at my desk at work, laughing hysterically at a joke,
having a heart-to-heart conversation with a friend—and <b><i>while all of this is going on</i>,
I’m processing emotions, thoughts, and needs <i>under the surface</i>, too</b>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, I am finding that grieving is sort of like being an emotional
human—<i>in double-time</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No wonder I’m so exhausted at the end of the day.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, I just want to say thank you to everyone. Thank you for
your love and light, for your words of encouragement, for your energy and
thoughts. I know that God, the universe, and all the spirits of my life (this
life and past lives) are opening me up, guiding me on a path to something so
beautiful and so big, that I can't even fathom it right now. I can't even wrap
my head around it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That is where hope resides... and right now, my hope is
gently guiding me forward, baby step by baby step.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And in the dark moments, when hope feels thin and fragile
and unreachable, my faith is the bridge that reaches out and invites hope back
into my cells.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Right now, I don’t have to have a firm grasp of much of
anything, but that’s all right. I can feel that I am loved.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I feel this openness in my heart, that feels like a channel
through which light and love flow in and flow out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And sometimes, when the grief tsunami hits, I feel like the
grief might just swallow me whole. It feels like I’m grasping at tiny, thin,
delicate strands that might keep me from falling into the bottomless pit, the
pit that catapults me out into space—where I cannot breathe, where I cannot
live, where I am totally alone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When that happens, it’s important for me and everyone connected
to me to remember that <i>it’s temporary</i>.
It will pass. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I will stand up again, I will breathe, I will move from
that paralyzing moment into the next, slightly less whacked moment. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I am doing the best I can, and on some days, that looks
pretty damn good. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And on other days… well—you already know what that looks
like.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Grief sucks. And sometimes I feel all enlightened and shit—but
sometimes, I feel like the world’s biggest fool. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Grief. Like everything else in this amazing, painfully
beautiful existence—<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>It is temporary.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Faith means living with uncertainty - feeling your way
through life, letting your heart guide you like a lantern in the dark." ~
Dan Millman</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"There is no death. Only a change of worlds." ~
Chief Seattle</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
linda lee studiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08068060208681441923noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040875884373853089.post-57035014283991017802013-07-31T21:49:00.001-05:002013-07-31T22:02:30.600-05:00The Depth of Grief<div class="MsoNormal">
The depth of our grief is really the expression of our love.
Tonight, the depth is bottomless...endless... and overpowering. I feel like I'm
clinging to the edge of my sanity tonight, and the grief is winning.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Who am I, without these strong women in my life? Who am I,
without the man I thought was the love of my life? Who am I, childless and
alone? Who am I, music blaring against empty walls in vain effort to fill this
space—this gaping, wide open space that echoes back at me, a mirror to my pain?
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s everywhere—in every breath, every sob, every word—I am
a lost child, wandering in a black forest. I have shrunken back down to my four
year-old self, unable to guide myself out of this darkness, and so, here I sit—paralyzed
with pain, the intensity and depths of which I have never before experienced. <span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 15.454545021057129px;">I wish I could pull my heart right out of my body, because I think that might hurt less than what I'm feeling right now.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am lost, afraid, and alone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is a perfect time to call on God. Or all of the spirits
that I know are constantly around me. Or all of the above. It’s a prime moment
to ask for guidance and help, yet God feels so far away. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know that’s my own ego, getting in the way of my faith… </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This grief makes me weak. So, so weak. I can barely lift my
arms, let alone my head. My body is just here… existing in a slump, my eyes
heavy and sad, my heart firmly rooted in the pit of my stomach, my legs useless
extensions, and my will completely defeated.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My story is written all over me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps one day, my story will be one that’s uplifting and
hopeful, inspiring and full.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
But tonight, I find myself wondering why I am still here… </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">(No, I am not going to do anything stupid... and yes, I know that everything is temporary, including feelings like what I've express here tonight...)</span></div>
linda lee studiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08068060208681441923noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040875884373853089.post-48846347146211825322013-07-19T20:45:00.000-05:002013-11-20T20:14:07.685-06:00Things Happen in Threes...<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m sitting here in my apartment, in my favorite big chair,
with my feet up. Most of the time, it’s a comfortable position for me. Most of
the time, it’s a place I love to sit. I love my fairly small, slightly
cluttered home. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But right now? After what’s gone down this week? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I feel sick to my stomach just being here.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On Wednesday morning, my boyfriend David hopped in the
shower. Because he recently loss my trust (again), I’d taken to going through his phone
