Shifting Focus

The dating scene is quiet.

On purpose.

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.

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.

On the (wayyy!) upside, that means my time has become totally my own again.

I’m focusing on two things: writing and fitness.  

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 the Facebook page—where I post photos and other inspiration that helps you keep writing (or at least thinking about it).

You can also find us on meetup.com! 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 workshop in September (based on The Gifts of Imperfection by Brene Brown), and I’ve just set up another one for October (based on The Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz; this is a great book that I’ve blogged about before).

And I’m still working on a book about grief.

And a book about writing.

The second part of my current focus is fitness. But I’ll write more about that some other time…

Love Completely Without Complete Understanding

“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.’”

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, A River Runs Through It, by Norman Maclean.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...

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.

I watched through blurry vision from my tears as Paul stammered, searching his memory for a story to tell.

Quietly, Norman says, “I’ve got a story.”

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.

The camera pans to Paul (played by Brad Pitt).

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.

I know that look.

I know it all too well.

But there is another layer to this story.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

Soon after that perfect moment, Paul was killed.

“Do you think I could have helped him?” he asked.
“Do you think I could have helped him?” I answered.
We stood waiting in deference to each other. How can a question be answered that asks a lifetime of questions?

(I have asked myself that question about my sister. I know my dad has, too.)

I was fortunate to witness my sister's perfection.

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.

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.

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.

I miss my family.

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 owe them, or my family, or myself, or some other entity, or all of the above, because I’m still here.

I know that isn’t logical.

But grief never is…

“It is those we live with and love and should know who elude us.”

“…you can love completely without complete understanding.”

A Visit from Mr. Bee

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.

Except, I spotted a honeybee hanging out on the back door, perched near the handle.

I stood for a moment, gazing at him. He was just… resting. 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.

Huh, I thought to myself. I wonder why he’s here?

“Well, hello Mr. Bee. I don’t want to disturb you, but I am going to be driving here in a minute.”

I slid into my driver’s seat and closed the door.

Mr. Bee was still perched in the same spot.

I put my car in gear and very slowly, I pulled forward out of my parking spot.

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.

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.

I made peace with honeybees in September 2010, when I traveled to Maine 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.

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.

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.

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.

I have had a soft, gentle space in my heart and a healthy respect for bees since that day.

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.

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.

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).

Breathe.

Just be me… and be present in the moment... and the rest will come.

Breathe.

Thank you, Mr. Bee, for your timely reminder… even now, as I finally type this blog, tears stream down my face.

Perhaps Mr. Bee’s real reminder wasn’t meant to hit me until just now.

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:

All is well.

All is well.

All is well…

2013: A Year I'll Never Forget

Just how resilient is the human soul?

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—

Only, you don’t fall.

You somehow find footing.

You somehow find a solid place.

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.

Sometimes it’s all of the above.

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.

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 what I am capable of now that I wasn’t capable of one year ago:

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.

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…
And I return to me.

Learning what it feels like to return to me, and to practice it—a priceless gift from 2013.

Learning how to stand up for myself, even when it’s hard—that’s another gift I received.

Learning exactly how strong I am, and exactly how resilient my soul is—another gift.

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, yes… a very precious gift.

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.

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…

Learning how deeply and how fully I love—just thinking about it overwhelms me. Before 2013, I had not realized my capacity for love.

I love with my whole heart. I love with every fiber, every cell, every atom my soul occupies.
And that includes loving me, too.
I love myself.

I [finally] trust myself.

The grace I have received in 2013 is something I can never thank God enough for.

I have learned how to forgive myself.

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.

I am grateful for this life.

I am braver than I thought.

I can do conflict—and I can actually do it well, and with solidarity.

I am a dancer. And sometimes, dancing helps me express what words cannot.

Yes. It was—unquestionably—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.

But…

2013 showed me who I really am.

My word for the year was love.

I didn’t have to think very hard about my 2014 word.

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).

That’s harder than you might expect.

And your values drive—or should drive—every behavior, every habit, every interaction, every relationship—every piece and part of your life.

So, it’s meaningful to get it right.

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 believing my values were really that broad actually caused me to lose focus on what is actually most sacred to me.

My list of 13 did not include one that’s actually in my top 5.

There are probably many reasons why (that I could explain ad nauseum)—but here are my 5:

1. Love
2. Gratefulness
3. Serenity
4. Joy
5. Freedom

As for the one that wasn’t in my original “top 13”?

Joy.

(Seriously?!)

(Yes. For real.)

No more!

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—

Joy.

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.

I understand joy. I get it.

But to actually welcome joy into my life, to invite it—

That’s different.

And so…

Joy…

I am rolling out the red carpet for you in 2014.

Come on in.

You are welcome here!

My Christmas Wish

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.