from time to time (usually with his knowledge, because I did it right in front of him).<br />
<br />
I had noticed that he’d been leaving his phone in the car or
completely out of sight an awful lot lately, and I took the opportunity of him
getting into the shower to grab the phone and look through it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I saw two unread text messages from a phone number with no
contact name attached.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They were the only two messages in the thread.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I read them and forwarded them to myself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yeah, that’s right, I’m going to share them. Because this
sort of behavior deserves to be outed, and why not in public? I’m feeling a tad
irrational, anyway… and I have nothing to lose, because I’ve done nothing
wrong.</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“And I love you which is why I want you to be sure of your
decision. I don’t want you to have any regrets.<br />
Just know that if you decide to stay with her, it won’t
affect your job. I don’t make scenes.”</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yeah.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t really say anything as I left. I was incensed and I
also needed to leave for work. I figured we would have the confrontation when I
got home. I didn’t even want to look at him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, I left for work.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sent this text when I got to work: </div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
It must be so hard to live a lie.</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I went on, saying I was surprised at his silence, and eventually
I got his reply:</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“There is nothing to say. I did not want to hurt you and
that is what I did! I am the worst kind of person, and I am ashamed of myself. You
are my best friend and I did not want to be such a bastard. I am so sorry!”</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s the last thing he sent me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I got home from work Wednesday evening, I walked into
the bedroom and immediately noticed that all of his watches and necklaces were
gone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stopped in my tracks.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I walked to the second bedroom, where his closet is.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most of his clothes were gone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stepped into the bathroom.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most of his toiletries were gone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I felt all breath expel from my lungs. My stomach instantly tied
itself in knots. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>He’s gone. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Just like that.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All the rest of his stuff—furniture, DVDs, TVs, kids’ stuff,
and not to mention all the stuff in storage—he just left it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Deserted.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just like he deserted me—the best thing that’s ever happened
to him (according to him, unless that, too, was a lie).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A flood of emotions made me woozy and I tried to call him. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No answer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I left a pretty nasty message.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then I called back… and left another nasty message.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then, because I figured he would probably never listen
to those messages, I texted him basically the same things I said… mostly
expletives and confirming that Kevin Wheeler was right when he called him a
pretty nasty name (starting with the letter “P”).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The last thing I sent him:</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
You have until July 31 to contact me, arrange to pick up
your things, and remove them. If your belongings are not out of here by the 31st,
I will consider them my property since I will be paying rent on them. The locks
will be changed first thing tomorrow.</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Honestly, just changing the locks helped me feel better.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t sleep Wednesday night, not more than a couple of
hours, anyway.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And of course, the whole relationship has been flashing
through my mind. Things he said or did, or didn’t say or didn’t do, that I should
have seen as red flags or warnings or <i>something</i>…
and I just didn’t.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am fairly certain I’ll never hear from him again. He is
highly averse to confrontation, and I’ll leave it at that, because that’s the
nicest thing I could possibly say right now. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, not only am I left with all this stuff… </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m left with all the shattered pieces. The pieces of what <i>I
thought</i> our relationship was. The lies. The masterful manipulation. The cheating.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And since we started having a rocky time somewhere in the
window of mid or late March, I’m suspecting that’s when the affair began.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And if you remember, my sister was killed by a drunk driver
on her way home from work on April 29th.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Also remember, my mom passed away on November 29, 2012.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so, less than three months after my sister’s passing, I have
also lost my relationship of nearly two years.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, we lived together since about April 2012. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, we’d planned to get married. We had even picked out
rings.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They say that things happen in threes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I believe it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
David had been hiding so much and acting so weird lately
that I had already found myself questioning the longevity and viability of our
relationship. I found myself asking, “Do I really want this?” Uncertainty had
already crept in.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So in some ways, it is a relief that it’s over so quickly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I know I’ll never get answers, because even if he
suddenly overcame his intense aversion to confrontation, it’s not like he would
actually tell me the truth, anyway. A liar who is so mired in the manipulation
and lies is not going to suddenly tell the truth.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so, I have to create my own truth from this situation.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so, here is my truth:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<ul>
<li>I gave him so much of myself. I gave him my heart—no holds
barred. I loved him big, and this will take some time to work through.</li>
<li>I believed in him, when no one else did.</li>
<li>I believe that he has a good, beautiful, and tender heart.</li>
<li>I believe he is terrified of revealing his true self to
anyone, but especially to himself.</li>
<li>I believe he feels condemned.</li>
<li>I believe he is a Master Manipulator. But I also believe he
is the most masterful at manipulating himself.</li>
<li>I believe he is in a very destructive, downward
shame-spiral, and I hope he allows someone healthy to be there when he hits
bottom. (It won’t be me.)</li>
<li>I taught him what intimacy, trust, love, and vulnerability
look like and feel like.</li>
<li>I taught him how to speak to his kids like they’re real
people, not as if they’re still 4 year-olds.</li>
<li>I showed him what it’s like to have a safe place to fall.</li>
<li>He was my soft place to fall.</li>
<li>He was safe. At least until he changed.</li>
<li>He was always tender and loving, except when he was
sarcastic and saccharine.</li>
<li>Being in his arms was a heaven like nothing else I have
experienced.</li>
<li>I feel so deeply betrayed… sick-to-my-stomach betrayed.</li>
<li>I have been through too much in the last 8 months. Hell—in the
last three years…</li>
<li>My family loved him. My friends loved him. Even my therapist
liked him.</li>
<li>I believe he may be a compulsive liar. He conned everyone…
my family, my friends, and me. He even conned my therapist—and let me tell you,
she isn’t happy about that.</li>
<li>I believe he may have cheated on me more than once. (As if
an affair lasting 3-4 months isn’t enough.)</li>
<li>I believe he may have cheated on every woman he’s ever
been with since his first marriage broke apart.</li>
<li>I believe he has built a life around lying and carefully
crafting lies to always leave himself a way out.</li>
<li>I believe he loves his kids, but he makes stupid choices
without thinking about them and how it will impact them and his relationship
with them.</li>
<li>I am angry and hurt at the way this is bound to impact his
kids.</li>
<li>I am fortunate to still be welcomed in their lives.</li>
<li>I adore them so much.</li>
<li>I know that I will be all right—better than all right,
honestly. I’ll thrive.</li>
<li>I believe that he left five of the things he left quite
deliberately. I believe it was his way of telling me good-bye, his way of
saying what he could not otherwise say.</li>
<li>I believe he loved me with all his heart.</li>
<li>I believe he still loves me.</li>
<li>I believe that his most divine purpose in my life was to help me through the initial crisis phase of losing my mom. He was simply amazing to me during that time. Totally, unwaveringly supportive. That was a precious gift to me, a real and divine gift, and I will forever be grateful for that.</li>
<li>I believe that scared him too much, that intimacy scared him
too much, and I believe he could not handle it.</li>
<li>I believe that after my mom's death, the way I opened up even more really threw him. I think it overwhelmed him, and he didn't know how to handle it.</li>
<li>I knew he was sabotaging our relationship. I could feel it
happening, and I even asked him about it… I just didn’t know the extent.</li>
<li>I love him and I am deeply in love with him. I am dumbfounded, confused, and shocked. </li>
<li>I believe he is a good person. I believe he's actually so much better of a man than what he has ever been able to recognize. He just makes terrible, hurtful choices because he doesn't believe in himself. </li>
<li>I will always love him.</li>
<li>Even though I hurt deeply... I know he is hurting, too. </li>
<li>I am worried about him.</li>
<li>Even with all of this—the good and the bad—I have received
so many gifts. I have received messages of support and love… prayers… positive
thoughts… all kinds of good.</li>
<li>I am grateful for the support I’ve received.</li>
<li>I know I am loved.</li>
<li>And I love myself.</li>
</ul>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My therapist called me yesterday. Exasperated, she said: </div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Well, I guess when someone tells you over and over again
that you’re too good for him… believe him.”</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Amen.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(I believe him now.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hurt.<br />
Oh, how I hurt.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When you’re with a liar, it’s hard to know how much of the
whole relationship is a lie. I could drive myself totally crazy with
remembering precious, tender moments, and then wondering whether it was real or
just an illusion. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I probably will do some more of that…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But hopefully not tonight. I am really tired, but I have the
urge to move some furniture around, too. <br />
<br />
I really, really thought he was the love of my life…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am utterly heartbroken.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And as I mentioned to someone today—I don’t have a whole lot
of hope right now.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I do have faith. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And, I am loved.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that will get me through…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And besides—I have some super positive things to concentrate
on, like my recent trip to <st1:state w:st="on">Maine</st1:state>,
and a bit of good news that a few of you already know of, and the love I have in my life, and at least I didn't marry a liar, and my cats love me, and I have good taste in music, and my dad reminded me of a family joke in the midst of my emotional despair and it made me laugh.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This life is at least not boring, right?!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, excuse me while I go cry in my wine…</div>