It's an innocent enough question... except in my case, and except for this particular year. I was honest but polite.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Finally, I spit it out. That I had lost my mom and sister.

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.

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.

As she walked away, she turned around, smiled, and said, “It really will! You’ll see!”

And with a flit and a flutter, off she went.

I hope she is right.

I need a really good year.

That, my friends, is my Christmas wish.

A Moment of Honesty

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 don't even try.

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." 

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.

I feel weak and small and like I can't breathe.

My family will not be together this Christmas. My dad is in Georgia, my nieces and nephew are doing their own thing.

I am alone, although my best friend and I will have a nice dinner Christmas evening.

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.

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.

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.

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?

I look around and see sisterly love all around me… and I am blessed to have sisterly love in my own life, too.

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 Wendy’s 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…

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.

(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.)

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.

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…

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.

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.

I could feel Mama all around, and I could feel Wendy, too.

At one point, I had to get the hell out of there. It was really just too much.

Bittersweet:

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…

And I am here, and I don’t know why… I don’t understand the blessings that I have received.

But I am receiving them…

And, I am open.

As painful as it is right now, I am open.

On Grief & Gratitude

“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

I hoped to have some kind of grand thing to say as I continue to gain perspective on the last year.

I don’t.

Family members are still hurting—and acting out in that hurt.

I am still hurting.

We are all still hurting.

The thing I never expected, though…

My deep, intense grief has changed me.

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 la Melody Beattie). It felt good, and I processed a lot of anger doing that list. But something was missing…

And when my mom died, that elusive piece finally fell into place.

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.

I realized how much my mom actually did for me—how much she sacrificed, how much she gave of herself, how deeply she cared for me.

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.

(There is nothing better you can do for a grieving person than to sit quietly and offer a hand or hug.)

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.

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.

I will never get over losing my mom.

You never just “get over” it.

But when I pause to think of how rich my life really is, I am, without a doubt—blown away.

I would trade it all to have her back. Perhaps I could have learned these lessons a different way.

But I can’t change it… all I can do is change my own perception.

Gratitude lives in my heart. Often, my first thoughts when I wake up are, “Oh, good.”

As in,

“Oh, good, I get another day.”
“Oh good, I get to do _____ today.”
“Oh good, I’m up in time for _____.”
“Oh good, I’ll get to see _____ today.”

Etc.

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.

In those moments—when hope and faith feel like nothing more than oddly-shaped letters written by someone else, and certainly meant for someone else—one thing has carried me through.

Gratitude.

This Thanksgiving, I am doing something whimsical and fun. Maybe I’ll talk about it at some point, and maybe I won’t…

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?

I sure as hell don’t.

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.

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.

As He always does.

And so, on this Thanksgiving, I am grateful for right now:

For who I am right now
For where I am right now
For who I have right now
For what I have right now
For what I believe right now
For what I hope for right now

Because right now is truly all that we have… it is the only guarantee.

All of the moments of “right now” build up to create moments, hours, days, and years—and the stories of our lives.

That is what truly makes right now precious. Because it’s fleeting, yet if we are present and in the moment… “fleeting” doesn’t matter, because we have experienced right now with every cell, ever sense, every thought, every feeling.

We have this life so that we can live it… right now.

And in my book, that’s about as amazing as it gets…

“The highest tribute to the dead is not grief, but gratitude.” – Thorton Wilder

The State of Me

So, I’m back in the dating realm. It was a conscious, slow decision this time around.

I joined eHarmony and ended up going on three very promising dates with someone who seemed very… promising…

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.

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.

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.

It got me thinking that I was onto something, that he was indeed hiding some truth that he didn’t want me to know.

There is fire, and there is lust,
Some would trade it all for someone they could trust.
There’s a bag of silver for a box of nails
It’s so simple, the betrayal,
Though it’s known to change the world and what’s to come…
 – Come on Home by the Indigo Girls

And so it is, I am single and heading into the first holiday season without  my sister and my mom.

I sat in a very full meeting earlier today and caught myself staring at the date: 11/20/2013.

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.

It’s already been too long.

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.

I could use those words now, especially about dating…

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.

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^th… 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.

So, that’s what we’re doing.

But Christmas… that’s a whole other story.

I’m not sure I want to do Christmas this year.

I don’t know yet.

For now, back to dating…

I’m not entirely sure how 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.

I am a good woman. A really good woman. I have a lot to offer. A lot to give.

And I would like to receive from someone who is equally generous…

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.

That’s not to say that dating isn’t incredibly frustrating (on multiple fronts… *ahem*).

It is.

Very.

But, it’s also fun.

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!

(It has crossed my mind…)

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.

And so… those folks get the boot.

Quickly.

And that’s okay.

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.

My sincere hope is that he’s out there.

Somewhere.

And hopefully not too far away…