linda lee studiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08068060208681441923noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040875884373853089.post-30780857300124166412013-05-25T15:44:00.000-05:002013-05-25T15:45:05.577-05:00Happy 38th to MeToday is bittersweet.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In so many ways, I am blessed. I have a great boyfriend, I adore
his kids, and my dad and I are closer than we’ve ever been. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Work has been understanding, friends and family have reached
out, I’ve got some much-needed respite… and all of these things help me. They all
help me heal.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But today is still painful. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mama always used to call me on my birthday—usually to sing
happy birthday, and just to say hello. I managed to save one of her voicemails
from an old phone. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I’ll never get another call from her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And today, it’s even larger than life, because my sister
took the old Kitchen Aid mixer after my mom died. She borrowed it to make pies
at Christmas, and I’m pretty sure my dad told her to just keep it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thing is… my mom had bought a brand new 5 quart Kitchen Aid
Deluxe mixer, complete with her favorite accessory—the glass bowl—and <i>had never once used it</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She actually had my dad get out the old one anytime she
needed to use a mixer, because for whatever reason, she didn’t want to use the
brand new one.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My dad brought me the new one this week, so I could use it
to make some cupcakes for my birthday celebration this weekend.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrQrvNlMzYt2GC-fTjmankhVsLNe5iLwgbUMXrfAM4wwy7VxS_Prb3ybHQ9VtmTvnuLWJ_0ekRf9mIS2DTklmJAfvTtQd5HbxN5vYMM5-BwxOrDCrr90pgvkNVfCEJcKZzaTUS0pq92yE/s1600/WP_20130525_00120130525153913.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrQrvNlMzYt2GC-fTjmankhVsLNe5iLwgbUMXrfAM4wwy7VxS_Prb3ybHQ9VtmTvnuLWJ_0ekRf9mIS2DTklmJAfvTtQd5HbxN5vYMM5-BwxOrDCrr90pgvkNVfCEJcKZzaTUS0pq92yE/s400/WP_20130525_00120130525153913.jpg" width="251" /></a>It’s beautiful and red. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I broke it in today.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Every time I bake, I think about my mom… I think about all
of the things she taught me in the kitchen—how baking is a science, and
measurements are important. You can’t multi-task when baking, you need to stay
in the moment so you can be aware of exactly what needs to happen next.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Follow the steps in order, stop the mixer and use the
spatula to clear the sides of the bowl, add dry ingredients first on one side,
then the other, add eggs one at a time, add wet ingredients slowly, add dry
ingredients even more slowly—</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All of these tidbits came rushing back to me as I used the
red Kitchen Aid for the first time. Then it hit me—the last time I had actually
used a Kitchen Aid was back in the house I grew up in, standing on the brown
linoleum floor, in the olive drab kitchen with mustard yellow appliances, and
the old white Kitchen Aid perched atop the big cutting board, whirring away,
and Mama standing next to me, patiently giving me instructions.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think about her every time I bake. Every time I make
fudge, every time I make pie… and I suppose it’s worth noting that up until
now, I’ve baked without the use of a mixer. But with my carpel tunnel getting
worse, I really need it, so now I am glad to have one.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I just hate the circumstances…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And David tried to help me, too. I’d never made cupcakes
from scratch before, and I’d never made ganache (that changes NOW… since I now
know just how easy it is), and my stress level kept creeping up and up the
scale, and he’s trying to do everything he can to help me, and I’m barking
orders at him—<i>just like Mama did to Daddy</i>,
year after year, holiday after holiday, baking occasion after baking occasion. She
needed him to mix, to hold bowls while she scraped them into another dish, wash
dishes, get supplies—basically, she needed him to be her extra pair of hands
and her extra set of eyes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And once I realized I was doing the exact same thing, and
that I’d stumbled upon yet another thing that makes me just like my Mama… I lost
it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I realize every day how I am like my mom. How I’m stubborn
and proud, how I’m incredibly anal and particular about exactly how I want
things done when I’m working in the kitchen, and how I need my David, the way
my mom needed her David—to help, and to never stray very far, but to only help
in the way <i>I want</i> him to help.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The cupcakes look great. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The ganache is setting up. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
David went to the gym. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The dryer is going. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The house is quiet, and I’m left with only my thoughts and
my tears.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have so much to be grateful for, and believe me—<i>I am</i>—but I am also deeply sad in a way
that I cannot articulate and no one can truly understand, unless they’ve been
through it too.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I get to live.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I am re-evaluating what exactly that means for me, because
nothing reset my priorities faster than losing two of the most important people
in my entire life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, today, I am 38. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I get to live. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t understand that yet, but I am beginning to truly
understand the legacy my family has created. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that I am part of it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that <i>my part is not done</i>.</div>
linda lee studiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08068060208681441923noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040875884373853089.post-1918455378476392612013-05-16T12:09:00.002-05:002013-05-16T12:20:03.253-05:00Today is BetterThank you for your comments and love
yesterday.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Today is better. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I am walking through this as best I can.
It's messy... it's hard... but I am not going to apologize for my feelings. I
feel that we are too often pressured to apologize for having deep feelings,
which is quite the paradox... since as humans, we are primarily emotional
beings. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Ignoring feelings or trying to push them
back down is a little like ignoring my inner child's needs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Have you ever seen a child act out, just to
get attention? In that moment, <i>any
attention</i>—even negative attention—is better than none. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Feelings are a little like that. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">If I ignore them… especially the big, bad,
ugly feelings that are so hard to allow myself to feel, they just get more
intense. They stir around, deep in my cells, doing nothing but causing trouble
in my mind, heart, and physical being. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">And then, I find myself acting out in ways
that even I don’t expect, because my feelings want nothing more than to be
recognized and brought to the surface. The harder I fight to keep them “down
there,” the harder and faster they retaliate. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Acknowledging my feelings helps bring them
to the surface. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Once they're at the surface, I can choose
what to do with them. I can release them, as I did yesterday in the form of a
rather intense blog post, or I can nurture them, like I did last night and
today by accepting love and acknowledging how full of love my life truly is.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Grief sucks. I’ve been through it before—with
the loss of my grandmother, who was like a mother to me. I lost other very
important things around the same time, too. And, I have been through divorce.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">In truth, I would say that grief is and can
be like a debilitating illness. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">My aim in being so open with my grief is to
dispel some of the shroud of shame, confusion, and judgments that so many of us
(including myself) have about what it means to grieve. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Grief is something mysterious and hidden and
terrifying because <i>it cannot be controlled</i>.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It’s going to be terrible and ugly and
fearsome. But I can tell you by my own experience that when I have tried to
ignore it, suppress the feelings, or control it—<i>it gets worse</i>. It festers, and it turns me into a different person.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Thus, my post from yesterday. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I acknowledged my feelings, and that they
are temporary. This time is temporary. Hell, <i>everything</i> is temporary.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">But releasing those feelings was important,
because it helps me move forward. It helps me navigate the murkiness while
still remaining true to myself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It also helps me to know that <i>my grief is witnessed</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Healing does not occur in a vacuum. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">And that, my friends, is where you come in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I am grateful for what and who I have in my
life. And now, more than ever, I realize just how precious this life is, how
fragile it is, and how important it is to allow myself to be human—instead of
striving to be perfect.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">As you know, I am a believer, and for me,
that means there is only one perfect being. And to try so damned hard to be
perfect is to put myself above God. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Yuck. I don’t want that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">What I do want is for you to understand
that I am grateful for you. <i>You</i>—reading
this, praying for me, thinking about me and my family, lighting a candle, or
whatever it is that you do that is spiritual, sacred, pure, or loving. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Thank you for helping shepherd me on this
strange journey.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Thank you for reminding me that I am not
alone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">None of us are alone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I need to be connected… we all do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">As my friend Mark Rogers says, “We are not
needy. We are <i>needing</i>.” We need each other.
We need love. We need connection and nurturing and help. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">And that is why we are all here. To help
each other… to love each other… to live.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">We have life so that we can live it…<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US">*I will add that this is also the real face of grief. It isn't always ugly. Sometimes, it's full of light and grace and gratefulness... if you allow it.</span></div>
linda lee studiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08068060208681441923noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040875884373853089.post-24034793273346868672013-05-15T10:04:00.000-05:002013-05-15T10:04:35.807-05:00The Real Face of Grief, aka Where I Am Right Now.<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I wrote this after waking up from a terrible nightmare around 2:30 this morning. I sobbed in bed, the kind of breathless sobs where your whole body shakes. David woke up just enough to turn over and hold me. After a while, I calmed down enough to get up and write. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I am posting this here, because this is what grief really looks like. It's ugly, it's terrifying, it's guttural. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
And that's okay. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I want to take shame off the table. My family is suffering bone-deep loss, and trying to hide it, gloss over it, minimize it, or worst of all, "suck it up," doesn't help. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The only thing that helps is release.</blockquote>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I cannot express how terrifying it is to
wake up from a horrific dream only to realize... it’s my reality. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I can’t cry hard enough or long enough to
free this pain inside of me. I wail, my eyes clamped shut and my mouth wide
open, trying so hard to release the pain, to push it out from my very depths—from
every single cell it wants to leave my body, but it is here… it remains…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Why am I the one living? Why wasn’t I taken?
I don’t have any small children relying on me… I don’t have anyone relying on
me, truthfully… how can I still be alive? How can I still be left here to feel
so much when every morning I wake up, and I’m just confused as to why—why I’m
even here, why my body is somehow still working, why all the systems within
continue propelling me from present moment to present moment… <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">When I was little, I used to wake up from
nightmares about being in a car accident with my grandmother and me in the back
seat, Daddy driving, and Mama in the front seat. We sat in those designated
seats—Mur-Mur behind Daddy, and me behind Mama—every time the four of us went
anywhere. And in my nightmare, there was a car accident, and I was the only
survivor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">(If my sister hadn’t moved out on her own
at that point, she would have been in that nightmare, too, and then that
nightmare would be even closer to my current reality.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Life keeps going… and all around me, people
go to work, they sit in traffic, they wait in line, they text their friends,
they scroll through Facebook—I know… I am existing in these moments too… I am
doing these things too… <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">But it feels like my whole world has stopped,
because it’s been turned utterly upside down and inside out, and I can’t do a
damned thing about it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Grief sucks, and right now it is really
running me through the ringer. I have never, ever known this kind of pain
before. I have never felt it… not until now… and of course looking at me from
the outside in, of course I’m “strong enough to handle it,” etc… but right now I
feel on the verge of a nervous breakdown… because that would be easier. It would
be easier to just go completely nuts and totally lose my shit and end up at the
asylum taking unlabeled pills to keep me sedated and numb. Right now, that kind
of controlled environment is more appealing than the chaos of the outside world…
this world I exist in which feels like a constant waking nightmare.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">As I sit here, breathing in, breathing out,
tears streaming down my face (and in moments like this, I am once again
thankful that Mama made me take a typing class in ninth grade, because I can
sit in total darkness and type fast), I wonder at the miracle of life and of
living. It is truly a miracle, every day when I can open my eyes and get out of
bed and live another day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">But right now? Right now it feels like a
curse. Why were my mom and sister denied the miracle of life? Why?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Ironic—I offered comfort in my sister’s
eulogy. I cautioned against asking why… because it will “make you crazy.” Yep, I
said it, and that’s basically what I feel, because here I am, asking why, and
most definitely feeling crazy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">What can I say—I was still in shock at that
point.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Not in shock anymore.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">This, I would say, is the darkest side of
grief. When I’m sitting here vacillating between wishing I was dead, bargaining
for trading places with my sister, and actually wishing to go crazy enough to
be put into an asylum. All of those things seem easier than what I’m trying to
cope with, the overpowering feelings I have, and the grief I feel. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The bargaining (oh wait, isn’t that a phase
of grief?)—sounds like, <i>please take me
instead… take me instead… put me out of my misery and let my sister come back
and raise her toddler and be here to shepherd her older kids fully into adulthood</i>…
<i>No one truly needs me, but her kids and
her husband need her. I need her. My dad needs her. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">To be honest, I am barely functioning. I
have to “check out” to a certain extent just to get through the day. When I am
fully present, the feelings flood in—feelings that don’t have words or even need
words. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I don’t feel like I can handle <i>anything</i> right now. I feel on the edge
of tipping over… like one more little thing, one more little bump in the road, and
there I’ll go—careening off the edge of the tiny winding highway, plunging down
into the depths of rocky cliffs to my imminent death. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I am clinging to sanity by mere threads,
and those threads are thin and weary and stretched to their max.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I have prayed and prayed… I have begged God
to please take this from me, because I can’t handle it at all. I am totally at
His mercy, and yet I am finding no comfort in that. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I find no comfort in anything…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
linda lee studiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08068060208681441923noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040875884373853089.post-61557270411025573832013-05-03T20:14:00.003-05:002013-05-03T20:23:13.820-05:00A Eulogy for Wendy<span style="font-size: 12pt;">What struck me
deeply when I sat down to write this eulogy was that Wendy was always the same
person. She never tried to be someone she wasn’t. She didn’t put on airs or
masks. She told it like it was—always—whether you liked it or not.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">That’s not to say
she never changed. There was a time, after all, when I would not dare eat
anything my sister cooked. It shocked me to hear that she had started taking
cooking shifts at work. She was proud of what she’d learned. We were proud of
her, too. Even better—I would actually eat my sister’s cooking!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeHjymPBrarUYitd2wqJyuA5ysWmR-D_Pwuy-fHl-MLDc-WQp5YkIr-VaGqnSfkxVCJJPFG6QkN-zIX_1UkLQ7mY-3cl-t8YMjvcfix6T-Q6Rr-V3oBxLNLDvifzruUfxBOK48ZZFdzds/s1600/wendy-face-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeHjymPBrarUYitd2wqJyuA5ysWmR-D_Pwuy-fHl-MLDc-WQp5YkIr-VaGqnSfkxVCJJPFG6QkN-zIX_1UkLQ7mY-3cl-t8YMjvcfix6T-Q6Rr-V3oBxLNLDvifzruUfxBOK48ZZFdzds/s400/wendy-face-2.jpg" width="346" /></a><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">She never gave
herself enough credit, did she? She was—like everyone in our family, it seems…
she was very, very hard on herself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Last Christmas was
the first time she made Mama’s famous chocolate pecan pie for the family. She
was so nervous—she wanted to get it just right. She didn’t want to burn it, and
she wanted to make Mama proud. Actually, I think she wanted to make all of us
proud. I think she felt like it was the most important pie she had ever made. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Of course, she
pulled it off perfectly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">When I think about
my sister, a lot of adjectives spring to mind: stubborn, hard-headed, strong,
curious, charming, loving, smart, outspoken, daring, fearless, optimistic,
proud, hopeful… I could go on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">One word stands
out above all the rest, though: fierce.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Everybody knows
that she loved animals fiercely and had a way of attracting the mangiest, most
pathetic, rejected, homeless cats and dogs to her door. That started long
before any of you might have guessed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The first time was
when she was a little girl. The next door neighbors bred sheltie collies, and
she bonded with one of them in particular. She’d lie down in the grass, stick
her arm through the chain link fence, and pet the little dog. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Well, the dog
wasn’t quite fit to be a show dog, and the neighbors ended up giving her to
Wendy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">That’s how we got
our dog Sally.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The next time it
happened was with a big black tomcat who “just jumped in her car” one day. She
brought him home and begged to keep him. We named him Tummy, because he
constantly ate. Tummy was a really great cat. One of the best cats ever,
really, and he and Wendy had a special connection. Even after she moved out, he
welcomed her anytime she came to visit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">And then there was
the tiny white Siamese cat she discovered on the way home from high school one
day. She was just lying there in the street, and Wendy thought she was dead.
She pulled over to move her over to the side of the road and when Wendy
approached this little cat, she perked her head up and meowed. Wendy brought
her home and begged Mama and Daddy to keep her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">And that’s how we
got Cricket.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgal9DjphNXNyAXg9z9bhiZqH85xPGtGsihYC288X03qgkV-yg8rpTybceNChvv69udadjOOULX3Ki-kRziBiBvOkRy01luwWq36RK-6XEt7SkDy1-uiFXIEHqwb9VcllV9PM_mE7rRjtE/s1600/wendy-kasey-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgal9DjphNXNyAXg9z9bhiZqH85xPGtGsihYC288X03qgkV-yg8rpTybceNChvv69udadjOOULX3Ki-kRziBiBvOkRy01luwWq36RK-6XEt7SkDy1-uiFXIEHqwb9VcllV9PM_mE7rRjtE/s400/wendy-kasey-2.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Wendy was like the
patron saint of all the lost animals. Even when she first moved out on her own,
she would at times move from friend’s house to friend’s house, with nothing but
a suitcase and her cat, Spunky. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">She constantly
drew animals to her. It’s like they just… <i>knew</i>…
that she would take care of them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">She took care of
everyone in her world… animals, friends, and of course, family.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Wendy and I were
so different—in fact we joked a lot about being “city sister” and “country
sister.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">(I’ll let you
guess which is which.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">But the love
between us was also fierce. A lot of times that meant we fought—constantly. Understandable,
with the 8 year difference in our age, especially when you factor in that we
shared a bedroom that had been Wendy’s domain for the first 8 years of her life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Not surprisingly,
you could draw a line down the middle of our bedroom. My side was all neat and
tidy, and her side looked like a tornado had hit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">(Some things don’t
change.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Not only could you
draw a line down the middle of the room, but if I dared put anything of mine on
the dresser, I would invariably come back into the bedroom later to find that
item tossed on my bed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Whether it was a
brush, a comb, or sometimes just a hair pin—she’d somehow find it in all that
mess on top of the dresser and throw it right back on my bed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">So of course—being
the twirpy little sister I was—I would often put something on the dresser just
to see how long it took her to notice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">We couldn’t even
be in the kitchen at the same time. She washed and rinsed dishes, and I’d dry
them and put them away. Or, I would wash and rinse, she would dry and put away.
But we could never work together, or it boiled over into a fight—every time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">It was the same
with house work. Saturday morning was cleaning day. I dusted, and Wendy
vacuumed. Mama cleaned the bathrooms and mopped the kitchen and dining room
floors. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The argument was
the same, every week. God forbid we dust and vacuum at the same time in
different rooms. Nope. Her argument was, <i>she</i>
should vacuum first, because that stirs up dust, which is going to settle back
down onto the furniture. My argument was, I should dust first, because the vacuum
would suck up whatever dust was left.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Guess who always
won that one! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">(It wasn’t me.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">In fact, Mama told
us we even argued <i>in our sleep</i>. She
would walk by our bedroom, hear arguing, and just before she stepped in to fuss
at us for still being awake—she’d realize that she couldn’t understand a word
we were saying, because it was all indiscernible mumbling. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">But it was angry
mumbling!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">And if anything is
harder than sharing a bedroom with your sister when you constantly fight… it
might be hardest of all to be stuck in the back seat on a long road trip
between Dallas and Albuquerque. I think that’s just about the most boring drive
in all of the US. It’s nothing but flat desert, and a whole lot of it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">We constantly
kicked each other, sighed loudly, pouted, and grumped. And this was, of course,
way before cell phones, iPads, portable DVD players, etc. We were just stuck in
the car, lucky to have one Walkman between us for a road trip that never seemed
to end.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The love between
us was often hard to see in those years. Of course, as we got older, it got
better. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">There were so many
times in my college years when I struggled with money. I was a typical poor
college student. And Wendy was going through a rough time, too, having two
small children and trying to make ends meet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">But she was proud,
and she loved me fiercely. And during the countless times she needed some money
to help her get through, she refused to ask our parents for help. It was more
important to her that they help me and give me money. Even if our parents
offered her money—she turned it down. “Give it to Linda,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">She’ll never know
how much that meant to me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">In truth, the love
between us was fierce.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">That’s the way
Wendy loved everyone, though: fiercely. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I have a few words
to say directly to Wendy’s kids. I think she would want you to hear these words
and take them to heart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Leigha: the legacy
she leaves through you is her spirit. You are the very essence of your mother.
You are proud and stubborn, just like her. You’re also resourceful and strong,
just like her. You know more than she knew at your age, and you’re more grown up
at 21 than she was at 21. I know you feel lost without her. I know this is a
hard road ahead. I know that first hand… but when you are searching for answers
and deeply <i>needing</i> to talk to your
mom… look inside yourself. You’ll find the answer, like you always do, because
it’s already there inside. Her blood is literally in you. Your mom spent a lot
of time talking to your Grammy and me about you. She <i>fiercely</i> loved you, more than words could ever say. And I know she
is proud of the mother you are, the mother you have become. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Alexis: the legacy
she leaves through you is love. She loved you unconditionally, and she always
regarded you as hers. It broke her heart to have to let go of you when she
walked away from your dad. But she instilled in you the knowledge—deep-down,
all the way to your core—that you are loved, just for being you. I can feel it
emanating from you, too, and I am so glad you’re back in all of our lives. I
know it made her feel validated and purposeful as a mom when you showed up by
surprise that Christmas. She told us that she suddenly felt like she had truly
made a difference in this world—that she had done something right—because you
turned out ok, and you came back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Aaron: the legacy
she leaves through you is faith. The depth of your faith, and your love for
Jesus Christ, is visible to the point of being almost tangible. Your faith is
representative of where your mom’s journey led her over the last several years.
I observed as she explored agnosticism, Paganism, and then slowly walked
towards God. It gave me joy to watch her faith come alive, and it gave me joy
to watch yours come alive, too. She also loved your stories. She loved your
music and drumming ability—she was very proud and protective of you. Watching
you grow and transform over the years into this young warrior has been a true
joy. Not just for your mom, but for me, and for all of us. You are already a
much better man than most of the men who have been in your life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Kasey: the legacy your
mom leaves through you is hope. To me, you represent the sweet, feminine, fun,
and soft side of Wendy. Watching her mother you was truly a joy. She so
thoroughly enjoyed you and your firsts. She loved watching you discover
everything around you and take it all in. She truly appreciated your sense of
wonder. I’ve never seen her so relaxed and happy to be a mom. She fell in love
with being a mother because of you, and she learned to accept and respect your
siblings even more than she had before, because of you. I hope you never lose
the sweet, tender, curious parts of you, Kasey. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The legacy Wendy
leaves for us all is one of hope. She never gave up, no matter how dire her
circumstances. She held her head up and kept walking forward—one foot in front
of the other.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Her sudden passing
makes no sense—especially so soon after our mother’s passing. I know we’re all
still in a state of shock, and asking why is natural. The tragedy of losing
Wendy so suddenly, when she was so young, makes no sense to anyone, and asking
why yields no answer—it just makes you feel crazy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">So instead of
asking why, I want to challenge you to find a way that works for you to keep
her legacy alive. Take on a piece of her hope, her optimism, or her
perspective. Take on a piece of her tenacity or her perseverance. Or maybe,
take on some of her love of animals, or her sense of humor, or her charm. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">If you’re up for a
real challenge, though, then I dare you to love the way my sister loved. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I dare you to love
fiercely.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
linda lee studiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08068060208681441923noreply@blogger.com1